Page 21

M y alarm blares and I slowly roll out of bed, groaning as my muscles ache with every move I make. Not as bad as Colt, but enough to remind me I'm alive.

I pop two ibuprofen and let the hot shower steam away the stiffness. Today's another day on the circuit. Another chance to watch the crew ride, to feel that familiar fear crawl up my spine when they climb into the chute.

I throw my shit on and head out the door, right for Willow’s hotel room. I can’t help myself as my hand hovers above it, not sure if I should knock or not.

Knox comes out of his room next to hers, a scowl on his face already.

"Morning, sunshine," I drawl, watching his eyes narrow.

"Razor." Knox's voice could freeze hell over. "Thought we had an understanding."

I drop my hand from Willow's door, turning to face him fully. Six-foot-something of pure hostility in worn Levi's and a button-down.

"Just checking on her. Same as you."

"Right." He steps closer, drops his voice. "Listen carefully. She's been through enough."

"You think I don't know that?" The words come out sharper than I intend.

We stand there, two bulls sizing each other up in a too-small hallway. Old wounds, fresh tension. The history between us stretches back years—before I left, before everything went to shit.

"She's not the same girl you walked out on," Knox says.

"Nobody's the same," I counter. “I’m sure as fuck not the same.”

"No, you're not." Knox shifts his weight, his jaw working like he's chewing on words he's not sure he wants to spit out. "You left all of us hanging. Not just her."

The truth of it hits like a sucker punch. I fucked up, and not just with Willow. The Savage Eight used to be tight—brothers in everything but blood. Until I bailed.

"I know," I admit, the words acid on my tongue. "I fucked up with all of you. I left you all, not just Willow."

Something in Knox's face shifts, barely perceptible. Not forgiveness—we're miles from that—but recognition. We've both been circling this conversation for days.

"You got some nerve showing up like nothing happened."

"Never said nothing happened." I lean against the wall, feigning a casual stance my racing pulse betrays. “I… I owe you all a lot of apologies.”

Knox's eyes narrow, studying me like I'm a bull he can't quite read. "Starting with an explanation might be nice."

"I was fucked up back then." I run a hand through my hair, still damp from the shower. "Lost myself for a while."

"For two years?" His voice is steel.

I don't have a good answer for that. Truth is, I didn't have the balls to face what I'd done, to face her, to face any of them. So I ran. Kept running.

"I'm here now," is all I can offer.

Knox snorts. "Yeah, you are. And let me tell you, I heard what went down against my trailer the other night."

Heat crawls up my neck. Willow pressed against me, my hands in her hair, that desperate need between us that never quite died.

"I'm not sorry," I tell him, because I'm not. Not for that part.

“Just… don’t hurt her, Calloway. I’ll spend the rest of my days in fucking prison if I have to stitch my baby sister back up again.”

Before I can respond, Willow's door yanks open. She stands there in faded jeans and a worn flannel, hair still damp, her eyes moving between us with sharp intelligence.

"Will you two shut up?" she hisses, voice rough with sleep. "Some people don't need to hear your dick-measuring contest at seven in the morning."

Knox shifts, immediately softening. "How you feeling, Wills?"

I can't help my eyes scanning her for injuries. That bull yesterday came too damn close, and the memory makes my chest tight. She could have been in the hospital with Colt…

"I'm fine." She crosses her arms, wincing slightly when she moves.

"Bullshit," I say, stepping closer. "Let me see."

Her eyes flash. "I said I'm fine, Rhett."

"Willow—" Knox starts.

"Both of you need to fuck off. I’m the damn medic.”

I can't help but grin at that, watching her stand there all five-foot-nothing of pure stubbornness. The morning light catches in her damp hair, turning it to liquid copper. Even pissed off, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"We're heading to check on Colt before the show," Knox says, wisely changing the subject. "You coming?"

Willow's face softens. "Of course I am. Give me five minutes."

