Braving The Storm: An Age Gap, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge Book 2)
Braving The Storm: Chapter 8

It has been a week since I uprooted my life, flew halfway across the country on a whim, and arrived in Crimson Ridge.

One week.

Seven days since that night, when my uncle not only wrapped his tattooed hand around my neck, but I’m certain he also reached inside my brain and did something to alter the cogs and inner workings of my mind while he was at it.

I haven’t been the same since.

Ever since that encounter, I’ve been craving the glimpse of a sensation he gave me… and infuriatingly, I can’t grasp what that might be, what my body needs, on my own.

I’m also far too conscious of how small this damn cabin is, so I haven’t been able to do anything about the ever-intensifying ache swirling and building and presenting itself.

I’m beginning to think I really need to get over these nerves and replace myself a Crimson Ridge cowboy to fool around with, even if it’s only for one night. Someone who hopefully doesn’t need a map and step-by-step instructions on how to replace their way to a woman’s clit.

What does it say about me that I’m a twenty-six-year-old who has already had to endure being with someone entirely uninterested in having sex… with me, at any rate. I’m not exactly inexperienced, but I’m not exactly experienced either. Falling somewhere in the middle of knowing what I want to have with a sexual partner, while also not having the first clue of how to actually ask for what I want. I’m too timid. Too caught in my own head.

But maybe in a new town, with a total stranger, those stars might align for me to finally enjoy sex that can be a little dirty and a whole lot of hot. While a one-night stand doesn’t hold a lot of appeal, right now, I’m prepared to set aside any thoughts of being fussy. So what if I never see the guy again? At least I will have started giving myself a glimmer of pleasure and a way to actually start enjoying having sex.

Antoine sure knew how to get what he needed, without a second thought for anyone but himself.

Nothing like a man rolling out of bed straight away. I didn’t exactly want him to stick around, but it doesn’t excuse how disinterested he was after filling his condom and patting himself on the back. The asshole had an unenviable talent for making me feel like it was my fault I never orgasmed.

God. It’s no big surprise I’m messed up in the head where sex and my body’s neglected desires are concerned.

What I do know is that I need someone to fuck me and erase the constant insanity of inappropriate thoughts I keep struggling to navigate with regard to my uncle.

I might be replaceing my feet here now that it’s been a few days, going with him to the ranch, helping a little with his farrier work, and having more riding lessons with Kayce. But Jesus, nothing could have prepared me for how challenging it is to be around Stôrmand Lane constantly.

Every time I turn around, he’s there, and my ovaries start squealing like they’re the presidents of his own personal fan club. Each holds up scorecards showing perfect tens, judging him sheer perfection, the best in his field.

Meanwhile, the cabin that still requires a name is so tiny that we’re on top of each other at every turn. To make matters more complicated for my unruly hormones, if we’re not tripping over each other while making coffee in the morning or cooking a quick meal at the end of the day up at the ranch, we’re cocooned together in the cab of his truck.

The bench seat stretches between us, feeling far too tempting. Calling my name with a smooth, supple invitation to slide closer.

I’m sure whoever designed that particular feature had only one kind of activity in mind.

And it certainly wasn’t driving.

Another thing about all this time in close quarters with each other is that I’ve come to realize my uncle is the definition of stubborn. Tell him not to do something; he’ll do it twice, and send you the pictures with him pulling the middle finger. Tell him to do something, and he’ll be the classic donkey at a gate.

It’s no wonder he allowed himself to be flung around like a ragdoll atop deadly-looking muscled bulls for years. The man is determined, to a fault.

Yes, I’ve developed more than a little obsession with sneaking any opportunity I can to watch old clips of him from his pro days. Kayce showed me a few videos up at the ranch the other day after I admitted I knew nothing about rodeo, or my uncle’s professional career.

The look on Kayce’s face was the cowboy equivalent of clutching his pearls; the way he gasped and staggered, I expected him to reach for his smelling salts.

So, riding lessons morphed into rodeo lessons. Blame Kayce all I like, there’s no avoiding the truth, that a seemingly innocent little exposure to watching rapid-fire eight-second clips and slow-motion montages of Stôrmand ‘Storm’ Lane, evolved into me stalking his infrequently updated social media later that night, and now here we are.

I officially have a dirty little secret.

