Page 10

N ew rule. Never make a bet with Rhett fucking Calloway.

I curse to myself as I pack up my bag and get ready to head back to the ranch.

Tonight was semi uneventful. Some broken bones, some stitches, but thank the good lord nothing serious. My hands start to shake as my mind drags me back to that night.

The night of the accident.

I clench my fists tight, trying to push the images away. The blood. The screaming. The way Rhett had looked at me afterward, like I was both salvation and damnation wrapped in one package.

Focus, Willow. Not now.

But my mind says fuck no, shoving more memories my way.

Ethan's blood was warm and sticky on my trembling hands, staining them a deep crimson. Jace's voice pierced the chaos, his desperate screams echoing in my ears as he called frantically for more help. Rhett was beside himself, his eyes wide with panic, pleading with me to do something, anything, to save Ethan...

The crackle of the walkie at my hip startles me back to the present.

"Medic to holding area three. Now."

I'm already moving before the transmission ends, muscle memory taking over while my brain's still half-stuck in that nightmare from two years ago. The hallway behind the chutes is narrow, dimly lit, and smells like fear and livestock—a scent you never quite get used to.

I round the corner to find Dex Miller on the ground, face contorted in pain, clutching his shoulder. Beside him, surprising the hell out of me, is Rhett, kneeling in the dirt with his hat tossed aside, one hand steadying Dex's back.

"Dislocated," Rhett says before I can ask, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. "Caught his arm in the gate when Hellfire decided to have a fucking tantrum."

I drop my bag and kneel beside them, my eyes doing a quick assessment. Dex's shoulder is definitely out of socket, the awkward angle making my own joints ache in sympathy.

"How bad does it hurt, scale of one to ten?" I ask, already reaching for my supplies.

"Solid nine," Dex grinds out through clenched teeth. "Fuck, Hayes, just pop it back in."

Rhett's eyes meet mine over Dex's hunched form. Gone is the cocky bull rider who's been making my life hell all season. In his place is someone I don’t recognize —focused, present, all business.

"Need me to hold him?" he asks.

I nod. "Brace his torso. I need to get the angle right."

Without hesitation, Rhett shifts his position, wrapping his arms firmly around Dex's torso. His movements are decisive, practiced—like he's done this before. Not just watched it, but actually helped.

"On three," I say, positioning my hands on Dex's arm. "One..."

I yank on two, of course. The shoulder slides back into place with a sickening pop that I feel more than hear. Dex lets out a string of curses that would make a prison warden blush, his body going rigid before slumping against Rhett.

"Fuck, Hayes," Dex pants, sweat beading on his forehead. "A little warning next time."

"Warning just makes you tense up," I say, already reaching for the immobilizer in my bag. "You know that."

Rhett hasn't let go yet, his eyes fixed on Dex's face, watching for signs of shock. It's unsettling seeing him this focused, this careful. Like watching a wolf play nursemaid.

"You're done for tonight," I tell Dex, securing the immobilizer with practiced movements. "Probably for the next two weeks minimum."

"Bullshit," Dex protests, but there's no real fight in it. His face is pale, the pain having drained the color from his usually ruddy complexion. "I've got points to earn."

"You've got a shoulder to heal," Rhett cuts in, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Don't be a fucking idiot, Miller. You go out there again tonight, you'll tear something that won't heal right."

I glance up, surprised at the authority in his tone. Rhett meets my gaze, and something passes between us—a moment of perfect understanding that makes my chest tighten.

"You heard Hayes," he continues, helping Dex to his feet with careful movements. "Season's long. Points don't mean shit if you can't ride next month."

Dex grumbles but doesn't argue. Smart man. Between Rhett's unexpected intensity and my medical authority, he knows he's beat.

“Alright, Miller. Let’s get you back to your hotel room.”

"I got him," Rhett says, easily supporting Dex's weight. "You need to finish packing up, right?"

I blink, thrown off by his consideration. "Yeah, but I should—"

"I'm just taking him to the med trailer for some painkillers, then his buddy Jake can drive him back," Rhett interrupts. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. "Unless you think he needs more than that?"

I shake my head, professional assessment overriding my confusion at Rhett's behavior. "Ice, anti-inflammatories, and rest. Follow up with sports med tomorrow."

Dex sways slightly between us. "Can we skip the fucking consultation and get to the good drugs?"

"Such a baby," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. I've seen these guys power through injuries that would leave most people sobbing.

Rhett chuckles. “I’ll be back in ten and we can head back home.”

Home.

The ranch. The Savage Eight Ranch. Our ranch.

And with that comes the talk that I’ve been dreading since I made that goddamn bet with Rhett earlier tonight.

I watch them disappear down the corridor, my brain still trying to process what just happened. Rhett Calloway, the same man who spent the last three events making my life a special kind of hell, just stepped up like some goddamn rodeo Florence Nightingale.

The same Rhett who, just hours ago, cornered me behind the chutes with that wolfish grin and eyes that promised trouble.

I gather my supplies, still replaying the scene in my mind. Rhett's hands, steady and sure. The way his voice dropped lower, more authoritative. The complete absence of the arrogant jackass I've come to expect.

