Page 25

"I'll stand guard outside," Weston offers, like he's volunteering for some noble duty.

"How generous of you," I mutter, draining my coffee.

"Better be," Colt grumbles. "These assholes are playing for keeps."

Kade leans toward the phone. "We're calling you before we head into the arena. Weston, Logan, and I are up today."

"Fuck," Colt exhales. "Be careful. All of you. I'll be watching the livestream."

The weight of what we're facing settles over the table. We're not just fighting for points anymore. This is about survival.

"We got this," Weston says, more confident than any of us feel. "Just another day on the circuit."

We finish breakfast and pile back into our trucks. Rhett drives with me riding shotgun, the others following close behind. His hand finds mine on the center console, squeezing gently.

"You good?" he asks, eyes never leaving the road.

"Getting there."

The arena looms ahead, a hulking beast of metal and concrete waiting to swallow us whole. My stomach knots as we pull into the parking lot. Yesterday, this place was just another stop on the circuit. Today, it feels like walking into enemy territory.

"Remember," Rhett says as he kills the engine, "we stick together."

I nod, squeezing his hand once before letting go. "Let's do this."

The guys form a tight circle around me as we make our way inside, their bodies a human shield against whatever might be waiting. I should feel smothered by their protectiveness, but today, I'm grateful for it.

The arena buzzes with pre-competition energy—riders stretching, stock contractors checking their animals, officials making last-minute preparations. I scan faces as we walk, looking for Marcus or anyone who might be working with him.

"Willow Hayes!" The booming voice makes me freeze. Turning, I see Mitch Hamilton, the event organizer, barreling toward us with a clipboard in hand. "Got a minute?"

Rhett steps slightly in front of me, his stance casual but his shoulders tense. "What's up, Mitch?"

Mitch's eyes dart between us, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before he plasters on his professional smile. "Just wanted to check in after yesterday's... incident. Heard you had some trouble, Willow."

The way he says "trouble" makes my skin crawl. How much does he know? Is he part of this?

"I'm fine," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Ready to support my boys today."

Mitch nods, but his eyes linger on the way I'm favoring my right side. "Good to hear. The fans love seeing you folks all together. Really drives home that core value of family!”

His fake cheeriness makes my stomach turn. Family. Like this circuit is just one big happy reunion.

"Thanks for your concern," Rhett says, his voice a dangerous kind of politeness. "We should get going. Boys need to prep."

Mitch holds up a hand. "Actually, there's been a schedule change. Wanted to let you know personally." He flips through his clipboard. "Logan's been moved up to the first slot. Forty-five minutes from now."

Logan stiffens beside me. "That's not right. I was in the afternoon bracket."

"Last-minute change." Mitch shrugs, not meeting our eyes. "TV wants the big names spread out. Better for ratings."

Bullshit. This reeks of setup.

"That doesn't give me much time to prepare," Logan points out, his drawl thickening the way it does when he's pissed. "I should have at least been notified last night."

"Sorry about that." Mitch doesn't sound sorry at all. "These things happen. You know how it is."

I exchange a look with Rhett, seeing my own suspicion mirrored in his eyes. This is no coincidence.

"We'll be ready," Jace says firmly, stepping forward. "Thanks for the heads up, Mitch."

Mitch nods, already backing away. "Good luck out there today, boys."

We watch him scurry off, the tension in our little circle thick enough to cut.

"That's not right," Weston mutters. "They never change the draw order last minute without at least telling the riders."

Logan runs a hand through his hair, his usual easy confidence replaced by something darker. "This feels like a setup."

"It is," mumbles Knox. “But we buck up and keep going. Let’s go.”

"They're trying to throw us off our game," Rhett says, his jaw tight. "Rushing Logan, hoping he'll make a mistake."

Logan's eyes narrow, that dangerous gleam I've seen a thousand times before lighting up. Nothing fires him up like someone trying to screw him over. "Well, they picked the wrong cowboy to mess with."

"Let's get you ready," Kade says, clapping Logan on the shoulder. "Extra warm-up, extra focus."

We move as a unit toward the prep area, the guys forming a protective circle around me that would be annoying if I didn't know how necessary it was. My side throbs with each step, a constant reminder of what's at stake.