She disappears back into her room, door clicking shut. Knox and I stand in awkward silence, the truce between us fragile as spun glass.

"She favoring that hip?" Knox asks quietly.

I nod. "Cleaned it last night and made her take the meds the ER Doc prescribed her. She won’t admit that though."

"Never does." It slips out with too much familiarity, and Knox's eyes narrow again.

Five minutes stretches to fifteen before Willow emerges, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, medical bag slung over her shoulder. I know that bag—packed with everything from athletic tape to prescription-strength painkillers. She's limping, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it.

I am. Always looking.

"Ready?" she asks, all business.

The hospital room is filled with the Savage Eight when we arrive. Levi's leaning against the wall, thumbing through his Bible. Weston and Kade play some bullshit card game on Colt's rolling table while Logan paces by the window. The room smells like antiseptic and dirty bull riders.

Colt looks better than yesterday, which isn't saying much. His face is fifty shades of purple and green, tubes coming out of his arm. But he's grinning like an idiot when we walk in.

"There she is," he calls out to Willow. "My favorite nurse."

"I'm not a nurse," she corrects, but there's a smile tugging at her lips. She moves to his side, checking the monitors.

"Not a nurse, just my guardian angel," Colt shoots back, wincing as he shifts in the bed. "Better bedside manner than these assholes."

"Shut up and let me check your vitals," Willow says, but there's no heat in it. Her fingers are gentle as she takes his pulse, professional and efficient.

"Fuck off, Walker," Logan laughs, abandoning his pacing to push off the window. "We've been entertaining your sorry ass all morning."

"Some entertainment," Colt wheezes, then coughs. His face twists with pain, and I see Willow's hand immediately reach for his pulse. Always on duty.

The way the crew defers to her—it's like watching a queen with her court. They might be the ones who conquer bulls, but she's the one who puts their broken pieces back together.

"Your stats look good," she murmurs, checking his chart. "Pain level?"

"Three," Colt lies.

"Bullshit," we all say in unison, and the room erupts in laughter.

Willow rolls her eyes, already pulling something from her medical bag. "Try again, and don't be a hero. I'll adjust your meds."

"Fine. Seven," Colt admits, and I see her face soften.

"Thought so." She chuckles.

"They're letting me watch the show on the TV," Colt says, his eyes brightening despite the pain. "Told them I'd rip these tubes out myself if they didn't."

"You'll do no such thing," Willow warns, but there's a softness in her voice.

The hospital room feels too damn small with all of us crammed inside, but nobody's leaving. That's how we've always been—the Savage Eight sticks together, especially when one of us is down.

"Gonna be weird competing without your ugly mug at the chutes," Knox says, but there's affection beneath the jab.

"Y'all better put on a hell of a show for me." Colt's eyes move around the room, landing on each rider. "Who's up today?"

"Me, Weston, Kade, and Logan," Levi answers, rolling his shoulders like he's already feeling the strain of what's coming.

Colt nods, satisfaction written across his battered face. "Good. Solid lineup."

"We'll tear it up for you," Kade promises, shoving the cards back into his pocket. "Maybe not as pretty as you would, but—"

"But with fewer broken bones," Weston finishes, and Colt flips him off with his IV-free hand.

I hang back, still feeling like the outsider I am. Two years is a long time to be gone. Watching them together—the easy rhythm, the shorthand communication—makes my chest ache with what I threw away.

Willow catches my eye from across the room. Something passes between us, quick as lightning. Recognition. Memory. That pull that's always been there.

"Alright, you degenerates," she announces, checking her watch. "We need to get to the arena. Be nice to the nurses, Colt.”

"They're already sweet on me," Colt grins, though it looks painful with his busted lip. "Nurse Becky snuck me extra pudding."

"Course she did," Willow mutters, but she's smiling as she packs up her bag.

Colt reaches out, his battered hand trembling slightly as he gestures for us to come closer. The room falls silent. Even the beeping monitors seem to quiet down as we form a tight circle around his hospital bed. The smell of antiseptic mingles with the leather and sweat that follows us everywhere—the scent of the rodeo embedded in our skin, our clothes, our very being.