The hallway feels too quiet now as I head back to the medical station. My boots scuff against the concrete, each step bringing me closer to Rhett and that talk that is waiting for me at the ranch.

"Never bet against the house, sweetheart," he'd drawled earlier, leaning into my space until I could smell leather and something spicy that was uniquely him. "Especially when the house is me."

Stupid. So fucking stupid to let him goad me into it. But he'd been relentless, pushing every button I have until I finally snapped.

I finish packing my gear as slowly as humanly possible, like some part of me believes if I just take long enough, Rhett might forget our arrangement. Fat chance. The man has the memory of an elephant when it comes to things that benefit him.

The medical trailer is quiet now, most of the night's casualties already patched up and sent on their way. I double-check my supplies, count bandages we don't need counting, anything to delay the inevitable.

"Ready to go, Hayes?"

I jump at his voice. Rhett's leaning against the doorframe, hat tipped low over his eyes, but not low enough to hide that knowing smirk. The good Samaritan from earlier has vanished, replaced by the cocky bastard I've been avoiding all season.

"How's Dex?" I ask, ignoring his question.

"Drugged up and bitching about his points." Rhett pushes off the doorframe, stepping into my space with that easy confidence that makes me want to punch him. Or kiss him. I'm still figuring that part out, which is the whole damn problem. "Jake's taking him back to the hotel. Now stop stalling."

My hands tighten around the strap of my medical bag. "I'm not stalling."

"Bullshit." He reaches over and takes the bag from me, our fingers brushing. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my system. "You've been reorganizing those bandages for ten minutes. They ain't getting any more organized, sweetheart."

I hate that word in his mouth. Hate how it sounds like both an insult and something more dangerous.

"Don't call me that," I snap, snatching my bag back.

His smile widens, all white teeth and bad intentions.

"Whatever you say, Willow." He lets my name slide off his tongue like he's savoring it. "A bet's a bet, though. And I do plan to collect."

I shoulder past him, heading for the exit. The night air hits me like a slap, cool and crisp after the stuffy trailer. Stars prick the blackness overhead, indifferent to my problems.

His truck sits at the far end of the lot, a massive black beast gleaming under the parking lot lights. I force myself to breathe normally as I march toward it, determined not to let him see how much he affects me.

"You know, you're cute when you're trying to avoid the inevitable," Rhett says, matching my pace easily with his longer stride.

"Cute isn't what I'm going for," I mutter, clutching my bag tighter.

His laugh is low and rich, sliding down my spine like warm honey. "No? What are you going for then, Hayes? Intimidating? Because that little crease between your eyebrows when you're pissed off is anything but."

I stop short, glaring up at him. "Are you trying to make this worse?"

"Just making conversation." He unlocks the truck with a beep, opening the passenger door for me with an exaggerated bow. "Your chariot awaits."

I roll my eyes but climb in anyway. The leather seat is worn but comfortable, smelling faintly of Rhett—that mix of cologne, leather, and something wild I can't quite place. I buckle up and stare straight ahead, determined not to look at him as he slides into the driver's seat.

The engine roars to life, and Rhett pulls out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. Too close to my thigh. I shift slightly toward the door.

"So," he drawls after a few minutes of tense silence, "you gonna make me drag it out of you, or you gonna tell me what's got you so worked up about our little bet?"

"Nothing's got me worked up," I lie, watching the landscape blur past my window.

“Right. And you’re definitely not gonna bolt the moment I pull up in front of the house and lock yourself in your room.”

I consider lying, but what's the point? That's exactly what I'd planned to do.

Damn him for knowing me so well.

"It was a stupid bet," I say instead, watching the darkened landscape roll by. Fields and fences, the occasional glint of an animal's eyes caught in the headlights. "I shouldn't have agreed to it."

"But you did." His voice has that edge to it, the one that makes my skin prickle with awareness. "And the Willow Hayes I know doesn't back down from her word."

Damn him for knowing exactly which buttons to push.

"One conversation," I remind him, finally turning to meet his gaze. The dashboard lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. "That's what I agreed to. One honest conversation. Nothing more."

His fingers tap against the steering wheel, a restless rhythm that betrays his casual posture.

And one last damn him for looking so good.

"One honest conversation," Rhett agrees, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His voice drops lower. "About that night and everything after."

I grip the door handle tight enough to leave imprints on my palm. Everything after. The words hang between us like smoke.

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It's all connected, Hayes." His profile is carved in shadow and highway lights, jaw tight. "You know that as well as I do."

I turn back to the window, watching fence posts flash by like prison bars. The heater hums quietly, filling the cab with warm air that does nothing for the chill settled in my bones. Two years of carefully constructed walls, and I'm about to let this man take a wrecking ball to them because of a stupid bet over whether he would stay on the bull for the full eight.

A thing I well fucking knew he would. Because he’s Rhett goddamn Razor Calloway.

T he headlights cut through the darkness as we turn onto the long gravel drive leading to the Savage Eight Ranch. Each crunch of stone beneath the tires brings me closer to a conversation I've been running from for two years. My throat tightens.

"You're thinking too loud," Rhett says, breaking the silence that's stretched between us for the last fifteen miles.

