Page 20

The doctor—her name tag reads Dr. Reeves—gives me an appraising look. "Three broken ribs, lacerated spleen that we managed to repair without removing, concussion, and a hairline fracture of the L2 vertebra."

"Fuck," Jace whispers.

"The good news," Dr. Reeves continues, "is that there's no spinal cord involvement. The fracture is stable. With proper recovery, he should regain full function."

"And the bad news?" Rhett asks cautiously.

"His riding season's over," Dr. Reeves says bluntly. "Minimum six-month recovery before he can even think about getting back on a bull. And that's if everything goes perfectly."

The words land like a physical blow. Six months. In our world, that's an eternity. Rankings will shift. Sponsorships could disappear. The circuit moves on whether you're riding or not.

"He's awake?" I ask, needing to focus on what matters right now.

"In and out. The anesthesia still wearing off." Dr. Reeves's expression softens slightly. "He's been asking for Willow and Jace."

Jace's head snaps up, eyes red-rimmed but dry. "Us?"

"Apparently he's very insistent," Dr. Reeves says with a hint of amusement. "Something about needing to thank his 'suicidal guardian angel' and making sure the ‘old man' know he's too pretty to die."

Jace snorts despite himself. "Even half-dead, he's still an asshole."

"Can we see him?" I ask, already moving toward the doors.

Dr. Reeves nods. "Two at a time, five minutes max. He needs rest." She fixes me with a pointed look. "And judging by those stitches in your hip, so do you."

"I'll rest when I'm dead," I mutter, earning an eye roll from Rhett.

"Don't tempt fate," he growls, but he helps me steady myself as a wave of pain shoots through my hip.

Jace falls beside me as we follow Dr. Reeves down a corridor that feels miles long. My hip throbs with each step, but I'd crawl on broken glass to get to Colt right now.

"He's still pretty medicated," she warns as we approach his room. "Don't expect too much coherence."

The ICU room is dim and quiet except for the steady beeping of monitors. Colt looks small in the hospital bed, swallowed up by tubes and wires. His face is scraped raw on one side, bruises blooming across his jaw in violent shades of purple. A bandage wraps around his head, stark white against his dark hair.

"Jesus," Jace whispers beside me.

I move to Colt's side, my medical training taking over as I scan the monitors. Heart rate stable. Oxygen levels are good. The IV drip delivers what I recognize as pain management.

His eyes lock on mine and he gives me that cocky smile. “Am I in heaven? Cause you are the prettiest darn thing I’ve ever seen on this side of Texas.”

Jace barks out a laugh, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. "Nah, you're in hell, and we're your welcoming committee."

I squeeze Colt's hand, careful of the IV. "How you feeling, Wildcard?"

"Like I got trampled by the devil himself," Colt croaks, his voice sandpaper rough. His eyes are glassy from the meds, but that spark of his—that stubborn, irrepressible life force—is still there. "Doc says you went full rodeo hero on me."

"Someone's gotta keep your dumb ass alive," I say, throat tight.

Colt's fingers tighten weakly around mine. "You saved my life, Willow."

"Just another day on the job with you idiots," I manage, but my voice cracks.

His eyes drift to Jace, who's hovering at the foot of the bed looking like he's aged ten years in the last six hours. "Old man. You crying over me?"

"Shut up," Jace says, voice rough, but there’s no real anger there. He moves to Colt's other side, his usual swagger replaced by careful movements. "Gave us one hell of a scare, asshole."

"Keeps life interesting." Colt tries to shift and immediately winces. "Fuck me, that hurts."

"Don't move," I order, adjusting his pillow slightly. "You've got a spinal fracture. Luckily it didn't sever your cord."

Colt's eyes widen slightly, reality seeming to penetrate the medication haze. "How bad?"

I exchange a glance with Jace, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. No sugar-coating. That's never been how we operate.

"Season's over. Six months minimum recovery. We'll be right here," I tell him, squeezing his hand. "Every step of the way."

Colt's eyes drift closed for a moment, the medication pulling him under, then he forces them open again. "The guys?"