One where I lie in bed in the dark with my headphones in and the volume turned down as low as possible because even though I’m plugged in, there’s still a hint of paranoia he might have developed supersonic hearing, and I would simply combust into an inferno of embarrassment if that man could hear what I’m watching.

Or more to the point, who I’m watching.

It’s a sensation I can’t quite describe, sharing this tiny space with an almost-stranger, yet his likeness graces my phone screen.

Thanks to the old bones of the cabin, I’ve discovered since my first night waking up nearly frozen in my bed that to survive this mountain, you need to sleep with the bedroom door wide open to allow the warmth from the fire in. So, while I tuck myself away at night, only a few feet away, the man occupying my phone screen—the veritable god of bull riding himself from when he was in his prime competition years—lies sprawled on the couch.

A couch that he really shouldn’t be continuing to sleep on, considering the unending pressure his body is under all day.

From what I can see, being a farrier is grueling on the body. There’s a lot of yanking at metal to remove the shoe the horse has outgrown because who would have known horses need regular mani-pedis? Then, he does things with tools that look like torture implements, and I was sure must hurt the animals, but each one I’ve seen has stood there seemingly docile and content while he firmly handles them.

I’ve never wished to be a horse more than in the past couple of days.

There are lots of other complicated tasks involving fire and heating metal until it glows bright orange, then more hammering as he forms it into the required shape.

The whole process is fascinating. I got to stand and hold one of the horses, stroking their long nose and mane as he went through the entire rigmarole. Apparently, some of them get a little nervous when it comes time to have their hooves attended to and need a friend to hold their hand… so to speak. Some have got their own little quirks, a special spot to scratch behind the ear in this particular case, which helps them stay distracted. They had themselves a little bag of feed to munch on, and my job was to hang out, dragging my fingers through their mane, petting, and stroking and reassuring them that despite how it might look to the contrary—with all the bashing and filing and hammering going on—they were in the best of hands.

It seemed hard to believe that, for the most part, the horses don’t mind literal nails being driven through the horseshoes and their hooves.

For my uncle, it amounts to hours upon hours bent double between the hammering and the metalwork and the filing. There are no shortcuts, and it’s even more obvious now why his body is so well-defined. This man doesn’t need a gym when this kind of physically demanding, rigorous workout is on offer.

Add in the fact it involves horses and a picturesque ranch backdrop? I mean, a girl could become weak-kneed extremely easily seeing that kind of show on repeat.

We’re not going to mention the hat, either.

Nope.

We’re resolutely ignoring what the sight of my uncle in a cowboy hat does to stir up butterflies in my stomach.

The image paused on the screen shows him mid-ride. From one of his early career championship runs. One arm is flung high in the air, and the fringe of his chaps mimics the action. His chin is tucked, and that hat fixed on his head looks so damn good, along with the rest of him on top of that bull, the tattoo reaching up his neck, it makes my thighs squeeze involuntarily.

Later in his glittering pro-life, he switched to a helmet, which is only mildly less terrifying. Lord knows that tiny bit of rigid plastic would do next to nothing to prevent other possibly fatal injuries if things went wrong inside the ring.

He’s fearless in a way that makes my insides melt.

Not for the first time this week, I’ve found myself drifting toward dangerous thoughts. Wondering what it might be like for a man like him, one who isn’t my uncle of course, to look my way.

A man who is rugged, wild, and chaotic but exudes charm and charisma in a gruff and silent manner.

His stubbornness just adds to the layers of this man. There’s something about it that I replace infuriating, but also deeply captivating.

Bull-headed fool that he is, has refused my offers, of which there have been many, of swapping places. Even if only for one night, which I damn near pleaded with him about during dinner. I’m more than happy to take the couch, but my uncle keeps insisting that he’s fine, when he’s clearly not.

I see the dark circles under his impossibly blue eyes.

Those weren’t there a week ago.

As the truck headlights swing over the front porch of the cabin—should I call her something old-fashioned? Clarabelle, perhaps? Or something named after the mountain forest, like Cedarwood Acres?—I’m beyond ready for a hot shower, food, and to crawl under a fluffy blanket.

I helped around the barn as much as possible today. Mucking stalls, dealing with literal piles of horse shit, basically being a ranch hand, the absolute definition of someone who has no idea what she’s doing but is just happy to be here.

I’ve also now met Layla and Colt, who had just arrived back after they’d both been away traveling. I think I might have developed more than a bit of a girl crush on the gorgeous babe who must be the same age as me, or thereabouts. The girl with coppery curls, green eyes, and energy that made me want to traipse around as her shadow all day as she showed me what to do with the horses.

