Page 19 of Saddle Storm

I try to remember what’s special up there. It’s just a hill by the river, isn’t it? That’s the kind of stuff I’d tell Mom when we’d ride around and she’d make me slow down, make me take it all in.

Somehow I never saw Dad as the poetic type. “Why?” I ask.

He glances sideways at me, narrowing his eyes toward the distant hill. “Sun hits the mountains just right, and the river gets that honey-colored shimmer like it’s settling in for the night.”

I briefly follow his gaze, then turn back to look at him like he’s been bit by some love bug.

He smirks and shrugs. “I mean it’s a nice spot if you’re tired of sittin’ around.” He gives me a nod then heads down the steps and into his truck.

I take a sip of my mint iced tea. Jesus. It’s like Cupid and his army dropped their bow and arrows on the ranch over the past year.

Hours later, I get off the phone with my agent who called to check on recovery and how my therapy session went. Unfortunately, until I had decent news for him, he had none for me.

Irritated, I toss my phone on the couch and step out. It seemed like everyone was against me and nothing was going my way.

I hop in a golf cart and take a ride down the familiar path to see an old friend. She won’t be interested but something about the way she’s been shutting me out since I got back has been bothering me. And right now, I don’t feel like pretending it doesn’t.

The golf cart was Rose’s idea. Said it was the best way to get around—even one-handed—when you’re feeling like a prisoner. Wilder tossed her a look across the table so I’m wondering if there’s a story there.

And if it has something to do with the hand-painted pink and blue golf cart parked in the driveway.

Hell, I’ll take it. Because there’s no way I can drive my stick without my right hand.

Yeah . . . I heard it too.

Storm’s not in the stables so I check the riding arena next. Sure enough, she’s there with a young horse, doing laps. I know she sees me when I step inside. But she doesn’t pause or look my way before she hops off the horse skillfully.

This time, I don’t wait to fully take her in. Back in high school, I kept my distance—as friendly as my intentions were. Now, no one’s here to stop me from staring. And friendly isn’t exactly how I’m seeing her anymore.

She’s in long brown leather boots, denim jeans tucked inside them. A thick plaid long-sleeve shirt. A cowgirl hat shields the sun from her freckled face. But does nothing to hide her beauty—full lips, flushed cheeks, narrow, untrusting hazel eyes. There’s nothing delicate about her. She’s all sharp edges. A quiet confidence that dares you to try and come close.

And I’m feeling dangerous.

She pets the horse and gently tugs on the reins as she walks toward me.

There’s conflict in her eyes. Almost like she wants to stay angry but feels bad about it at the same time.

I step closer, meeting her halfway. Close enough that her boots almost touch mine. “Why are you mad at me?” I ask.

She tilts her chin up, meeting my eyes. Those freckles dancing in the sunlight. Loose strands blow in the wind, escaping what’s left of her double braid.

The fire in her eyes hits me low and hard. Because I’ve got a gut feeling I know where it’s coming from.

“Storm.” Her name comes out rougher than I intended because she doesn’t respond and my irritation is growing. I don’t know what’s wrong between us, but it’s sitting under my skin, and I won’t rest until it’s fixed.

She narrows her eyes in response, jaw tight, lips pressed together like she’s holding back something sharp. I watch every flicker of it.

Frustration tightens my jaw and I shove my hands deep in my pockets, like they might reach out and unravel those braids altogether. Wondering what it looks like loose around her shoulders.

Damn she’s pretty.

No. Storm’s a goddamn knockout. Impossible to ignore and entirely unfair. Because I shouldn’t be zoned in on just how pretty she is. Or how full and perfect her lips are.

But something else draws my attention. Something I didn’t notice until just now. The dark circles under her eyes.

“I’m not mad at you, Thorne,” she spits out.

“I think you are. And I want to know why.” Or at least I need to hear her say it.