The holding area is a flurry of activity—riders stretching, adjusting gear, getting in the zone. Logan immediately starts his preparation routine, pulling on his riding glove and flexing his fingers.

Jace gathers us all in a circle to say the prayer. Logan bows his head, and we all follow suit, our hands linked. It's a ritual as familiar as breathing—the moment of quiet before the chaos.

"Lord, keep us safe today," Jace begins, his voice steady. "Guide our hands, steady our hearts, and protect our bodies from harm."

I squeeze Rhett's hand on one side and Knox's on the other, drawing strength from them as much as from the prayer.

"Watch over Logan, Weston, and Kade as they ride today. Give them the strength and focus they need."

Jace pauses, and I can feel the shift in the air, the unspoken addition to our usual prayer.

"And Lord, give us the wisdom to see through deception and the courage to face whatever comes our way. Amen."

"Amen," we echo, the word hanging in the air like a promise.

Logan rolls his shoulders, his mouth set in a hard line. "Let's do this."

I watch as he checks his rope one more time, his movements precise despite the rushed timeline. Weston and Kade hover nearby, offering quiet advice and encouragement.

"You got this, Blaze," Weston says, using Logan's arena name. "Just like we practiced."

The announcer's voice booms through the speakers, calling the first riders. Logan's name is first, just like Mitch said. My stomach knots as Logan gives us all one last look before heading toward the chutes.

"Be careful," I call after him. He turns, flashing that cocky grin that never quite reaches his eyes when he's nervous.

"Always am, darlin'."

We follow as close as we're allowed, positioning ourselves where we can see both Logan and the crowd. I scan faces, looking for Marcus or anyone else who might be targeting us. The crowd is thick today, faces blurring together in a sea of cowboy hats and team jerseys.

Rhett's hand rests on the small of my back, a warm anchor keeping me steady. "You see anything?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I shake my head, still scanning. "Not yet. But they're here somewhere. I can feel it."

The announcer's voice booms through the arena. "Up next, from Thunder Ridge, Oklahoma—Logan 'Blaze' Carter!"

The crowd erupts as Logan settles onto his bull, a massive black beast with wicked horns and a reputation for sending riders to the hospital. Even from here, I can see the tension in Logan's shoulders as he wraps his hand in the rope, nodding to the gate man.

"Come on, Logan.”

One of the bullfighters leans in and whispers something to Logan, causing his face to change. I can't hear what's said, but I can see the shift in his demeanor—a flicker of doubt, then something darker. Anger.

"Something's wrong," I mutter, stepping forward before Rhett's hand on my arm stops me.

"Wait," he says, his eyes locked on Logan.

The gate bursts open, and the bull explodes from the chute, twisting in the air before his hooves even hit dirt. Logan's body is a study in controlled chaos, moving with the bull's violent spins while keeping his free arm high.

One second. Two. Three.

The bull changes direction, a move so sudden it would unseat most riders. Logan compensates, but something's off. His timing is a fraction late, his balance shifting too far forward.

"Fuck," Knox breathes beside me.

At four seconds, Logan's hand comes loose from the rope, and he's airborne, his body a projectile hurling toward the ground. He hits hard, the impact making me flinch. The bull spins, hooves dangerously close to Logan's head as he scrambles to get his feet under him.

The bull fighters move in, distracting the bull while Logan staggers toward the fence. He's limping, but he's up, which is all that matters. The crowd groans in sympathy—four seconds isn't enough for points, not even close.

"What the fuck was that?" Kade hisses as we rush to meet Logan at the gate.

Logan's face is thunder as he yanks off his protective vest. "That asshole threatened me."

"Who? What did he say?" Rhett demands, scanning the arena for the bullfighter.

"Said if I didn't throw the ride, they'd make sure Willow ended up with more than torn stitches." The words come through gritted teeth as he yanks his glove off, throwing it to the ground.

Rhett's entire body goes rigid, his eyes scanning the arena. "Which one?"

Logan jerks his chin toward a bullfighter in a red vest, currently helping another rider. "Hat down low. Dark hair. Don't know his name."

Knox curses under his breath. "That's Tim Rawlins. He's new on the circuit."