My crush was totally at its peak when Layla looked at me and announced, “Thank fuck there’s another woman living on this mountain, pinky-promise you’ll come to the bonfire next winter, if you’re still here?”

I don’t know what this bonfire is, or what it entails, but I enthusiastically nodded. And I can see why her rugged-looking cowboy, Colton Wilder, was hardly able to take his eyes off her wherever she went. Totally, one hundred percent in agreement with that. Facts are, Layla is a babe, and she’s so fucking nice; I felt like I wanted to hug her when we left this evening. Is that weird? Maybe, but whatever.

There have been so few times in my life when I’ve met other women who didn’t have an agenda, or only wanted a fake friendship because of my family, or, even worse, only wanted to hang out with me in order to try and get to Antoine.

Fake fucking bitches, the lot of them.

I’m so relieved to be out of that toxic fishbowl.

After showering and changing into clothes that don’t smell like a horse’s ass, I make my way into the kitchen, half expecting to replace it empty. Much to my surprise, there’s a mountain of a man already seated with a heaped portion of steaming food in front of him, and a similarly overloaded plate on the opposite side of the table waiting for me.

It looks like meat, mashed potato, and a whole lot of gravy and smells heaven-sent after a day working outside and in the barn. Cold weather does something different to your taste buds I swear, because I’m the girl who has been on-again-off-again vegan at times, and never once in my life have I craved something that looks and smells like this. Yet, I’m ready to fall upon it, inhale that entire plate, and go in search of more.

“You didn’t have to do all this.” I slide into the seat at the opposite end of the table. My uncle has already damn near finished his meal in the time it took for me to get cleaned up. He’d already been through and showered first; somehow, I scored a win on that front. It was something I absolutely refused to budge on since the first day joining him in going out to the ranch. He’s the one manhandling horses and putting his body through a punishing day’s work.

Insisting that he should have the first shower seemed only reasonable. Although I’ve found attempts to negotiate with this man are more often than not futile.

“God, this smells delicious. Honestly, thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugs.

We descend into the usual silence of finishing our meals. Sitting here at night, like this, we don’t exactly talk a lot, I’ve come to realize. Which honestly suits me, and I can understand. Here I am, treading all over this man’s peaceful, reclusive existence, and I’m still not quite sure how to resolve the issue. I usually scroll my phone and he does the same, and then I disappear off to the bedroom while he watches something on the small television he’s got in the corner of the lounge.

For now, I’m ignoring the elephant in the room, you know, the whole part where I come to my senses and figure out what I want to do with my life. Truth be told, I don’t even know how long I’ll stay here in Crimson Ridge, so I don’t want him to feel like he needs to leave or move or something stupid like that.

Maybe I’ll just use this cabin as a place to come once in a while for a vacation? I’ve got more than enough of my own money to look after myself in the immediate future. One of the upsides of working in the Lane family business since I was sixteen was that I’ve carefully squirreled away those paychecks year after year.

How glad am I that my gut told me never to trust a man, so right now, even though I hate the fact that it’s Lane money, there is a decade of savings at my fingertips allowing me freedom to replace my feet, and a job.

Until I make some decisions however, in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind making the place feel more… I don’t even know the word for it. Homely? Less austere?

Which is why I blurt out my question after hastily swallowing a mouthful of mashed potato, without thinking.

“Where’s all your stuff?”

Piercing blue eyes tick up to meet mine across the table. It feels as though the room shrinks by about five feet whenever he studies me like this. As if I’m a puzzle, and not the kind that is a welcome challenge, more like a burden to be undertaken under pain of life or death.

These sorts of moments feel like I’m some riddle he’s been presented with in order to save himself from the gallows.

“Stuff?” His brow creases. Every part of his face is a temptation. It’s so strong and angular, like a craggy statue, I want to drag my fingertips over to appreciate how finely it has been crafted over time.

“You know… things… possessions. Haven’t you been here ten years, you said?” Waving my fork at the bare room, I gesture vaguely at its barren appearance. Tumbleweeds wouldn’t look out of place inside these walls.

“Why would I need a whole lot of crap?”

“But… surely you would want it to feel like a home?”

