Page 21 of Saddle Storm

I’m not ready for this conversation to be over. “Tell them to wait.”

She snaps her head back to me. “Things don’t work on your watch here, Silas. We have schedules, responsibilities, paying guests.”

“I literally have all those things too.”

“Not here you don’t. Now if you don’t mind stepping out of my arena.”

I look around. “Thought it was a round pen.”

She sucks her teeth. “That’s for the toddlers across the pasture. This here’s for the advanced kids,” she glances back and mutters with an eye-roll. “Which, I suppose Hannah is.”

I nod at the guests curtly and press my lips together. Then look back down at Storm. No words. But I don’t doubt she can read the look I’m giving her that I’m not dropping this.

She pretends to ignore it and walks to the gate with a smile. “Don’t you look sharp and ready. And right on time, as usual.”

I release a breath and stroke the horse’s neck, mirroring Storm. Fingers dragging slow and familiar in an easy, almost absent sweep. He doesn’t lean into my touch the way he did hers. A quiet reminder that this is a different kind of arena. One where speed isn’t going to help me win.

I offer a small smile to the little girl and a wave to her mother and step out.

I don’t bother looking back at Storm. I already know what she’s mad about.

7

It’s just past four and I’m taking Dad’s advice and going to the river beyond the south pasture. I wasn’t going to but I wouldn’t mind a minute to think about what Storm said. Or couldn’t say.

The river cuts through the valley below, the dipping sun breaking across its surface. It’s rocky up here, with uneven patches of grass and wildflowers. The mountains rise beyond the evergreens across the river. The hint of a smirk touches my lips because I could see the appeal of this spot. I hear rustling nearby and search for the sound, finding someone sitting on a rock, watching the small waterfall tumble over the stones of the river flow. Not just someone—a boy of no more than ten.

I glance around for a grown-up in case he’s part of a group or wandered away from his parents.

Seeing no one, I step beside him. “It’s a pretty cool spot.”

“Yeah,” he mutters with a glance. Then does a double-take. Eyes widening as unmistakable recognition settles. “You’re Silas Thorne.”

I press my lips together and flash him a guilty-as-charged look.

His eyes flick around like he’s wondering what to do with this. Then they settle on my sling. “Are . . . you going to be all right?”

I give him a short smile. “Oh this? Yeah. I’ve taken bigger hits. This . . . this is just one they take seriously.”

“Does it still hurt?”

My instinct is to tell this kid—or any fan for that matter—that it’s nothing I can’t handle. That I’ve played through worse. All of which might be true, but it wouldn’t be genuine. He looks . . . concerned.

With a slow grin, I take two steps forward and sit beside him on the rock. “Only when I take the sling off thinking I don’t need it and end up overworking it.”

“You should keep it on then. Like a reminder. I twisted my ankle once, and my mom said I had to keep the boot on as a reminder not to step on it.”

“That’s good advice. What’s your name, kid?” I give him my left hand and his eyes stretch wide before he reaches for it with his own, small one.

“Max.”

My brows furrow as I remember a recent takeout order with that name. “Nice to meet you, Max.” I look out at the mountains. “Odd question for you, what’d you have for lunch?”

“Chicken fingers from The Shack. Why? Do I smell like honey mustard?”

I chuckle. “No. I was just curious. You wouldn’t happen to be related to Ginger, would you?” I imagine if Dad’s grabbing lunch for his girlfriend and this kid, then he must be a grandson or something. Then again, Ginger doesn’t have kids—so now I’m really puzzled.

“No, but she watches me sometimes on weekends while my mom’s at work.”