Page 19

I finish setting Jace up with an ice pack and head over to watch Rhett.

The crowd's going wild as he mounts his bull, a nasty piece of work called Rampage. Rhett gives me that cocky grin of his—the one that still makes my stomach flip even though I swore I was done with that shit years ago.

"Got this one in the bag, darlin'," he calls out, tipping his hat my way.

I roll my eyes but can't help the smile tugging at my lips. "Just keep your ass on the bull, Razor."

The gate flies open and it's pure chaos. Rampage bucks like the devil himself is riding his back, but Rhett moves with him like they're dancing some violent waltz. Eight seconds feels like forever when you're watching someone you…

When you're watching a friend risk their neck.

Yeah, friend. That’s what we are. Cause friends kiss like that against a truck…

The buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts. Rhett dismounts with that signature backflip that makes sponsors cream their pants. He lands with his arms spread wide, eating up the applause like it's his favorite meal.

Eight seconds of perfection. Another notch in the legend of Razor Calloway.

"That's how it's done!" Jace hollers from behind me, an ice pack pressed against his shoulder.

My chest tightens with something I refuse to name. Pride. That's all it is.

"Told ya," he says, swaggering over to where I'm leaning against the rails. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sweat glistening on his forehead beneath his hat. "Not even a challenge."

"Don't get cocky. Season's just starting."

"Admit it, Willow. You were worried.”

"In your dreams, Calloway." But there's no bite to my words. Truth is, I'm always worried when any of them climb on those beasts. I've seen too much go wrong too fast in this sport.

Rhett's still riding his victory high when he leans in, close enough that I can smell the leather and cologne on him. "You sure do feature in plenty of those." he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

I step back, putting distance between us. "I care about all you idiots staying alive."

He just smirks, seeing right through me like he always has. Bastard.

My mouth goes dry. Damn him and his ability to turn every conversation into something that makes my skin heat up. Before I can fire back, Colt comes barreling over, slapping Rhett on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

"Fucking beautiful, man! That's how we do it!"

The moment breaks, and I step back, grateful for the interruption. Colt's practically vibrating with energy, eyes wild with that pre-ride mania I've seen a hundred times. He's up next, and Wildcard before a ride is like a loaded gun with the safety off.

"You ready?" I ask him, professional mode kicking in as I check his vest.

"Born ready, Wills!”

The PA system crackles. "Next up, ladies and gentlemen, Colt 'Wildcard' Walker!"

The crowd roars as Colt's name echoes through the arena. He rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck with that manic energy that earned him his nickname.

"You got this," I tell him, tightening his vest strap one last time.

"Always do," he winks, but there's something in his eyes tonight. A recklessness that goes beyond his usual daredevil bullshit. "Gonna make Razor's ride look like a kiddie carousel."

Rhett scoffs. "In your dreams, asshole."

They bump fists, that brotherhood bond that runs deeper than blood. I've patched these men up more times than I can count, held them together with tape and prayers and sheer fucking stubbornness.

The announcer's voice booms through the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, Wildcard's drawn Devil's Advocate tonight! This bull's got a nasty reputation—unridden in his last twelve outings!"

I feel Rhett tense beside me. "Shit. That bull's got a mean streak."

"Colt's got this," I say, but even I hear the uncertainty in my voice.

Colt's straddling the chute now, lowering himself onto the massive black bull with white-tipped horns that's already thrashing in anticipation. Devil's Advocate isn't just mean—he's calculating. I've watched enough bull rides to recognize when an animal's got more than just fury in his eyes. This one's got a strategy.

"Colt, watch his left hook!" I call out, but my voice gets swallowed by the noise.

The moment Colt nods, they pop the gate, and Devil's Advocate explodes from the chute like he's been shot from a cannon. His first move is a violent twist that nearly sends Colt flying, but he recovers, that supernatural balance keeping him centered.

Four seconds in and I'm already holding my breath.

"Come on, Wildcard!" Rhett shouts beside me, knuckles white on the railing.

The bull switches tactics, spinning hard right before suddenly reversing direction. It's a move designed to throw riders forward then snap them back—and it works. Colt lurches, his free arm windmilling as he fights to stay on.

Colt's body whips backward, spine arching at an angle that makes my medical brain scream in protest. But somehow, his hand stays locked in the rope, his thighs clamped to the bull's sides like he's been superglued there.

"Holy shit," I breathe.

Six seconds. The crowd's on their feet now.

Devil's Advocate goes airborne, all four hooves leaving the ground in a move I've only seen twice in my career. The landing is brutal—a bone-jarring impact that should separate the rider from the bull. But Colt adjusts mid-air like gravity's just a suggestion, his body flowing with the bull's movements instead of fighting them.

"He's fucking doing it," Rhett whispers beside me, voice tight with a mix of pride and tension.

Seven seconds. Just one more.

The buzzer's sounds when Devil's Advocate makes his signature move. He drops his head and twists his massive body in a corkscrew that defies physics.

I see it happen in slow motion. Colt's body thrown forward, his center of gravity shot to hell. His hand trapped in the rope as the bull continues its violent spin. Colt's body goes airborne—but there's no victory in his flight.