"Ain't much for fancy words," Colt says, his voice rougher than usual. "But I figure we need all the help we can get."

His eyes close, purple-bruised lids shuttering, and I find my own eyes closing too. Habit, maybe. Respect, definitely. I feel Willow's warmth beside me, the slight brush of her arm against mine as we stand shoulder to shoulder in this sterile room that suddenly feels sacred.

“Lord," Colt begins, his voice cracking slightly. "Watch over these sorry sons of bitches today. Keep 'em steady in the chute and strong on the back. Eight seconds ain't long for you, but it's a lifetime for us. Amen."

"Amen," echoes around the circle, and I find myself saying it too, the word rusty on my tongue.

"Go get 'em, boys," Colt calls as we file out. His voice follows us down the hall, weakened but still carrying that Wildcard swagger. "Ride like you stole 'em!"

T he arena thrums with energy that hits me the moment we walk in. It's alive—breathing, pulsing, electric. The smell of dirt and livestock and leather sweat wraps around me like an old, familiar blanket. This place—these smells, these sounds—they're in my blood.

We head to our tent and trailers, the guys who are riding gearing up.

I watch Willow moving between them, checking wraps, offering quiet words I can't hear. They lean into her presence like plants to the sun. She's always been the heart of this crew, even when I was too stupid to see it.

"Riders meeting in five," someone calls, and the energy in the tent ratchets up another notch.

Jace steps to the center of our circle. “Bring it in, boys.”

We all circle up, heads bowed once again. But this time I feel Willow’s hand in mine and can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face.

Jace's deep voice cuts through the pre-show chaos. "Lord, we ask for your protection today. Keep these bulls honest and these riders safe." His eyes stay open during the prayer, scanning the faces of his men. "Guide their hands and keep their asses in the saddle. Amen."

"Amen," rumbles through our circle.

The announcer's voice booms over the speakers, the familiar cadence of the opening ceremony washing over us. Prayer. National anthem. Sponsor shout-outs. The crowd roaring as the first riders are introduced.

Weston's up first. I can feel Willow tensing beside me as we watch him check his rope, roll his shoulders back. The ritual every rider has, those last precious seconds before climbing onto fifteen hundred pounds of pure hate.

"He drew Nightshade," I murmur to Willow.

"I know," she says, her voice tight. "Spinning left, drops his head at six seconds."

Of course she knows. She keeps track of every bull, every rider's stats. While the rest of us are throwing back beers after a show, she's reviewing footage, studying patterns. Always preparing for the worst.

Weston nods to the gate man. The chute opens. Nightshade explodes into the arena in a fury of muscle and dirt.

Beside me, Willow's breath catches.

I can't help counting in my head. One, two, three—Weston's moving fluid with the bull, his free arm high. Four, five—Nightshade drops his head right on cue, trying to throw Weston forward. Six, seven—

The buzzer sounds and Weston launches himself off, landing hard but on his feet. The bullfighters move in seamlessly, drawing Nightshade away. 84 points flashes on the board.

"Good ride," I say, glancing at Willow. She's already scanning Weston for injuries as he jogs toward us, that professional assessment that never turns off.

"Felt clean," Weston says, grinning as he climbs over the fence. His chest heaves with exertion, but his eyes are bright with that post-ride high. "That bull's got a mean streak, though."

"They all do," I say, watching as Willow checks his ribs with quick, practiced movements.

"You're good," she tells him, satisfied. "No shifting, no tenderness."

Weston winks at her. "Told you. Clean ride."

Kade's already at the chute, straddling the metal bars as he lowers himself onto Deathwish. The bull's massive shoulders twitch beneath him, muscles rippling with barely contained violence. The animal knows what's coming.

"Deathwish is restless today," I murmur, and Willow's head snaps toward the chute.

