Page 12 of Broken Trust
I huff a laugh. “You’re just saying that because Bryce is old now.”
“Bryce is ancient,” he agrees.
“Practically a dinosaur,” I continue.
“Basically fossilized.”
From across the porch, Bryce yells, “I can still hear you assholes.”
We both grin.
I glance out toward the academy lights, faintly flickering in the distance. That’s what I want. To build a legacy of my own someday.
The porch door creaks open behind us.
Momma steps out, carrying two pies, followed by Grandma Evelyn with plates and utensils.
“Thought you all might still be hungry,” Grandma announces.
They slice them up and start passing them out.
Momma hands one to me and brushes her fingers through my hair the same way she did when we were kids.
No matter how old we get …
No matter how many arenas we ride in …
No matter how much blood we spill …
To her, we’ll always be her boys.
“I’m so happy to have you home,” she says softly.
I glance toward the academy cabins again.
“Me too. It’ll be nice to sleep in a real bed again. For a little while at least.”
She smiles sadly because she knows the truth. Rodeo men are restless by nature. Always chasing the next ride. The next buckle. The next eight seconds.
But tonight?
Tonight, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than right here on this porch.
Jovie
Ipull my SUV through the open gates of the Wildhaven Storm Ranch, navigate toward the Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy, and quickly slow down, taking it all in.
The place is massive.
Not in the polished, country-club way some sports facilities are. This place feels real. Warm. A true nod to Western working and living. Built by people who actually understand rodeo instead of businessmen trying to capitalize on it.
Fresh split-rail fencing stretches across rolling pastureland. The main arena rises in the distance, all steel beams and weathered wood accents, with banners already hanging for the summer program. Beyond it sit the barns, outdoor practice pens, and a line of bunkhouses tucked beneath towering cottonwoods.
And everywhere I look there are horses.
The smell hits me next—hay, leather, dirt, sunscreen, and warm Wyoming air.
I smile before I can stop myself.