"And apparently on Marcus's payroll," I mutter, the pieces clicking into place.

Logan yanks off his glove, throwing it into his gear bag with unnecessary force. "I had to choose between points and you getting hurt, Wills. It wasn't a fucking choice."

My stomach twists with guilt and something darker… Fury. These bastards are playing dirty, using me to get to the guys.

"You did the right thing," I tell him, even as rage burns in my chest. "But this ends now. I won't be used as leverage against you guys. Not again."

"Damn right it ends now," Rhett growls, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I'm going to have a little chat with Tim Rawlins."

Knox grabs his arm. "Not here. Too many witnesses."

"So we just let them get away with this shit?" Logan's voice rises, drawing a few curious glances from nearby riders.

"No," I say, stepping between them. "We're smarter than that. We finish the day, stick to the plan, and figure out who's behind all this."

Weston nods, already prepping for his own ride.

"But if he's up next, they'll just threaten him too," Logan points out, gesturing to Weston.

"Not if I go in knowing what to expect," Weston says, his voice eerily calm as he adjusts his gloves. The quiet intensity in his eyes is something I've only seen a few times before, usually right before someone gets their ass handed to them.

"What are you thinking?" I ask, studying his face.

"I'm thinking that if they want to play dirty, they picked the wrong cowboys to mess with." He tightens his chest protector with sharp, deliberate movements. "I'm not throwing away my ride. If that asshole threatens me, I'll use it."

Rhett's eyes narrow. "Use it how?"

"Evidence," Weston says simply. "My phone's in my pocket. Voice memo recording. Let them threaten me. I’m called Ghost for a reason.”

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Kade's face. "Fucking brilliant, West."

"It's risky," Knox warns, but I can see he's already on board. "If they catch you recording..."

"They won't," Weston says with that quiet confidence that's gotten us through more than one tight spot. "I've been gathering intel my whole life. This is what I do."

I study his face, the calculated calm in his eyes. There's a reason they call him Ghost—he moves through the world like a shadow, seeing everything while remaining unseen. If anyone can pull this off, it's him.

"Be careful," I say, gripping his arm. "These people are dangerous."

"So am I." He winks, but there's no humor in it. Just cold determination.

The announcer calls the next rider, and Weston gives us a nod before heading to the chute. We watch him go, a cold knot of dread and anticipation settling in my stomach. Rhett's arm slides around my waist, careful to avoid my injured side.

"You think this will work?" I murmur, leaning into him despite myself.

"If anyone can pull it off, it's West," he answers, his voice low and certain. "Man's like a damn shadow when he wants to be."

Watching Weston approach the chute feels different than watching Logan. There's a predatory grace to his movements, his usual swagger replaced by something more calculated. He's hunting now.

We position ourselves where we can see the chutes clearly. Sure enough, the same bullfighter—Tim—approaches Weston as he settles onto his bull. I can't hear what's said, but I see Weston's face change. Not with fear or anger like Logan, but with something else. Something more dangerous and calculated.

He nods once, the movement so slight it's barely perceptible. Then he wraps his hand, giving Tim a lazy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The gate opens, and Weston's bull—a massive red and white nightmare named Suicide Note—explodes into the arena.

The bull spins hard right immediately, a move that unseats many riders. But Weston moves with him, his body fluid, perfectly balanced. Two seconds. Three. The bull changes direction, bucking high, and still Weston stays centered, his free arm high.

Five seconds.

Six.

Seven.

The crowd is on its feet now, roaring as Weston makes it look easy. The bullfighter—Tim—circles close, his face a mask of panic as he realizes Weston isn't throwing the ride.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts. Weston dismounts with a flourish, landing on his feet like a cat before sprinting to safety. The bull spins, confused by the lack of a target, before the other bullfighters distract him.

Weston jogs over to us, his face flushed with triumph beneath the layer of arena dust.

"Got it," he says simply, patting his pocket where his phone is hidden. "Clear as day."

"Holy shit," Logan breathes, his earlier frustration temporarily forgotten. "That was fucking perfect, West."

"Let's hear it," Rhett says, leading us toward a quieter corner away from the crowd.

