Every Storm Runs Out of Rain

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Stetson Dalton filled his truck with diesel at the nowhere-town gas station. He'd been born and raised in Quitman, Texas and everyone knew that no one got out. It was like a tornado. It sucked you in if you got anywhere near it. Stetson sighed. He was supposed to be back at the ranch loading hay to deliver to a family-friend in Tyler—a town close by. The man had called up a few days before to ask if the Daltons were willing to sell some hay.

His fields had been struggling for the past couple years but this was the first year he'd asked for help—a clear indication that he needed it. The patriarch of the Dalton family and Stetson's grandfather—Luke Dalton—had said to discount the hay for John. After all, Texans stick together when times get rough. It's an unwritten code that has stood in the state for decades. And it would continue to stand as long as people like his father and grandfather were around. So they were giving it to him for half the going rate.

And Stetson didn't care. He really didn't mind helping out a guy in need. But he'd cut that hay. And he'd baled it. Sacrificing his time to help out on a ranch renowned for its excellent breeding cattle and superior horseflesh. And he hated haying. Put him in a round pen or out on the range and he wouldn't complain. But haying and the tasks that went along with it were for hired help. Things like loading the hay. And so he was here in town. His father would be angry but he couldn't care less. It wasn't like it would change anything. He was the youngest son of the family; therefore, he was also the one who was expected to live up to his older brothers' achievements. And he was doing a terrible job of it.

Kyle, his oldest brother, had shaken his head as he'd driven off. The pump kicked off, pulling him back to the present. He returned the nozzle to its place and screwed the cap back on his tank before shutting the gas flap. A red convertible pulled up next to him with California license plates. Three of the girls gawked at him unabashedly. The fourth was a bit more chaste in her admiration but was staring none-the-less. He flashed them a smile. Before he could turn and get into his truck, the driver, a beach blonde with a pair of sunglasses perched on her head, spoke up.

"Hi, cowboy." She batted her lashes playfully. He considered replying. She was a beauty. Much like his ex-girlfriend, Lily. He shoved away thoughts of her and tried to ignore how much he hated the on-again-off-again state of their relationship. Stetson didn't really have the time but he answered the girl anyway.

"Howdy, ma'am. Where are you ladies from?" He deepened his accent for effect. His grandma told him flirting was from the devil. Then again, she said that about nearly everything fun. He smirked at the thought.

Even if she was a little overboard, everyone loved Miss Belle. He could see why his grandpa had married young. If he met a gal half as hardworking and ornery as her, he might just change his mind about the whole American dream thought pattern. But for now, he had no interest in marriage. Or children. A bunch of extra responsibility was all that would bring. And right now, he had enough of that as it was.

"Los Angeles. And you?" Ah, a city girl. He'd figured as much

"I was born and raised right here in Quitman." he said. Pity shone in her green eyes. He felt his facade of happiness fading. I hate this town! Everybody thinks I'm a hillbilly. Am I?

"I see. Well. Who would've thought something good could come from such a hick-town?" She laughed at her own words. Pride smarting and unsure of how to take her comment, He tipped his hat, threw them another wicked grin, and got back in the truck. They were still staring when he pulled out. He revved his truck for fun—even knowing that it wouldn't probably impress girls like them. Lily, on the other hand, loved his truck.