Page 12 of Saddle Storm

“All right, get out—both of you!” Dad shouts.

Wilder straightens. “It’s my house.”

“It used to be mine—now get out. You can come back in when you two grow up.”

To my surprise, Dallas and Wilder shuffle out the front door. Boots hitting the porch in rhythm like something I never quite learned to match.

Ginger shakes her head and hisses under her breath at the front door. Then takes off to the kitchen. I suck in a sharp breath and lie back across the length of the sofa. The house still has that rustic charm that Mom put into it, but updated slightly with new rugs and furniture.

“If those two knuckleheads are going to be a problem, you can stay with me.”

“Dad,” I toss him a knowing look.

“You’re not used to being stuck. You thought you got away from this farm life. No one’s trying to bring you back. We just want to take care of you.”

“I didn’t get away,” I say quietly. “I just . . .” went somewhere I was better at not disappointing anyone. “Followed my own path.”

“And it was yours to follow. You built something for yourself,” Dad acknowledges. “You know we always respected that.” He takes a beat to make sure he has my attention. “Just don’t confuse being strong with never needing to lean on the people who raised you.”

Or the people who––as unintentional as it might’ve been—made me feel like an outsider in a world I thought I belonged. I fight an eye-roll. “I make no promises.”

He stands with a nod. “Not going to lie. Six weeks on a ranch moves a lot slower than the city.”

“You act like I wasn’t born here.” What else is new?

Before stepping outside, Dad pauses. “If you need anything, call. Otherwise, I’ll see you here for dinner on Sunday.”

“Sounds good.”

The house feels quieter than it should. Proving once again that empty space multiplies silence—and time.

I lean back into the couch cushions, shoulder tight, and stare out through the window where the pasture stretches toward the fence line my brothers helped build, repair, and then eventually, expand. Suppose it was the path Dad had planned for me too before I was old enough. Least that’s how he always made it seem when he’d give me the “kid’s chores.” Granted, it wasn’t busy work. It was all the chores someone had to do. And even though it was Mom who’d do them with me—it was Dad who taught me and had the same level of expectations for me.

Just . . . not yet.

The way you’re going, you’ll probably outgrow your brothers in a few years, so don’t be rushin’ to catch up—you’ll be sorry you asked.

I smile at the memory of that foggy morning in the chicken coop.

He was right about one thing. I did outgrow them—just never quite caught up.

Things changed after Mom died. Priorities changed. Dallas and Wilder were already doing all the work—almost on autopilot—each one proving they could run the ranch one day. That they wouldn’t let her accident take what our family had worked too hard to build. I was fourteen. There was no “catching up” to their level at that point. Dad was grieving. My training for the “big boy chores” wasn’t even an option.

Still can’t shake the feeling it never was. Even when Mom was here, teaching me to saddle, ride, take care of the stables, I felt like my fate at the ranch was being written and my sense of belonging slowly diminishing. At least in the same way my brothers did.

With Dad grieving, Dallas and Wilder had to step up in many ways.

I took comfort in other things. Friends. Girls. Hockey—nothing more than an after-school sport at the time. But eventually something I became so good at that I didn’t need to follow the family business. Something a scout, a complete stranger, saw in me that earned a full ride offer to a Division I NCAA program at Denver U. Which is rare given I only played junior hockey in my teens as a way to stay busy. Get involved in something I might be good at. Something I can be taught and trained to do.

But training isn’t the only thing I was gipped at. Dad never took the same tone with me he did with my brothers. It was softer, relaxed. Some things the youngest sibling typically gloats about. Me—I felt like I wasn’t worth it. Like he’d already decided I’m not taking over the ranch and there’s no reason for that toughening-up.

But I knew as much as they did. Knew every post placement. Every patch of land where the ground dips.

I know this place.

It’s just been a while since I had to live inside it without something I am good at waiting on the other side.

Six weeks. No travel. No team. No guarantee it’ll be waiting for me when I return.