Author Amber Kelly Facebook ad: “NEW Small Town, Single Dad, Western Romance!”

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“Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter. He looks like crap. His hair’s a mess. Shirt wrinkled and half untucked. Jaw dark with stubble. He reeks of whiskey, even from six feet away. I stare at him for a long second, debating my options. Then I smile. I clutch the head of the water hose and squeeze the nozzle. I don’t ease into it. I don’t warn him. I don’t hesitate. I blast him full force with freezing cold well water. Waylon comes to life like he’s been struck by lightning. “Geezus!” He bolts upright, slipping in the hay, flailing, cursing as water soaks him head to toe. “What the heck?!” He stumbles, catches himself on a bale, blinking wildly as he tries to orient himself. I keep spraying. “Mornin’,” I say sweetly. He finally manages to get his bearings, throwing an arm up to shield his face. “Are you out of your mind?!” I shut off the hose. “That,” I tell him calmly, “is what happens to trespassers around here.” He drags a hand down his face, water streaming from his hair, his clothes plastered to him. He looks furious. And soaked. And honestly? Hot as ever. Dammit. He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not trespassing, sweetheart. My family owns this place.” That does it. Something snaps in my chest. Sweetheart. Second man in as many days to call me that. I step closer, jabbing a finger toward him. “First of all, I’m not your sweetheart. Second, your family doesn’t own a thing on this ranch. Mine does.” He blinks. Actually blinks. Then he looks around—really looks. The stalls. The tack room. The faded Wildhaven Storm Ranch brand burned into the doors. He wrinkles his nose. “This isn’t Ironhorse?” “Nope.” I point past the paddock, toward the dark stretch of pasture beyond. “Ironhorse is about two miles that way.” He scrubs his face again. “Shoot.” Then he laughs. A low, rough sound. “I guess all smelly, old barns look the same in the dark.” I lean in and sniff him deliberately. His smile falters. “I don’t think it’s the barn that’s smelly.” That gets a bark of laughter out of him. The horses seem to agree, snorting softly. “Wait. Wildhaven Storm Ranch,” he mutters as recognition dawns on him. “Ding, ding.” He groans, tipping his head back. “Caison drove out here last night.” I stand and wait for him to work it out. “We were out. He got a text from Matty,” he continues, squinting like the memory hurts. “She needed something from the pharmacy. I was supposed to wait in the truck. Guess I didn’t.” “No,” I agree. “Guess you didn’t.” “Oh no. Ruby.” I raise an eyebrow. “Ruby? No, I’m—” “I was supposed to go home to her last night. I messed up.” Ruby. Figures he’d be out, carousing all night, while a girl waited at home for his sorry behind. “Hopefully for you, she’s the forgiving type. But I’m kinda hoping she’s not.” He studies me then, eyes narrowing. “Stormy?” My spine stiffens. I haven’t heard that name in years. “Don’t call me that.” He tilts his head, studying my face like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Damn. I barely recognized you. You’re all grown up,” he says, his eyes sliding over me like he’s committing every inch to memory. “Yep. That tends to happen,” I say coolly. “And it’s Shelby. Or Miss Storm, if you prefer.” That makes him grin. A slow, unapologetic grin that says Waylon Ludlow hasn’t learned a thing. “Well, Miss Storm,” he says, voice rough and amused, “you sure know how to wake a man up.” I cross my arms. “You’re lucky I didn’t call the sheriff.” “Thank you. Would’ve been awkward, explaining to Walt why I was napping in your hay.” “More awkward, I imagine, explaining why you smell like a distillery.” He chuckles again, then winces as he shifts, clearly sore. “You always this mean in the mornings?” “Only to strangers trespassing on my property.” That wipes the smile clean off his face. For a second, there’s something almost … remorseful in his eyes. “I’m not a stranger,” he says quietly. “We’re old friends.” “We were never friends, Waylon.” “Weren’t we?” I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “Not to my recollection. Just neighbors.” “Okay,” he says. “Fair enough.” I stand there in the humming barn, staring at my biggest regret, surrounded by horses and old memories I didn’t ask for. He looks out of place and familiar, all at once—like trouble that never really leaves town, just lies in wait for the right moment to sneak back in and wreak havoc on your life. “Guess I’ll get out of your way,” he says, walking past me to the barn doors. Then he glances back and points in the opposite direction. “You said two miles that way, right?” I let out an exaggerated breath. “If you plan on jumping barbed wire and cutting through hay fields.” “Great. Seven miles on the road it is,” he says before turning back to the doors. I glance at the sky, just starting to lighten. “Wait, Waylon,” I call. “Cabe’ll be back at any minute from riding the fence line. He’s get some secret breakfast date in town. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind dropping you off on his way.” “That’d be awesome. Not sure I’m up for that walk.” “Just wait by the front of the barn. You don’t want Grandma Evelyn to catch sight of you through the kitchen window. You’d get a tongue-lashing or dragged inside for breakfast. No way to tell which way it’d go.” “That’s a terrifying thought.” He continues forward, dripping water onto the concrete, and pauses at the barn door. “Hey, Shelby.” I look at him despite myself. “Still feisty,” he says. “Some things don’t change.” I lift the hose again. He laughs and ducks out into the cold morning. And just like that, Waylon Ludlow is back in my life—wet, hungover, and exactly the kind of complication I don’t need right now. Continue reading Chasing the Storm: https://geni.us/ChasingTheStorm

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