“I can teach her.”
He nods. “You can ride. That’s different.”
I bristle, just a little.
His hands go up. “Just my opinion.”
“And why don’t you work with her?” I ask. I mean, he does work for my family.
“My days of training riders are over,” he adds. “I train racehorses now. I taught the girls everything I know. If Ruby were my granddaughter? I’d want them guiding her.”
I watch Ruby laugh, fearless on Honey’s back while I walk them around by a lead rope.
“We’ll see,” I say quietly.
But as I watch Ruby’s eyes light up, a peace settles over me. She is a natural.
This place—this town—it’s in my blood. And my daughter is already falling in love with it too.
Guess I’ll be making another visit to Wildhaven Storm.
Hopefully without the cold shower this time.
I’m bone-tired in the good way by the time the sun starts to slide behind the cottonwoods. Saturdays are usually busy around here, but today was just extra.
Charli had a late session booked, so Cabe and I finished evening chores, with Uncle Boone pitching in to help. We don’t talk much, just pass buckets, close gates, and check latches. Matty said the farrier is coming by tomorrow to check the hoof conditions of the new boarders who came in last week. It’s unusual to see him on a Sunday, but it was the only time he had available before his next scheduled visit to remove our stock’s shoes for the season and give them a good winter trim ahead of the snow and ice falling and the ground freezing.
Cabe slings a forkful of hay in my direction, but I sidestep it, and it hits his dad instead.
“You two, behave,” Uncle Boone says, like we’re ten instead of grown, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
I leave the barn, quiet and clean and locked down for the night. The animals seem just as exhausted as we are.
The boarded animals are still turned out, waiting to be brought in for their evening meal.
“Y’all need my help?”
“Nah, we got it. Go on in,” Cabe says.
I don’t argue. I peel off toward the house while Cabe and Uncle Boone head to the paddock, their voices fading behind me.
Inside, the kitchen is already warm and loud. Grandma Evelyn and Aunt Irene are bustling around the stove. Coating chicken in Grandma’s secret recipe while oil heats in a cast-iron pan. Matty sits at the island, elbow deep in potato peels, a colander already half full. She’s sitting stick straight, shoulders set, a little paler than usual. She worked all day even though she felt like shit—said it was nothing and the ranch doesn’t pause for a stomach bug or a headache. But I can tell she’s running on empty.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my hat on the hook and heading to the sink to wash my hands. “I can help.”
Matty glances at me over her shoulder. “That’d be great.”
Grandma smiles. She loves having a full kitchen.
“Here you go,” Aunt Irene says, handing me a peeler. “How was your day?”
I slide onto a stool next to Matty, take a potato, and start working. The skin curls away under my fingers, and I start filling them in on my chaotic morning.
“It was … eventful,” I say.
Matty hums. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Charli comes in then, hair damp and curling around her shoulders, cheeks pink from a shower after her last training session. She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and hops up on the counter like she’s still ten years old, swinging one foot.
