Half of Wyoming and the entire town of Wildhaven seem to have shown up.
I kill the engine. My dad climbs out first, scanning the grounds for cameras. The man loves a photo op.
“Good Lord,” he mutters, impressed. “They weren’t kidding about this being a grand opening.”
Mom steps out behind him, adjusting her sunglasses as she looks around. “It’s like a festival,” she says.
That’s exactly how Harleigh described today. Bryce and Matty gave her the reins, along with a big budget to put it all together.
I walk around the Escalade and fall in beside them as we head toward the main entrance area, where a giant wooden sign readsRaintree-Storm Rodeo Academy.
Red, white, and blue buntings drape the fence, framing the banner announcing the grand opening.
Television cameras sit on tripods.
Reporters hover near the arena gates, waiting for interviews.
Dad’s eyes light up like a kid in a candy store.
“Oh, this is fantastic,” he says. “This is going to be the talk of the state.”
Mom nudges him. “Try to enjoy the day and not just network.”
Mom has yet to figure out that networking—shaking hands and kissing babies—is what he enjoys most.
“No promises.”
We pass a booth selling funnel cakes and fried Oreos.
Another vendor has handmade leather belts and rodeo gear laid out across tables.
We stop at a man who makes boot jacks.
“We should get a couple of these for the hotel,” Dad says as he admires the craftsmanship.
I place a custom order, adding one for Granddad with the original Silver Spur Ranch logo.
A dunk tank is set off to one side, where a group of teenagers is trying to drown a middle-aged man who is heckling them.
Kids chase each other on broomstick horses, wearing foam cowboy hats.
It’s loud. Busy. Alive.
And somehow, the entire place still feels unmistakably like the Storm family ranch.
I spot the first familiar face near the front pasture.
Cabe is perched on the seat of a bright red tractor, pulling a trailer stacked with square bales of hay.
Beside him stands his father, Boone, helping the smaller kids climb aboard.
Cabe spots me and tips his hat with a grin.
“Porter!” he hollers. “You wanna ride?”
“Maybe later,” I call back.
A grandmother with a camera yells, “Smile for Grammy,” and starts snapping pictures of the hayride as the tractor lurches forward and rattles down the path.