"All here," Jace says. "Practically had to threaten security to let us stay past visiting hours."

"Rhett?"

"Wearing a hole in the waiting room floor," I say. "He'll be in next."

Colt's eyes fix on mine, suddenly clearer than they have any right to be with the amount of drugs they've pumped into him. "You're hurt."

Fucking Colt. Even flat on his back with tubes sprouting from him like some sci-fi experiment, he notices everything.

"It's nothing," I say, shifting my weight off my injured hip. "Just a scratch."

"Bullshit," he whispers, his eyelids getting heavy. "Saw the bull clip you. Saw it before everything went black."

Jace's head snaps toward me. "The doctor said thirty-two stitches, Willow. That's not nothing."

I wave him off. "I've had worse from shaving my legs."

Colt's laugh turns into a pained groan. "Don't make me laugh, you evil woman."

Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them back. Fuck all this crying. We're supposed to be the tough ones, the ones who patch up and move on. But seeing Colt like this—our wild, indestructible Wildcard—it cracks something open inside me that I've been keeping sealed tight since we lost Ethan…

A nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "Two more minutes."

I nod, turning back to Colt. His eyes are already drooping again, the medication dragging him under.

Colt's grip on my hand tightens suddenly. "Don't tell my dad," he slurs, the medication taking over. "He'll just say... told me so."

"Our secret," I promise, though we all know his father will find out eventually. The old bastard got eyes and ears all over the circuit, even though he hasn't spoken to Colt in years.

"Get some rest, you idiot," Jace says, his voice gruff with emotion. He pats Colts shoulder gently. "We'll be right outside."

Colt's eyes flutter closed, but he manages one last smirk. "Big family... of beautiful... assholes."

The nurse returns, more insistent this time. "He needs rest."

I reluctantly let go of Colt's hand, placing it carefully on the bed beside him. My hip screams as I straighten up, but I keep my face neutral. Last thing these boys need is two of us down.

"We'll be right outside," I tell Colt, but he's already drifted off, his face relaxed in sleep.

Jace and I step into the hallway, and the moment the door closes behind us, he rounds on me.

"Willow… what was that back there?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere," I say, already moving toward the waiting room. "I’m fine. Colt is fine, I’m fine, we’re all fuckin’ fine."

Jace catches my elbow, forcing me to stop. "Willow, you jumped in front of a fucking bull."

"And I'd do it again to save any one of you idiots.”

“You can’t bring him back, Wills.”

Ethan.

The name hits me like a physical blow. Jace knows exactly where to aim to make it hurt.

"Don't." My voice is a razor's edge.

"You can't save Ethan by getting yourself killed," Jace presses, his hand still gentle on my arm despite the hardness in his voice. "And that's what you're doing, running in like that. One of these days, your luck's gonna run out."

I jerk my arm away, ignoring the fresh stab of pain from my hip. "This isn't about Ethan."

"Bullshit." Jace's eyes are too knowing, too goddamn perceptive. "You've been reckless ever since we lost him. Taking risks you shouldn't. Throwing yourself into danger like you've got nothing to lose."

"I saved Colt, didn't I?" I snap, my voice echoing louder than intended in the sterile hallway. "That's all that matters."

Jace steps closer, his voice dropping to that deadly quiet tone he only uses when he's truly pissed. "And what happens when it's you in that bed? What happens when it's you we're sitting vigil for? What then, Willow? What happens to us then?"

The question lands like a sucker punch. I don't have an answer that won't crack me wide open.

"I'm not going anywhere," I mutter, but the words sound hollow even to me.

Jace runs a hand through his hair, that nervous tic that means he's holding back. "Rhett would lose his goddamn mind if something happened to you. You know that, right?"

My stomach does that stupid flip at the mention of his name. "Rhett's a big boy. He'd be fine."

"Jesus Christ, Wills." Jace pulls me into a tight hug. “None of us would be fine. Not a single fuckin’ one of us would be able to live without you.”

I want to pull away, but I'm too damn tired. I lean into Jace instead, letting him take some of my weight. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard now, making my limbs feel like they're filled with concrete.