"Fuck!" Rhett shouts beside me.

Colt slams into the dirt, but the nightmare's just starting. His hands still caught in the goddamn rope. Devil's Advocate drags him like a rag doll, hooves missing Colt's head by inches as the bullfighters rush in.

I don't think. Don't hesitate. My body moves on autopilot, vaulting over the fence before Rhett can grab me.

"Willow, no!" His shout fades behind me as I hit the dirt running.

The arena becomes a tunnel—me at one end, Colt's limp body at the other. Devil's Advocate is still bucking, dragging Colt in jerky circles while the bullfighters try to get close. They're good, but that bull is faster, meaner.

And Colt isn't moving.

Time slows. Each heartbeat stretches as I dodge between two bullfighters. One grabs for my arm, misses.

"Get back!" someone yells.

Fuck that. These are my boys.

Devil's Advocate spins again, dragging Colt in a wide arc that sends the bullfighters scrambling. I cut diagonally across the arena, calculating where they'll end up, not where they are. Basic fucking physics and a prayer.

My training kicks in—fifteen years of pulling these idiots out of danger—and everything narrows to a singular focus. Get to Colt. Cut the rope. Get out.

I reach Colt just as Devil's Advocate pauses his rampage for a split second. My hands find the rope, fingers working the release mechanism that refuses to give. I pull the knife from my boot—never without it for exactly this reason—and slice through the braided material in one clean swipe.

Colt's body goes slack as he's freed, and I drag him backward by his vest, my boots digging into the dirt for traction. Devil's Advocate isn't done with us. He wheels around, nostrils flaring, those evil eyes locking onto us like heat-seeking missiles.

"Move, Willow!" someone screams from the sidelines.

I haul Colt's deadweight faster, but we're not going to make it. The bull charges, and I throw myself over Colt's body, making myself as small a target as possible.

The impact I'm bracing for never comes. There's a blur of movement and two bullfighters appear, diverting Devil's Advocate just enough that his massive shoulder only clips my hip instead of running us both down. The pain flares hot and immediate, but I push it aside.

Colt's still not moving.

"Get the ambulance!" I scream, fingers pressing to his neck, finding his pulse—weak but there. Thank fuck.

His face is ashen under the arena lights, blood trickling from his nose, from a gash above his eyebrow. I run my hands over his limbs, checking for obvious breaks, my training taking over while my heart hammers against my ribs.

"Colt! Can you hear me?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears, like I'm underwater.

His eyelids flutter. "Wills?" Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, and my stomach drops into my boots.

"Don't move. We've got you."

His eyes roll back, and he goes limp again. Fuck.

The arena's gone silent, that eerie quiet that falls when everyone knows something's gone terribly wrong.

The EMT’s descend like a swarm, surrounding us with equipment and urgent voices. I rattle off information as they work, my hands never leaving Colt's body.

"Possible spinal injury. Breathing's shallow. He was conscious for approximately six seconds. Pupils are uneven."

Someone tries to pull me away. I shove them back.

"I'm his fucking medic," I snarl, not even checking who it is.

"Willow." It's Rhett's voice, firm but gentle at my ear. "Let them work."

His hands wrap around my shoulders, steadying me when I hadn't even realized I was swaying. The adrenaline's starting to fade, making room for the pain in my hip to announce itself.

"He was talking," I say, eyes never leaving Colt as they stabilize his neck and transfer him to a backboard. "

"Willow." Rhett's voice cuts through the fog in my brain. He's beside me now, face pale beneath his tan. "You're bleeding."

I glance down. My shirt's torn at the hip, dark stain spreading where the bull clipped me. It doesn't matter.

"It's nothing," I mutter, trying to push past Rhett to follow as they load Colt onto the stretcher. "I need to go with him."

Rhett's hand catches my elbow, steadying me when I stumble. "I know. We’re right behind you guys."

The EMTs are moving fast, their faces tight with the kind of professional urgency that makes my blood run cold. I've worn that expression too many times myself.

When I reach the stretcher, Colt's face is covered with an oxygen mask, his skin waxy under the harsh arena lights. One of the EMTs—Mike, I think his name is—gives me a nod.

"You riding with us?" Mike asks, already knowing the answer.

"Try and stop me." I climb into the back of the ambulance, ignoring the stabbing pain in my hip. The doors slam shut, and just like that, we're cut off from the chaos of the arena, sealed in this sterile box racing against time.

I grip Colt's hand, careful of the IV they're putting in. "You better not check out on me, Wildcard."

The monitors beep with a rhythm that's too unsteady for my liking. Mike works efficiently, hooking up more equipment, checking vitals. Colt's still unconscious, face slack under the oxygen mask. Blood matted in his hair. So much fucking blood.

"BP's dropping," Mike says to his partner. "Push another line."

My medical training kicks in, and I'm scanning everything they're doing, reading the monitors, watching Colt's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths.

"Pulse is thready," I say, fingers pressed to his wrist. "He's got blood in his mouth—could be internal bleeding."

Mike nods, already on it. "Calling it in now. We've got a trauma team standing by."