Weston pulls out his phone, glancing around to make sure no one's watching before hitting play. Tim's voice comes through clearly, despite the background noise of the arena.

"Throw the ride, Ghost, or your little girlfriend gets worse than a few torn stitches.”

Kade’s name is called next, and we all tense. The pattern's clear now—they're targeting each of our riders, one by one.

"You're up, cowboy," I say, grabbing Kade's arm. "They're going to try the same shit with you."

Kade's jaw tightens, his eyes flicking to Weston's phone. "Let them try."

"Be careful," I warn. "If they realize Weston recorded them, they might change tactics."

Rhett pulls Kade aside, speaking low and urgent. I can't hear what he's saying, but I see Kade nod, his expression hardening into something resolute and dangerous.

Kade walks toward the chutes, a determined look across his face.

I hold my breath as I watch Kade approach his bull—a fierce black beast called Tombstone. Tim circles the chute, but another bull fighter joins him this time. They're doubling up, probably realizing their plan is going sideways.

"Something's off," Rhett murmurs beside me, his body tensing. "Look at the bull."

I squint, studying Tombstone as Kade settles on his back. The bull's already agitated, thrashing against the chute in a way that's more violent than normal pre-ride behavior.

"They did something to him," I whisper, horror creeping up my spine. "That bull's been tampered with."

Rhett's already moving before I finish speaking, pushing through the crowd toward the chutes. But he's too late. Kade gives the nod, and the gate swings open.

Tombstone explodes from the chute like he's been shot from a cannon, his body twisting in the air with unnatural fury. This isn't normal bucking—this is rage, pain, something deliberately triggered.

"Jesus Christ," Logan breathes beside me.

Kade struggles to stay centered, his body jerking violently with each twist of the bull. The animal's movements are erratic, nothing like the patterns riders study and prepare for. This is chaos incarnate.

Three seconds in, Tombstone slams against the fence, nearly crushing Kade's leg. The crowd gasps. This isn't sport anymore—it's survival.

"Something's wrong with that bull," Weston mutters, already moving toward the fence. "They've done something to him."

Five seconds. Somehow, Kade's still holding on, his face a mask of determination and pain. Six seconds.

Tombstone suddenly rears up, nearly vertical, and then slams down with unnatural force. It's like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Kade's body snaps backward, his hand still caught in the rope as the bull twists again.

"Kade!" I scream, lunging forward only to be caught around the waist by Knox.

"Don't," he warns, his voice tight with fear. "You can't help him."

The bull fighters move in, but Tim hangs back, watching with an expression that makes my blood boil. This was planned. The other fighter tries to distract Tombstone, but the bull is beyond control, bucking and spinning with blind fury.

Seven seconds.

The buzzer's about to sound when Tombstone slams into the fence again. But Kade holds on.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer blares through the arena, but the victory is short-lived. Kade's hand is still caught in the rope as Tombstone continues his rampage. The bull spins violently, dragging Kade with him like a rag doll.

"He's hung up!" Weston shouts, already vaulting over the fence with Logan right behind him.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I watch Kade's body whip through the air, completely at the mercy of the enraged bull. The other bull fighters try to get close enough to free him, but Tombstone is too wild, too unpredictable.

I jump the fence, not caring about the fucking consequences.

Rhett is suddenly there with me, moving with the focused precision of someone who's done this a hundred times. He times his approach perfectly, darting in when Tombstone momentary pauses. His hands find the rope, working to free Kade’s trapped hand.

I search my pockets and find one lone peppermint. The other bullfighters start to rush toward us, but I put my hand up.

"I got this." I wave the peppermint, the bull's head turning toward me immediately. These animals are like oversized dogs sometimes—show them a treat, and they forget all about the chaos they're causing.

Tombstone snorts, momentarily distracted by the candy in my palm. “That’s right, big guy. Just look at me and this yummy treat. Just me and you.”

The bull's nostrils flare as he focuses on me, his massive head swinging in my direction. I can feel the guys tensing behind me, ready to pull me out of harm's way if Tombstone charges. But I've been around these animals my whole life. I know the language of their bodies, the subtle shifts that telegraph their next move.

"Easy boy," I murmur, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "That's it. Just focus on me."