“Briar.” He sighs heavily and pushes his empty plate away, leaning back in his chair. “I lived on the road for most of my life. It’s an unusual existence, but you get used to living out of a duffel bag and not needing to clutter your world with useless shit. It just is what it is, and I don’t expect you to understand if you’ve never lived that life, most people can’t get their head around it.”

He shoves both hands through his hair. Making the dirty blond strands curl in an unruly, tangled mess, sticking up at odd angles. God, he looks good no matter what, and I have to duck my eyes in an effort to stop my body from reacting to how hot this man is.

Especially when he’s in that drowsy evening state, matching the heavy weight of darkness that has blanketed the cabin.

“Besides. You can hardly talk, little thorn. Turning up here with a single piece of hand luggage.” His lips tip up on one side when I dare glance back at him. Teasing me in that way that makes my body tingle.

I’m also refusing to acknowledge how my heart starts thudding a little harder.

Did he just give me a nickname? He just did it so casually, without breaking stride, and oh god, I like that he just called me that. Far too much for my own health.

“Well, do you mind if I make the place feel a little more… cozy?” I have to pinch my thigh below the table to stop myself from fluttering out of this chair.

“You planning to build a nest in here or some shit?”

“No.” My weight shifts in the seat, and I shoot him a small scowl. “Just… maybe some extra throw blankets for the couch. Some cushions. I saw a cute art gallery in town; I’d love to grab a few things from there and put them up.”

He shakes his head with a wry smile. Getting up to clear our plates now that he sees I’ve finished eating. I notice he seems to do that a lot. Will wait for me to finish before he moves.

I’ve been so used to being ignored most of the time, I’m certain my family, and even the man I lived with, didn’t ever actually eat a meal at the table with me.

When he returns a moment later, he’s got a beer in each hand and offers me one.

“Oh. Thanks.” Again, I have to duck my head after reaching out to take it because there’s something twisting low in my stomach at the sight of his tattooed knuckles wrapped around the slender neck of the bottle.

It reminds me of having his fingers around the column of my throat. The gentle slope of the amber glass caressed beneath his fingertips is causing embers to flare and heat to pool low in my core.

Look at me. Managing to make the act of my uncle offering me a drink all sexual.

That’s gotta be my last straw. There are no two ways about it, and no more putting it off. I’m getting myself on a dating app tomorrow.

Surely, I can replace a cowboy somewhere around here who is interested in no-strings-attached sex. Guys are into that, right?

He settles himself back down in his seat, spreading his legs wide and looking too fine for his own good. A fact that does nothing to calm the steadily building inferno between my thighs.

“Is that why we’ve got fucking twigs in a cup sitting on the table?”

I’ve barely managed to raise the bottle to my lips and end up producing an awkward little spluttering noise.

“They’re not twigs. It’s… It’s…”

Blue eyes twinkle at me over the top of his beer as he tips his bottle up, watching me intensely the whole time.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I mutter and gulp back a sip. Something else that I can’t remember the last time I had. Beer. The slightly sour, hoppy flavor settles nicely over my tongue.

Yesterday, I went out and foraged around the property for something resembling flowers, but in the midst of early spring, there wasn’t exactly much to choose from. So I had to settle for some fronds of a plant that had buds on the tips. Eventually, they’ll blossom, but I guess in their current state, they do look more like a collection of brown twigs neatly arranged inside a water glass.

Silence stretches out between us as we both nurse our drinks.

“Of course you can decorate the place,” he says, softer this time. “It is yours, after all.”

“I don’t want to impose. This is your home.” I chew my bottom lip. Holy shit, between the delicious meal and the alcohol and hearing his voice turn a honeyed shade when it drops into that lower octave, my cheeks flame.

The light has drained out of the room while we’ve been sitting here, and now there’s mostly just a warm, orange glow flickering over our skin. It’s the kind of setting that feels deeply intimate, and I see the moment his expression changes.

Those bright blue eyes harden. His jaw tightens.

It’s as if I’ve said, or done, the wrong thing.

Pushing to his feet all of a sudden, he leaves the half-finished beer on the table.

“Don’t wait up. I’ve gotta go out for a while… to meet a friend.”

And with that, my uncle vanishes like a whisper into the dark. His jacket and boots are barely on before he heads out the door with such abruptness I’m left clutching my beer, feeling like a fool. The rumble of his truck purring to life outside stabs a painful reminder square in my chest.

Of course, he has somewhere to be.

Of course, he has someone else he wants to spend an evening with.

And that woman certainly isn’t me.