Page 13 of Saddle Storm

4

It’s been ten days since surgery and my official moving into Dallas’s old room at the main house. He and Willow live farther up the ranch, where the views open wide to the river, mountains, and sunsets. It’s quieter too. Still got its rustic chic going on, but a heck of a lot more modern than Wilder’s home. Dallas only built the place last year—started it for his fiancée, Millie, who died in an accidental fire on the ranch—and finished it for Ellie . . . the daughter he never even knew he had.

If I had the patience to deal with my oldest brother’s overprotective streak, I would’ve stayed there during recovery. But Wilder’s easier in that sense. Less invested in hovering. He’s more of a brother than a “big brother.”

The cabin fever is real. I barely leave the back porch unless it’s for a quick walk down the quieter side of the ranch. Between the pain meds, the sling, and everyone treating me like I’ll break if I move too fast, I’ve narrowed my world to ice packs and game replays. Needing air and a chance to keep my legs moving, I push off the couch and end up doing what I always do out here—wander the fields like a lost tourist.

I probably know more than they think I do. But why ruin their fun?

The sling pulls at my neck when I try to stretch toward the warm sun. A constant reminder that I’m decorative more than useful these days. I’ve had one session of physical therapy—shortly after the stitches came out—and all I’ve learned is how to breathe through the soreness. Which feels laughably small compared to slamming against the boards multiple times a night and the occasional blow to the face when things get heated on the ice.

I move toward the stables. I had a horse here. Tucker. Don’t see him much anymore. Couldn’t tell you the last time I rode him. But I try to drop by whenever I’m here to say hello. Though truthfully most days I don’t bother. Can only imagine what this horse thinks of me. Oh great, I got the one who can barely saddle me, much less ride me around with the big boys.

We each had a horse. Dad insisted we needed one to call our own. Dallas picked Trouble. Wilder has Tuscan. And I got Tucker. We did eventually stop naming our horses with the first letter of our last name. It was something my parents thought was a nice touch years ago. Till Dad finally said it was silly. Either that, or he ran out of names. My money’s on the latter.

Tucker was the youngest at the time, seemed all right enough—easy temperament, beautiful chestnut color. And didn’t huff at me when I walked by.

The pasture is empty, so I make my way in. The horses all shift in their stalls as I step inside. The smell of hay, leather, and something sharp hits my senses all too powerfully. I recognize Tuscan instantly—Wilder’s horse. Seen him around the house and land enough with my brother barely making a round without him. Trouble wouldn’t be here. She’s up in a private barn by Dallas’s house. She’s darker. Larger even, compared to these adult stallions.

It takes me a minute to find my horse—if I can even call him mine anymore. But I spot him four stalls in. Well, I spot the rusty silver name plate on the door. But I’d have recognized him. I think.

Tucker lifts his nose as I stop in front of him. Eyes meet mine for a beat. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they lift just enough for him to know it’s no one to get excited over, before dropping again.

Yeah, good to see you too, buddy.

I rub the back of my neck and draw closer awkwardly. “Hey, you,” I murmur, reaching with my left hand to run my fingers down his hair.

Startling me, Tucker tosses his head, hooves scraping, body jerking the halter rope.

I put my hands up on instinct and immediately regret it when my bicep pulls. I groan, startling my horse even more.

“Whoa, get back,” a voice snaps from behind me. Sharp. Steady.

And familiar.

Before I can react, she moves in front of me, blonde braid swinging behind her.

Storm.

She keeps her eyes on the horse. “Easy Tuck,” she commands firmly, but strokes gently, her left hand gripping his rope.

I step to the side, watching her and giving her space to do her thing.

Storm side-eyes me like I’m a nuisance. “You trying to get kicked or just naturally reckless?” She tosses a glance at my sling.

“What can I say, still livin’ on the edge.”

Her eyes flick to mine and there’s a warning there if not a scowl. After sending her don’t go there message, loud and clear, she dusts her sleeves once she’s calmed the horse.

“Well, if you don’t mind doing it someplace else then.”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Storm Dalton doesn’t like me. Not anymore.

And even less of one to know why.

We used to be friends. Her parents moved to Blue River Springs after falling in love with the town during one of their visits to the ranch. Tom Dalton and Dad became close friends. Tom was a teacher at the local high school and spent summers on the ranch with Storm. I imagine he worked here during the busy summer season—could never tell and never cared to ask.

All I wanted to know when Mr. Dalton came back to the ranch was if Storm was with him. She and I could get lost morning to night around these fields. Building forts with hay, climbing fences, playing pranks on the cowboys. Never a dull day when Storm was here.