"Shit," she whispers, her copper hair catching the arena lights as she moves closer to the fence. "He likes to rear in the chute."

As if hearing her, the bull slams upward, nearly crushing Kade against the top rail. But Kade's ready, shifting his weight back just in time.

"Come on, come on," Willow murmurs beside me, and I find myself inching closer to her, our shoulders almost touching.

Kade nods, and the gate swings open. Deathwish launches into the arena like he's been shot from a cannon, immediately dropping his head and spinning hard right. Kade's body rolls with the motion, his movements fluid but determined.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand...

The crowd roars as Kade stays centered, his free arm high. Four seconds in, Deathwish changes direction, a move that unseats most riders. Kade adjusts, barely, his body tilting dangerously to the left before he recovers.

Six one-thousand, seven one-thousand...

The buzzer blares, and Kade's off, landing in a crouch that sends dirt flying. The bullfighters dart in, drawing Deathwish's attention as Kade scrambles to safety. 86.5 flashes on the board, and our section erupts.

"Fuck yeah!" Knox shouts, pumping his fist.

Willow's shoulders relax by a fraction, but I notice her hands are still clenched at her sides. She's like this during every ride—coiled tight, ready to spring into action if something goes wrong. I've seen her vault fences faster than the bullfighters when one of our guys goes down.

"You doing okay?" I ask, leaning close enough that my breath stirs the fine hairs at her temple.

She glances at me, surprised. "Yeah. Why?"

"Knuckles are white."

She looks down at her hands like she's never seen them before, flexes her fingers consciously.

"Force of habit," she mutters, but doesn't pull away when I brush my knuckles against hers. A small victory.

Logan's up next, and I can feel the tension building again in her body. The announcer's voice booms through the arena, hyping the crowd as Logan settles onto Lucifer's Pride, a mean-spirited black bull with a reputation for sending riders to the hospital.

"This one's a bastard," I say under my breath.

"Threw his last six riders," Willow confirms, already shifting into position for a better view. Her medical bag sits ready by her feet, a constant reminder of what can go wrong in eight seconds.

The gate swings open, and Lucifer's Pride erupts into the arena like his namesake—all fury and malice packed into sixteen hundred pounds of muscle. Logan's body jerks with the first buck, but he recovers quickly, finding his rhythm as the bull spins tight to the right.

"Stay centered," I mutter, like he can hear me. Beside me, Willow's gone completely still, her breathing shallow.

Three seconds in, Lucifer's Pride changes tactics, switching to a hard left spin that's thrown every rider who's drawn him this season. Logan anticipates it, shifting his weight just enough to stay balanced.

Five seconds. Six.

"Come on, come on," Willow whispers, the words a prayer.

Seven seconds. The bull throws in a wicked body roll that nearly sends Logan flying, but somehow he hangs on, his free arm flailing before finding its rhythm again. The buzzer sounds, and Logan launches himself clear, landing in a stumbling roll that has Willow tensing beside me.

But he's up, grinning like a madman through the dirt on his face. The scoreboard flashes: 88.5.

"Holy shit," I breathe, genuinely impressed. "That's the highest score on Lucifer's Pride all season."

Willow's shoulders drop a fraction, but her eyes are already scanning Logan as he jogs toward us, looking for any hitches in his movement, any signs of hidden injury.

"You good?" she asks the second he's within earshot.

"Never better," Logan laughs, though he's favoring his right ankle slightly. Nothing gets past Willow, who immediately points to the bench.

"Sit. Now."

Logan knows better than to argue. He drops onto the bench while Willow crouches down to check his ankle. Her fingers move with practiced efficiency, probing and assessing as Logan winces.

"Just rolled it a little on the dismount," he says, but I catch the slight tightness around his eyes.

"Doesn't look swollen," Willow mutters, more to herself than to us. "Any sharp pain when I do this?" She rotates his ankle gently.

"Nah. Just sore."

