Bryce Raintree. Pro bull rider. My sister Charli’s boyfriend and Wildhaven Storm Ranch’s new business partner. He; our father, Albert Storm; and Matty have joined forces to open a new state-of-the-art rodeo school here in Wildhaven. Construction of the Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy began late last fall and went full throttle through the spring and summer, starting with additional stables, a cookhouse and dining hall, bunkhouses for the school’s students, and a cluster of small cabins for the academy’s staff. Now the contractors have moved on to the new training facilities, which include large indoor and outdoor arenas for bronc riding, barrel racing, roping, and ranch event training, as well as a fully equipped bull riding arena.
It’s been a nuisance, but we’ve all tolerated it as best we could while we continue to work through the construction chaos.
I cross my arms. “Bryce also isn’t standing here, watching my student nearly get launched because your crew can’t read a blueprint or map.”
He shrugs. “Your students aren’t my concern. Leading my crew and getting our work done is.”
“Getting your work done correctly,” I snap.
He shakes his head. “We’ve already got the drainage and subbase layer completed, and Bryce wants the bull riding arena operational first.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “But you have to move it.”
“We can’t just pick it up and move it over like a piece on a chessboard.”
“Then start over.”
“If we do that,” he says, voice rising, “it’s gonna set us back an entire month.”
“It’d better not.”
His eyes narrow. “I need to speak to Bryce.”
“Well, Bryce is on the back of a bull in Oregon,” I say sweetly, “so you’ll have to deal with me.”
He exhales sharply and leans in, dropping his voice, like that makes it any less offensive. “Look, sweetheart—”
“Miss Storm.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You may call me Miss Storm.”
Something flickers across his face—annoyance, calculation, maybe the realization that I’m not backing down.
He lets out a frustrated breath. “Look, Miss Storm. Moving it now will cost us at least three weeks and will triple the cost.”
“No, it won’t,” I say. “Because this is your fuckup. We have a contract, and I expect you to do the job within the budget and time frame of that contract.”
He mutters, “Fucking women,” under his breath, but I hear it anyway.
My spine goes straight as a board.
He looks up again, snapping, “That’s not how it works. I work for Connor Construction, not Wildhaven Storm. And I take orders from my boss, not from you.”
“That’s exactly how it’s gonna work,” I say. “And you wanna know why?”
I turn and point across the pasture toward the ranch house porch.
Matty stands there with Grandma Evelyn, arms crossed, posture rigid, eyes locked on us. Even from the long distance, I can feel her attention sharpen.
“She’s the manager of this ranch,” I say, “and Bryce’s business partner. She also happens to be engaged to Caison Galloway, who’s the manager over at Ironhorse Ranch.”
His Adam’s apple bobs.
“And if memory serves,” I continue, “Connor Construction is supposed to break ground on Ironhorse’s new multimillion-dollar expansion next month. Correct?”
Sweat beads on his brow. His mouth opens, then closes.
