“What about food?” Grandma asks as I fill my thermos to the top.
“No time this morning, Grandma. I have a six-thirty barrel lesson scheduled so Charli can have the space at eight a.m. The Boardman Ranch is bringing in a few colts for her to begin cutting training,” I say.
“I don’t care. You need to eat something,” Grandma insists.
Evelyn Storm is the matriarch of our family. She and Grandpa Earl moved in to help Daddy run the ranch when our mother, Miriam, passed away thirteen years ago. They’ve since retired from ranch work, but Grandma still runs the house, and Grandpa has taken to fishing, gardening, and keeping the chickens.
Sighing, I reach over and grab a biscuit from the pan on the stove, place it between my teeth, screw the lid onto my thermos, lean in for her to kiss my cheek, and haul ass out into the damp September morning.
I can’t wait for the expansion to be finished. Sharing the training space on the ranch has become increasingly difficult over the past year as our client list has grown. Matty, our oldest sister and ranch manager, does the best she can to keep us out of each other’s way, but with the majority of my and our sister, Charli’s, riding students being school age, there are only so many hours we can work around.
Charli breaks and trains horses and new riders. I work with horses and riders who do specialty training—barrel racing, jumping, breakaway roping, and trick riding specifically.
Luckily, Charli can train horses at any time of day, so she’s been trying to focus on that until construction is completed.
So, today, I’m rushed. I hate being rushed. Therefore, I’m already irritated before the first hammer strikes.
The morning starts great—clear Wyoming blue sky, stretched wide over Wildhaven Storm Ranch, the air smelling like frost-covered grass and the piping hot coffee in my travel mug. The round pen sits just east of the main riding arena, tucked close enough to the barns that I can keep an eye on the comings and goings, but far enough away that young horses don’t spook at every truck that makes its way down the gravel drive. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.
Today, that theory is getting tested.
“Again,” I call, clapping my hands once as Sylvia brings the gelding around for another approach. “Set him up earlier this time. Don’t rush the pocket.”
Sylvia nods, lips pressed tight with concentration beneath the brim of her helmet. She’s fifteen, all lanky limbs and youthful ambition, with a new barrel horse her parents mortgaged halftheir farm to afford. He’s a gorgeous sorrel with too much energy and not enough patience yet, but there’s something good there. Something I can definitely work with.
They lope the pattern, dirt puffing beneath his hooves, and just as Sylvia heads into her turn—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The gelding jerks sideways, head flying up, and Sylvia yanks instinctively on the reins, losing her line and nearly coming out of her seat.
The hell was that?
“Whoa, whoa. Easy, Chestnut,” she calls, voice cracking.
I spin toward the sound, my jaw tightening as a jackhammer thunders again, loud enough that it rattles my back teeth.
“You okay?” I shout.
Sylvia shrugs, cheeks flushed. “I think so. Chestnut sure didn’t like that.”
“No kidding,” I mutter.
I lift my hand, signaling her to walk it out, then jam my thermos down on the fence rail. I’ve dealt with spooking horses, stubborn horses, dangerous horses. I have not dealt with construction crews deciding mid-morning that the space between our training pens is the perfect place to raise hell.
I take a deep breath and try to refocus my attention, but the noise doesn’t let up.
It gets progressively worse.
Metal clanks, engines rev, and backup signals wail. Someone yells something I can’t make out over the racket, and the hammering continues to echo through the air.
My irritation tips over into full-blown aggravation.
“Hold tight,” I tell Sylvia, already unhooking the gate. “I’ll be right back.”
I stride across the packed dirt, boots biting into the ground with every step. As I get closer, the scene comes into focus—fourtrucks parked crooked near the fence line, a skid steer idling, a concrete mixer, and three men arguing over a blueprint that’s spread across the hood of one of the shiny pickups.
Another jackhammer slams into the earth.