The ambulance swerves, and pain lances through my hip. I ignore it, focus on Colt's face. He looks young like this. Vulnerable. Nothing like the cocky asshole who calls me "mama bear" when I patch him up after his stunts.

"Come on, you stubborn bastard," I whisper, squeezing his hand. "You don't get to bail on us."

The ambulance swerves, and pain shoots through my hip like a branding iron. I grit my teeth, refusing to make a sound. Colt's the priority right now. My shit can wait.

Mike gives me a side-eye. "You should let them look at that.”

“Yeah, yeah I will.”

The ambulance screeches to a halt at the emergency entrance. The doors fly open, and a team in scrubs swarms the vehicle like worker bees defending their hive. I keep my hand locked on Colt's, running alongside the stretcher as they wheel him in.

"Twenty-three-year-old male, traumatic injury from bull riding accident. Possible spinal involvement, probable internal bleeding, head trauma. BP 90/60 and dropping. Pulse irregular, GCS 7," Mike rattles off as we push through the automatic doors.

The fluorescent lights of the ER hit me like a physical blow after the dim interior of the ambulance. Everything's too bright, too loud, too much. The hospital smell—that mix of antiseptic and fear—fills my lungs.

"Trauma bay one!" a doctor shouts, a woman with silver-streaked hair.

The trauma team swarms around Colt like a well-choreographed dance, each person knowing their exact role without hesitation. I'm still clutching his hand when a nurse gently but firmly pries my fingers away.

"We need to take him now," she says, her eyes kind but brooking no argument.

My throat closes up as they wheel him through the double doors. The last thing I see is the top of his head, his hair matted with blood and dirt, before the doors swing shut with a soft pneumatic hiss.

And just like that, I'm alone in the hallway, my own blood seeping through my jeans, the taste of arena dust still coating my tongue.

T he waiting room is a special kind of hell.

Antiseptic smell burning my nose. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The clock on the wall ticks forward at a glacial pace while my thoughts race faster than any bull Colt's ever ridden.

The waiting room's got that artificial stillness that makes my skin crawl. The kind of quiet that's filled with too much noise—monitors beeping down distant hallways, phones ringing at the nurses' station, the soft sobbing of someone getting news they never wanted to hear.

Nobody talks much. What is there to say? We've been here before—waiting rooms and hospital vigils—but it never gets easier.

I'm sitting in Rhett's lap, not because I want to be, but because he physically picked me up and placed me there after the doctor finished stitching up my hip. Thirty-two stitches and a tetanus shot later, the local anesthetic is starting to wear off, making every heartbeat a dull throb against the wound.

"You need to stay off it," Rhett murmurs into my hair, his arms locked around my waist like I might bolt any second. He's not wrong.

"I'm fine," I say for what must be the twentieth time, but I don't try to move.

The truth is, I'm not fine. None of us are. The Savage Eight is down a man, and until Colt walks out of this hospital on his own two feet, we're all just holding our breath.

Jace paces in front of us, ice pack forgotten, his good arm rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous tick he's had since we were kids. "How the fuck long does surgery take?"

"As long as it needs to," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. "He's got the best trauma team in the state working on him."

That's what they told us three hours ago when they wheeled him into surgery. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. Possible spinal damage. The words blur together in my head like a medical textbook I never wanted to read.

Rhett's chest rises and falls against my back, his heartbeat a steady rhythm. I find myself counting to stay sane. One, two, three, four... When I reach a thousand, maybe Colt will be okay.

"You saved his life," Rhett murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "Running in like that. Fucking insane, but you saved him."

I close my eyes, seeing it all again in flashes—Colt's body ragdolling, the bull's hooves missing his head by inches, the rope cutting into his hand. "Just doing my job."

"Bullshit." His arms tighten around me. "That was beyond your job description, and you know it."

I don't have the energy to argue. The truth is, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. These idiots are my family. My entire life revolves around them.

Losing Ethan two years ago nearly wiped us all out, and I’ll be damned if I let another one of my boys die on my watch.

The double doors to the surgical ward swing open, and I straighten in Rhett's lap so fast my hip screams in protest. A doctor walks out—silver-haired woman from earlier, lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes. Her surgical cap is still on, and there's a splatter of blood on her shoes that makes my stomach clench.

Everyone freezes. Jace stops mid-pace. Rhett's arms tighten around me like he's bracing for impact. The rest of the boys—Knox, Levi, Logan, Cade, and Weston—all lean forward in their chairs, a synchronized movement of dread and hope.

For one terrible second, the doctor's face gives nothing away. Then she smiles.

"He's one tough sonofabitch," she says, pulling off her surgical cap. "He's going to be just fine."

The collective exhale in the room feels like a physical force. Rhett's forehead drops to my shoulder, his relief palpable against my skin. Jace actually falls to his knees, head in his hands.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Thank fuck."

I try to stand but Rhett's arms are steel bands around my waist. The doctor approaches us, her tired eyes taking in our ragtag family.

"Define 'fine,'" I demand, slipping off Rhett's lap despite his attempt to hold me in place. My hip throbs in protest, but I ignore it, stepping toward the doctor. "What are we dealing with?"