"That's not a thing."

"With you it is." He glances my way, his face half-illuminated by the dashboard lights. "I can practically hear the escape plans you're mapping out."

I cross my arms. "I'm not planning anything."

"Bullshit." He says it almost fondly, like my obvious lies are endearing rather than pathetic. "You've got that same look you have when you’re about to run."

My stomach drops at the mention. Before I can form a response, the headlights sweep across the ranch house, illuminating the wide porch and dark windows. Everyone else is either still at the rodeo or already asleep. It's just me and Rhett and two years of unspoken history between us.

He kills the engine but doesn't move to get out. The sudden silence weighs a ton.

"We doing this here or inside?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.

I stare at my hands in my lap. "Here."

The truck cab feels smaller suddenly, more intimate without the engine's rumble and the rush of the road beneath us. Just our breathing and the faint tick of the cooling engine.

"Coward," he says, but there's no heat in it. Just a tired acknowledgement.

"Practical," I counter. "Less chance of waking the others.”

Rhett nods. "Alright.”

Silence wraps around us as we sit, each waiting for the other one to be the one to break it.

Rhett sighs and turns toward me. “I ran like a fucking coward after Ethan’s funeral.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Just like that—no preamble, no working up to it. Classic Rhett, diving headfirst into the deepest part of the water.

"You didn't just run," I say, the words scraping my throat raw. "You fucking disappeared."

"Yeah." He nods, staring straight ahead through the windshield at nothing. "I did."

Moonlight filters through the windshield, painting silver streaks across his face. He's not looking at me anymore, but staring straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel even though the truck isn't moving.

"You know why?" he asks, and there's something raw in his voice I've never heard before.

"You tell me," I say, because I've spent two years trying to figure it out myself. Two years of replaying that night, the days after, the moment he walked away.

Rhett releases a breath that sounds like it hurts coming out. "I couldn't... fuck, I couldn't look at you without seeing him. Without seeing your hands covered in his blood. Without hearing myself begging you to do something." His voice cracks, surprising both of us. "I was lost, Willow. So fucking lost I couldn't see straight."

The confession hangs between us, raw and bleeding. I wait for more, but Rhett just stares ahead, his profile carved in moonlight and shadow, jaw working like he's chewing on words he can't quite spit out.

"Lost?" I finally say, the word sharp as broken glass in my mouth. "You were lost? What about me, Rhett? You think I wasn't drowning too?"

He flinches like I've slapped him.

"I know you were."

"No, you don't know because you fucking ran. You weren't there for the nightmares, Rhett. You weren't there when I'd wake up screaming, feeling Ethan's blood still warm on my hands." My voice rises with each word, the dam I've built around these emotions finally cracking. "You weren't there when I had to pack up his things from the locker room while everyone watched me like I was some kind of fucking glass figurine about to shatter."

Rhett's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Willow—"

"No. You don't get to 'Willow' me right now." I'm trembling, every nerve ending raw and exposed. "You were supposed to be there. We were supposed to get through it together."

The truck cab feels like it's shrinking, the air between us charged with electricity and grief. Outside, the wind whispers through the pines, a mournful soundtrack to match the storm raging inside me. Behind us, the ranch house sits dark and silent, witnesses to none of this. Just the moon and stars overhead, cold and distant as the man beside me.

"You were supposed to be there," I repeat, quieter now, but somehow that's worse. "After everything we'd been through together. After all the promises."

Rhett finally turns to face me, his eyes haunted in the silver moonlight. "I know."

"No, you don't know!" The words tear from my throat, raw and bleeding. My fist slams against the dashboard, pain shooting up my arm. "You don't know what it was like to wake up every morning expecting to see you there, only to remember all over again that you were gone. You don't know what it was like to reach for my phone a hundred times a day to call you before remembering you fucking left me! I love you and then you just disappeared!"

The words explode out of me before I can stop them. Then I freeze, realizing what I've just said.

I love you. Present tense.

Fuck.

The silence in the truck cab turns deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, feel the heat crawling up my neck. Rhett's gone completely still beside me, like a predator that's just spotted prey.

"Willow." His voice is different now. Softer. Dangerous.

"Don't." I fumble for the door handle, panic rising in my throat. "That's not—I meant I loved you. Past tense. Before you fucked everything up."

His hand shoots out, catching my wrist before I can escape. His touch burns through my skin, familiar and foreign all at once.

"Look at me," he says, and it's not a request.

I don't want to. Looking at Rhett Calloway has never led to good decisions on my part. But his grip on my wrist is firm—not painful, but insistent—and slowly, I turn my head.

His eyes catch mine, and just like that, I'm drowning. They're darker in the moonlight, pupils blown wide, but I can still see the intensity that's always been there, the barely leashed wildness that drew me to him in the first place.

"Say it again," he says, voice rough like gravel.

"No." The word comes out weaker than I intend.

His thumb moves slowly across my pulse point, tracing small circles that send sparks up my arm. "You still feel it. After everything."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway.

"Fuck you, Calloway.”

"Fuck you too, Hayes," he growls, and suddenly the space between us vanishes.