"We're family," he murmurs into my hair. "All of us. And we need you in one piece."

"I know," I whisper against his chest.

He pulls back, holding me at arm's length. "Promise me you'll be more careful."

"Can't make promises I won't keep," I say, honesty the only currency I have left tonight.

Jace sighs, resignation settling over his features. "Stubborn as always."

We walk back to the waiting room in silence, my hip throbbing with each step. The boys look up as we enter, questions written all over their faces.

"He's good," I announce before anyone can ask. "Drugged up and still an asshole."

The collective relief is palpable. Knox slumps back in his chair, Weston mutters something that sounds like a prayer, and Levi actually smiles for the first time since we arrived.

Rhett's eyes haven't left my face since I walked in. He sees too much, always has. I avoid his gaze, focusing instead on lowering myself into the nearest chair without wincing.

"Doctor says two at a time," I announce to the room. "Who's next?"

"Rhett and Levi," Jace decides, falling into the chair beside me. "Then Weston and Knox, then Logan and Kade."

Nobody argues. There's a hierarchy to our little family that nobody talks about but everyone respects. Rhett and Levi have known Colt the longest. They get dibs.

Rhett stands, his movements fluid despite the hours we've spent in these uncomfortable chairs. He pauses in front of me, crouching down so we're eye-level.

"You good?" he asks quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

“I’m good, I promise.”

He smiles, but it’s not a full one. He nods and heads back with Levi while I take my seat.

The boys all take their turns checking on Colt before we head to the hotel we booked. The boys split up, heading to their rooms while I get one to myself.

I reach for the hotel door handle but freeze when I hear footsteps behind me.

"I can manage to put myself to bed," I tell him, but my hand shakes as I slide the card in the slot. The little light blinks red, mocking me. "Piece of shit."

"Here." Rhett takes the card from my fingers, his hand warm against mine. He slides it in smoothly, and the light turns green. "Magic touch."

The door swings open to reveal a standard hotel room—queen bed, generic landscape painting, that particular smell of industrial cleaner trying to mask years of other people's lives.

"Thanks," I say, lingering in the doorway. "You should get some rest. It's been a hell of a day."

"Not so fast." Rhett's voice, low and commanding. "Let me see it."

I turn slowly, wincing as my hip protests the movement. "See what?"

His eyes narrow. "Don't bullshit me, Willow. Your stitches. I want to make sure they're not bleeding through again."

The hallway light catches the angles of his face, throwing shadows that make him look older, harder. He's still in his competition clothes—jeans dusty from the arena, shirt wrinkled from hours in the hospital waiting room. His hat's long gone, probably forgotten in the rush to get to Colt.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just need some sleep."

"Bullshit." He steps closer, crowding me against the door. "You've been limping worse in the last hour, and you've got that pinched look around your eyes that means you're in pain but too damn stubborn to admit it."

The truth is, my hip feels like it's on fire, the local anesthetic long worn off, and the hospital-issued pain meds barely taking the edge off. But admitting weakness isn't something I do. Not even with Rhett.

Especially not with Rhett.

"Let me help you." His voice softens, losing that edge of command. "Please, Willow."

And there it is—that tone that gets me every time. The one that slips past all my defenses like they're made of paper instead of razor wire.

"Fine," I mutter, stepping into the room. "But make it quick. I'm about to fall over."

Rhett follows me in, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds final in the quiet room. I ease myself onto the edge of the bed, grimacing as pain shoots through my hip.

"Need help?" he asks, hovering awkwardly by the door.

"I can manage my own pants, Calloway," I snap, but there's no real heat behind it.

I fumble with the button of my jeans, fingers clumsy with exhaustion. The denim is stiff with dried blood, and every tug sends fresh pain shooting through my hip. I grit my teeth, refusing to make a sound.

Rhett watches me struggle for about ten seconds before he sighs. "For fuck's sake, Willow."

He crosses the room in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of me. His hands gently push mine away, taking over the task with practiced efficiency. There's nothing sexual about it—just the careful movements of someone who's had to patch up injuries in the field more times than he can count.