She nods, already pulling an elastic bandage from her endless medical bag. "Wrap it tight, ice it tonight. No showing off for the buckle bunnies."

"Yes, ma'am," Logan says with a mock salute, but the relief in his eyes is real. In this world, a rolled ankle is nothing—a blessing, even. We've all seen worse. Much worse.

I watch Willow's hands as she wraps Logan's ankle, her movements quick and sure. Even in this chaos, she's steady as a heartbeat. Something in my chest tightens, remembering all the times those same hands patched me up. She'd curse me out the whole time, but her touch would stay gentle.

Levi's up last, and I feel Willow tense again beside me. She finishes with Logan and stands, her eyes already locked on the chute where Levi's settling onto Satan's Prayer—a massive red bull with a reputation for violence that makes even seasoned riders nervous.

"That bull's a nightmare," I mutter, moving closer to her without thinking.

"Threw Knox last season," she says, voice tight. "Broke three ribs."

I remember. I wasn't here, but I saw the footage—watched it obsessively in some shitty motel room.

Levi looks over from the chute, his eyes finding us in the crowd. His gaze drops to where I'm standing next to Willow, too close for just friends. When he notices my hand hovering near hers, he gives a slight nod—permission, understanding, something I don't deserve but take anyway.

I reach for Willow's hand. She flinches, almost pulls away, but then her fingers slowly intertwine with mine. Her palm is cool against mine, slightly calloused from years of wrapping injuries and hauling medical gear.

"He'll be okay," I murmur, though I have no right to make that promise.

Satan's Prayer shifts violently in the chute, forcing Levi to readjust his grip. The bull's massive shoulders bunch beneath him, muscles rippling with barely contained fury. These animals aren't just athletes—they're forces of nature with horns and hooves that can shatter bone in an instant.

Levi's eyes close briefly—his own silent prayer—before he nods sharply at the gate man. The chute flies open, and Satan's Prayer explodes into the arena with a violence that makes the crowd gasp.

One-thousand one.

The bull launches straight up, all four hooves leaving the ground. Levi's body jolts but stays centered, his free arm high.

One-thousand two.

Satan's Prayer twists mid-air, landing with a sideways jerk that would unseat most riders. Levi rolls with it, his body fluid yet controlled.

One-thousand three.

Willow's hand tightens in mine, her nails digging into my palm. I barely feel it, my entire focus on the dance of death unfolding in the arena.

One-thousand four.

The bull switches directions, a brutal spin to the left that has Levi leaning hard into it. Satan's Prayer bucks higher, trying to throw his center of gravity.

One-thousand five.

Willow's breath catches. I can feel the tension vibrating through her, into me. We're connected by more than just our hands now—by fear, by hope, by that collective prayer every rider's family knows.

One-thousand six.

Satan's Prayer throws in a wicked body roll, dropping his head and twisting. Levi's free arm windmills for a split second before finding balance again. I feel Willow's grip tighten to the point of pain.

One-thousand seven.

The bull rears, front hooves pawing air, and slams back down with bone-jarring force.

One-thousand eight.

The buzzer sounds just as Satan's Prayer makes one final, vicious twist. Levi launches himself clear, but his dismount's all wrong—he's airborne too long, too horizontal. My heart stops as he hits the dirt hard, rolling once before scrambling to his feet as the bullfighters rush in.

"Fuck," Willow whispers, her hand slipping from mine as she grabs her medical bag.

But Levi's up, limping slightly but moving under his own power toward the fence. The crowd roars as his score flashes: 89. Top of the goddamn leaderboard.

Willow's already at the gate when he climbs through, her eyes scanning him with clinical precision. "Where?" is all she asks.

"Ribs. Left side." Levi's breathing is controlled but shallow. "Just landed wrong."

She guides him to the bench where Logan sat minutes before, her hands already moving to his vest. Around us, the rest of the crew circles like protective wolves, blocking the cameras and curious eyes. This part's sacred—the aftermath, the assessment, the quiet determination of just how bad it is.

