Page 91 of Saddle Storm

“Mornin’, son.” Dad hops off Tucker expertly, patting his head. “Givin’ him some needed exercise,” he tells me.

I draw closer, grabbing the reins. “I don’t mind,” I say with a grin as I stroke his hair, ignoring the way Dad squints at me the way he always does—like he’s measuring something invisible. I sigh, not even pretending I don’t see it. “What is it, Dad?”

“You’re walking a bit stiff—lost in thought?” he asks.

The second he says it I feel the tension in my shoulders. The pit in my stomach at the realization that I’m in love with Storm.

That I’m scared to death of her not choosing me—the way I didn’t choose her all those years ago.

And I don’t know what to do about it. “I’m fine.”

He puffs his chest, sucking in a slow breath. “Dallas says you still owe him those beers.”

“How ’bout I buy him the local bar and get on with it?”

“What’s the matter with you? You’ve been short with your brothers—more so than usual. You’re clearly avoiding me. You think you can fool me with your too-cool-for-school smirks and small talks?”

I cough out a laugh. “Dad. I’m good. I’m not avoiding you.” I throw up my arms. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“’Cause you have to be. You don’t come by the house. Sit with me at The Shack, tell me how you’re doin’, talk about things that are clearly eatin’ you alive.”

“What do you want from me? You want me to tell you I’m scared? That this is all I know and I just spent the last year fucking it all up by hiding the pain? That I really, really don’t want to have to come back here because I’ve never . . . known where I fit?”

His jaw tenses. “Fuck you talkin’ about?”

I shake my head. “Forget it. This is why I don’t sit on a porch with you like I’m some forgotten kid who needs attention. I’m not that kid anymore,” I snap.

He swallows, hurt crossing his features, but it’s short-lived.

“I got everything I needed after leaving. People who gave me a chance and saw me for what I’m good at.”

Dad nods slow. “We saw it too,” he says quietly.

“Saw what?” I nearly snap.

He takes the reins since I’m holding them with my right hand. “We don’t have to sit. Let’s walk.”

I glance in the direction of the barns and release a breath, turning with him as we walk Tucker along the fence line. Mid-fall wind moves through the fields and the quiet stretches until he speaks.

“Surely you don’t think your mother and I thought any less of you than your brothers. Or that we didn’t think you’d be just as capable. Take a look around,” he says, lifting his eyes to our surroundings. “This really what you want?”

“Not now. But it could’ve been.”

His chuckle is light. Glancing at my feet, he stops at a nearby pit of dirt. “Dig your shoe into the dirt.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I asked.”

I roll my eyes, getting his point, but not willing to cause any unnecessary damage to my sneakers. “You’re missing my point, Dad. They were trained from the time they could walk. You taught them everything. Horses. Fencing. Rotations. All of it. I didn’t get that the same way.”

He grunts and keeps walking, head down like he’s weighing his words. I step in stride with him, not expecting a response at all.

“I don’t ignore things right in front of me, Silas.” He lifts his head. “It’s a big ranch. I built and know every part of it. Even as it changes and grows every year.” He takes a breath. “But I pay attention to my kids more. I dragged your brothers up at five a.m. every morning, even on school days, to tend to morning chores. Part of me hated it. They were growing boys, they needed sleep. Got calls from teachers about them falling asleep in class. Coaches throwin’ them off teams because they might have the strength, but not the stamina after school.” Dad’s mouth tightens. “It’s all they knew. They didn’t have a chance to want anything else. I didn’t give ’em one.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “And until about a year or so before your mother died, it was our plan for you too.”

I narrow my eyes, studying him.

“This ranch,” he continues, gesturing around us, “it’s a lot. Responsibility. Pressure. Expectations. I didn’t always know where the line was. That’s why having you an equal part of it was never a question.” He looks at me. “Until you were old enough. And by then . . . maybe you’re right. Maybe I was tired. But not tired of training. Tired of shoving the lifestyle down your throats. Especially after your mom and I started coming to your games. You were good out there. You had friends, sportsmanship, something you loved—not something expected of you.”