"Lift," he murmurs, and I brace my weight on my hands, raising my hips just enough for him to ease the denim down my legs.

The bandage covering my wound is stark white against my skin, except for a small bloom of red at the center where blood has seeped through. Rhett's breath catches when he sees it, his fingers hovering over the gauze without touching.

"Fuck, Willow," he whispers, his voice rough with something I don't want to name. "That bull could have killed you."

"But it didn't," I say, trying for lightness and failing miserably. "I'm too stubborn to die."

His eyes meet mine, all that cocky bravado stripped away, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its place. "Don't joke about that. Not tonight."

The air between us shifts, charged with all the things we never say. In the yellow glow of the cheap hotel lamp, Rhett looks younger somehow—more like the boy I fell for years ago rather than the man who continues to break my heart.

“Ok.” I murmur.

Rhett reaches down in my and pulls out the bottle of medicine. He unscrews the cap and shakes two pills into his palm, his fingers brushing mine as he transfers them. "Take these. Doctor's orders."

"Since when do you follow orders?" I ask, but I swallow the pills dry, wincing at the bitter taste.

Rhett stands and disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, the sound oddly comforting in the quiet room. He returns with a damp washcloth and the first aid kit I always keep in my bag.

"Lie back," he says, his voice gentle but leaving no room for argument.

I ease myself onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as Rhett carefully peels back the edge of the bandage. His touch is feather-light, but I still hiss when the adhesive pulls at my tender skin.

"Sorry," he murmurs, his breath warm against my hip.

"Shh," I whisper, my eyes fixed on the water stain on the ceiling that looks vaguely like Texas. "Just do it."

Rhett works in silence, his movements methodical as he cleans around the edges of the wound. The washcloth is cool against my fevered skin, a small mercy that makes my breath catch. His fingers are calloused from years of rope burns and reins, but they move with surprising gentleness across my hip.

"This is gonna sting," he warns before pressing an antiseptic wipe to the reddened skin around my stitches.

I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, but a small gasp escapes anyway. Rhett's eyes flick to mine, concern etched in the lines of his face.

"Almost done," he promises, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me more effectively than any painkiller.

He unwraps a fresh bandage, his brow furrowed in concentration as he positions it over my stitches. His fingers brush against my skin with each movement, sending little electric currents that have nothing to do with pain dancing up my spine.

"There," he says finally, smoothing the last piece of medical tape into place. "Should hold till morning."

Neither of us moves. His hand rests on my thigh, warm and steady, while my heart hammers against my ribs loud enough that I'm certain he can hear it. The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we never say.

"You scared the shit out of me today," Rhett finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "When you jumped that fence... Christ, Willow.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rhett stands up, gently taking my face into his rough calloused hands. "Watching you run out there, seeing that bull clip you... I thought—"

He stops, swallowing hard, the muscles in his jaw working.

I lean up, softly placing my lips against his. His lips are warm against mine, familiar yet somehow new every time. The kiss is gentle at first, a tentative reconnection after months of careful distance. But then his hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head like I'm something precious, and the careful restraint we've both been clinging to shatters like glass.

I gasp against his mouth as he deepens the kiss, my hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. The pain in my hip fades to background noise, overwhelmed by the heat blooming everywhere his body touches mine.

"Willow," he breathes against my lips, my name a prayer and a curse all at once. "No. Not tonight.”

I pull back and pout, making Rhett chuckle.

“As much as I would love to, you need actual sleep and your brother would kill me.”

“Psh, Knox won’t know,”

Rhett just shakes his head as he laughs. “Take a shower. Get some sleep.”

He stands and helps me to my feet, steadying me when I sway slightly. The pain meds are starting to kick in, wrapping my thoughts in cotton wool, making everything soft around the edges. Rhett guides me to the bathroom doorway, his hand a warm anchor at the small of my back.

"You good from here?" he asks, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.

"Not my first rodeo," I murmur, earning a ghost of a smile.

"Goodnight, Wills. Yell if you need anything."