"Take a deep breath for me," Willow instructs, her fingers probing gently at Levi's side. Her face betrays nothing, but I see the slight tightening of her jaw.

Levi inhales, wincing halfway through. "Just bruised," he says, but we all know that's bullshit. Nobody wants to be the next Colt, stuck in a hospital bed while the circuit moves on.

"Maybe," Willow allows, still pressing along his ribs. "No obvious displacement, but we'll need X-rays to be sure."

"Not broken," she says after a moment, relief evident in her voice. "Bruised, maybe a slight separation, but nothing's shifting."

"Told you," Levi says, but the tension in his jaw betrays the pain he's in.

"Don't be a hero," she mutters, already rummaging in her bag. She pulls out a roll of KT tape and some kind of cream. "This'll help with the stability and swelling."

I watch as Willow works her magic, taping Levi's ribs with quick, practiced movements. Her face is all concentration, copper hair falling across her cheek as she leans in. There's something intimate about it—not sexual, but sacred. The trust these men put in her hands.

"Hold still," she murmurs, securing the last piece of tape. "And don't even think about celebrating too hard tonight."

Levi grins through the pain. "Yes, ma'am."

"Better?" she asks when she's done.

Levi takes an experimental breath, deeper this time. "Yeah. Thanks, Doc."

"I'm not a doctor," she corrects automatically, the same way she corrects Colt about being a nurse.

"Closest thing we got," Kade says, clapping Levi on his uninjured shoulder. "Hell of a ride, man."

The arena buzzes around us as scores are tallied, the next group of riders getting ready. But right here, in our little circle of chaos, it feels like we've carved out something almost peaceful.

I catch Willow's eye as she packs up her supplies. Something passes between us—acknowledgment, maybe. A shared moment of relief that we've made it through another round without ambulances.

"Good work today," I say, keeping my voice casual.

She shrugs, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Just doing my job."

"You do it better than anyone else in the circuit."

She actually looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a second, I see a flash of the girl I fell for years ago. Before I fucked everything up.

"You held my hand," she says quietly, so the others can't hear.

"You let me.”

She doesn't deny it. Just studies me with those eyes that have always seen right through my bullshit.

"I did," she finally says, zipping her medical bag closed. "Doesn't mean anything."

But we both know it's a lie. Her hand in mine felt like coming home after wandering lost for years. Like finding something I'd forgotten how badly I needed.

"If you say so, darlin'."

She grins as I move closer. “Play your cards right, cowboy…”

The noise of the arena swells around us as the announcer calls the scores. Our boys have dominated the leaderboard. The Savage Eight is back on top, even with Colt sidelined.

Knox appears beside us, slapping Levi on his good shoulder. "Fucking beautiful, man. Satan's Prayer hasn't been ridden in six events."

The celebration builds as we pack our things up.

The rest of the crew surrounds us, whooping and hollering. Weston breaks out the lucky flask he keeps tucked in his boot—strictly against regulation, but nobody gives a shit right now. Levi takes a long pull before passing it to Knox.

"To Levi's giant brass balls," Logan toasts, and the guys erupt in laughter.

I watch Willow watching them, a small smile playing on her lips. There's a fierceness to her joy when the boys do well—like a mama bear whose cubs just learned to hunt. It hits me in the chest, seeing her like this. How much I missed while I was gone.

Knox passes the flask to her, and she takes a small sip, wincing at the burn. When she offers it to me, our fingers brush. Another small connection, another thread being rewoven.

"To the Savage Eight," I say, raising the flask. The words feel right in my mouth for the first time since I've been back. "All of us."

My eyes find Willow's as I take a pull of whatever rotgut Weston's smuggled in this time. She doesn't look away.

The burn hits my throat, but it's nothing compared to the heat in her gaze. Something's changed today—shifted between us like tectonic plates. I'm not fool enough to think it means forgiveness, but it's a start and I plan on not fuckin’ it up this time around.