From the corner of my eye, I see Rhett working frantically to free Kade's hand. Weston and Logan circle behind, ready to pull Kade clear the second he's loose. The crowd has gone deadly silent, the only sound is the heavy breathing of the bull and the soft murmur of my voice.

Tombstone takes a step toward me, his dark eyes locked on mine. “Just me and you. I’m gonna make sure those big bad men never hurt you again.”

I take another careful step forward, maintaining eye contact with the bull. I've worked with enough livestock to know that trust is built in these small moments of connection. Bulls aren't mindless rage machines—they're intelligent animals, and this one's been pushed beyond his limits.

"That's it," I coo, inching closer. "You're just scared, aren't you? They did something to you."

Behind me, I hear Rhett's urgent whisper. "Almost got it. Keep him steady, Wills."

Tombstone snorts again, his massive head lowering slightly. Not in aggression, but in curiosity. The peppermint in my palm is just sweet enough to override whatever they've done to agitate him.

"Good boy," I murmur, extending my hand a fraction closer. "Just a few more seconds."

I risk a glance at Kade. His face is ashen, his arm bent at an unnatural angle where it's still caught in the rope. He's conscious but his eyes wide with pain and fear.

"I got you, big boy," I whisper to Tombstone, taking another careful step forward until I'm close enough to touch his massive head. My hand trembles slightly as I offer the peppermint on my flat palm. "That's it."

The bull's lips tickle my hand as he takes the candy, momentarily distracted by the sweet treat. In that crucial moment of stillness, I hear Rhett's triumphant, "Got it!"

Kade's hand comes free from the rope, and Logan and Weston immediately drag him backward, away from danger. Tombstone jerks his head up at the sudden movement, but I keep his attention, my voice low and soothing.

"It's okay, buddy. It’s okay.”

I slowly walk backwards toward the gate leading to the stalls out back.

“There we go, just follow me.”

The bull follows me, still chewing his treat, seemingly confused but no longer enraged. The stock contractor rushes forward, a mixture of relief and anger on his weathered face.

"What the hell happened?" he demands, taking Tombstone's lead rope from me. "He's never been this aggressive."

"Someone tampered with him," I say flatly, my eyes finding Tim is retreating back as he tries to slip away unnoticed. "You might want to check him for injections or irritants."

The contractor's face darkens. "Who the fuck would do that? These are million dollar bulls. These are my babies.”

I can hear him getting choked up. These guys treat their bulls like royalty. Hell, they spend more money on the bulls than their damn selves.

Rhett rushes over, pulling me back toward our tent. Kade sits there, his arm cradled against his chest while Logan examines it, his face grim.

"How bad?" I ask, dropping to my knees beside them.

"Dislocated shoulder for sure," Logan answers, his fingers gently probing Kade's swollen joint. "Nice trick with the candy," he grits out. "Didn't know you were a bull whisperer."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, cowboy." I try to keep my tone light, but fear makes my voice shake. "That was too close."

I get to work on Kade, and confirm it’s just a dislocated shoulder. “Let’s get that bad boy back in and then sling ya.”

Jace nods. “Then right on the road. I’m not waitin’ around for something bad to happen again.”

Weston holds Kade still while I prepare to relocate his shoulder. I've done this more times than I can count. It’s a common injury around this crew.

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch," I warn him, positioning my hands.

"Just do it," Kade growls through clenched teeth, sweat beading on his forehead.

I count down. "One... two..." I snap his shoulder back into place before I hit three. Kade's whole body goes rigid, a strangled sound escaping his throat before he drops his head, breathing hard.

"Motherfucker," he hisses, but the relief is already visible on his face as the worst of the pain subsides.

"You're welcome," I mutter, helping position his arm into a matte black sling.

Levi and Jace have already packed everything up so we all load into the three trucks and make our way out.

Levi and Jace in one truck, Weston and Knox in another, while Rhett, Logan, Kade, and I all cram into another.

Kade leans his head back against the seat, his face pale beneath his tan. The painkillers I gave him are starting to kick in, his eyelids growing heavy.

Rhett puts his hand on my thigh as we pull onto the highway.

“Rest, Wills. You did good.”

I nod and let my eyes slowly close…