Owen Windbreaker Novels & Stories

I looked up to the sky, the weather raged and I didn't need a weather forecast to tell me it was about to thunder. “I'm not with my fucking car. Damn that old man,” Owen cursed and rubbed the bridge of his nose in worry. “I don't know the route to my place and it's already late. Let's head to yours before the rain actually thunders down on us,” I said, wrapping my arm around his. He nodded without another word. ***

The Laramie Mountains just to the south were little more than a bluish mirage in the distance, but a slightly cool breeze wafted across the basin to provide some relief from the heat. A rare hot Wyoming sun beat down from a cloudless sky as prairie grass crackled in the wind. He shoved his index finger between his neck and the white collar of the button down shirt Olivia had forced him to wear, trying to get liberation from the upper eighties temperature. With his dark skin, courtesy of his native Arapaho tribe, he was roasting. At least she'd let him wear jeans and cowboy boots, but he felt naked without his Stetson. And she'd made him leave his hair down, too.

I pulled the woven wool higher over my pale chin, retreating down the dark timber steps before their scouts could register my scent. "The northern winds are turning lethal—hand me that secondary wrap from the bench, will you?" Orion grumbled a few minutes later, his massive frame emerging from the tavern doors as he found me waiting beside the winter sleigh. Through the frost on the glass, his sharp eyes had already spotted the duplicate scarf resting on the leather console. I passed the handiwork over without issuing a word. Draven had never deigned to wear the garments my lineage crafted anyway, and my pride refused to let my grandmother’s labor sit in his palace.

“Professional or not, I don’t think you’ve ever bought clothes for anyone other than yourself.” “That’s because everyone else has taste,” I said, waving my hand at him dismissively. “Now, pick up something that doesn’t scream ‘corporate chaos.’ She’s already dealing with enough.” We walked down the aisles slowly, lifting little sweaters and soft blankets. Every item was smaller than my hand, yet somehow heavier with meaning. Owen picked up a tiny blue romper and held it up. “Is this what you imagine Riley’s baby wearing?” I laughed, holding a folded yellow cardigan against my chest as if comparing it. “I don’t know. Maybe something softer

“Come here.” Owen opens his arms and with very little hesitatation, both kids fall against him. He gathers a couple of blankets from the floor and cover them over, as they both lay sobbing in his arms. He makes sure to keep them ducked down below glass level, just in case.