Page 31

T he glass may be swept up, but the tension still cuts sharper than any shard ever could.

I can feel it crackling in the air like static electricity before a storm. The guys are on edge, twitchy as hell, checking their phones every thirty seconds like they expect more bad news to materialize on the screen.

The hotel moved us to a different suite on a higher floor this time.

"For fuck's sake, Logan, if you check that notification one more time, I'm gonna throw your phone in the toilet," Knox growls from across the hotel room.

Weston chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Cut him some slack. We're all a little jumpy."

I'm perched on the edge of the bed, cleaning my boots with more attention than they probably deserve, but it keeps my hands busy while my mind races.

"We leave at six tomorrow," I announce, crossing my arms over my chest. "Early morning drive means we need to get on the road by dawn. Devil's Fork is a six-hour haul."

"Great, more quality time in a truck that smells like Levi's protein shakes," Rhett mutters, sprawled across the couch, one arm slung over his eyes. Even with half his face hidden, I can feel his gaze tracking me.

I ignore the flutter in my stomach. Inconvenient fucking attraction.

"We need to be on watch," I continue, pulling out my phone to show them the Airbnb listing. "I've booked us under the name Sarah Johnson. Place has a barn big enough to hide our rigs so nobody can track us by our vehicles."

Knox raises an eyebrow. "Sarah Johnson? Creative."

"Basic is better. Nobody looks twice at the basics." I look over at Rhett, challenging him to argue with me about this, too. But he just gives me that slow, infuriating smirk that makes me want to either slap him or climb on top of him. Maybe both.

"Whatever you say, boss lady," he drawls, the words dripping with sarcasm. "You're the one with all the answers."

One by one, exhaustion wins out over anxiety, and the guys start dropping like flies. Logan passes out first, phone still clutched in his hand like it's a lifeline. Then Weston, who tries to act tough but starts snoring softly in the armchair by the window. Levi and the others follow suit, sprawling across whatever furniture they can claim.

Rhett is asleep, his head on my lap and his arms wrapped around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll float away.

I've set up a rotation for night watch, but I'm not planning on sleeping much anyway. My body's wired despite having been up since 4 a.m., adrenaline still pumping through my veins like liquid fire.

"You should get some rest," Knox says, his voice low enough not to wake the others. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like a sentinel in the shadows. "I can take first watch."

"Not tired," I mutter, which is both a lie and the truth at the same time.

Knox gives me that look that sees too much, the one that makes me feel like he's reading the thoughts I haven't even formed yet. He slides down next to me, careful not to disturb Rhett.

"You can bullshit the others, Willow, but not me." His voice is gravel-rough, barely audible over Rhett's steady breathing. "I know that thousand-yard stare."

I trace my fingers absently through Rhett's hair, watching the way his face softens in sleep. It's the only time he ever looks peaceful, when he's not busy being an insufferable pain in my ass.

"Just thinking about the note," I lie.

"Bullshit."

I shoot Knox a glare, but it bounces right off him. That's the problem with someone who's known you since before you learned how to hide—they see right through the walls.

I exhale slowly, the air feeling thick as molasses in my lungs. "Fine. It's not the note."

"Talk to me," Knox says, his voice gentle in a way he reserves for midnight conversations and broken bones.

"It's just..." I pause, searching for words that don't sound pathetic. "The window shattering. It brought back stuff."

Knox nods, patient as always. He knows what I'm talking about without me having to spell it out. The crash of breaking glass, the shouting that always followed. Dad coming home late, drunk and mean as a rattlesnake.

"Mom used to hide us in the closet," I whisper, the memory rising unbidden. "Remember? That tiny linen closet that smelled like mothballs and her cheap perfume."

"I remember," Knox says, his jaw tight. "You'd sing to me. That old hymn my mama taught you.”

A faint smile crosses my face. “I'll Fly Away. by Albert E. Brumley”

"The old man hated that song," Knox says with a bitter laugh. "Said it was for weak people who couldn't face reality."

"Yeah, well, Dad hated anything that gave us comfort." I shift slightly, careful not to wake Rhett. "Remember when he found your baseball cards? The ones Coach Miller gave you?"

Knox's eyes darken. "Burned every last one of them in the backyard. Made me watch."

"Said sports were for people too stupid to work." The memory tastes like ash in my mouth. "God, we were just kids."

Rhett stirs against my lap, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into sleep. His fingers twitch against my hip, and I find myself wondering what he's dreaming about.

"You ever think about how fucked up it is?" I whisper. "That we learned to sleep through screaming but wake up at the slightest rustle of a doorknob?" I trace the faint scar along my palm, a permanent reminder of the time I tried to block a bottle being thrown at Knox's head.

"Every damn day," Knox says. "It's why you're so good at this, you know. Being in charge, keeping everyone safe. You've been doing it since you were eight years old."

I snort softly. "Great career training. Dodging a drunk asshole prepares you for professional bull riding."

"And handling a team of stubborn cowboys." Knox nods toward Rhett. "Including that one."

My fingers are still in Rhett's hair. "He's... complicated."

"That's one word for it." Knox gives me a knowing look. "You two are like gasoline and matches. Always have been."

I feel heat creep up my neck. "I don't know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Knox softly laughs. "Right. And I don't know what I'm looking at right now, either." He gestures to where my fingers are still tangled in Rhett's hair.

"It's complicated," I repeat, more to myself than to Knox.

"Love usually is." His voice is soft but matter-of-fact, like he's commenting on the weather instead of dropping a bomb in the middle of our conversation.

"Who said anything about love?" The word comes out sharper than I intended, making Rhett stir again. I hold my breath until his breathing evens back out.

Knox just waits, patient as always. Damn him.

"I'm not..." I start, then stop, the words sticking in my throat. "We're not..."

Knox gives me a look that calls bullshit louder than words ever could. "I've known you my whole life, Willow. I see the way you look at him when you think nobody's watching."

"You were happy with him, Willow. Before he left." Knox's words hit like a physical blow. I open my mouth to deny it, but the words won't come. Because he's right. Before Rhett walked away two years ago, I was happy. Terrified of how much I felt for him, but happy in a way I'd never known was possible.

"You don't have to say anything," Knox says, his voice gentle. "But I've seen you both together. Back then, and now."

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. "He left, Knox. Without a word."

"Yeah, he did." Knox leans back against the wall. "And that was fucked up. I'm not saying it wasn't."

"Then how can you sit there and—"

"Because I watched you fall apart when he was gone," Knox interrupts, his voice still low but intense. "And I've watched you come alive again since he's been back. Even when you're fighting with him," Knox finishes. "Even when you're ready to kill him with your bare hands."

I stare at my hands, focusing on the calluses and scars rather than the truth sitting heavy between us. "It's not that simple."

"Never said it was." Knox shifts, his shoulder brushing mine in silent support. "But I've seen you when you're happy, Willow. It's rarer than a perfect ride." He gives me a sideways glance. "And whether you want to admit it or not, Rhett brings that out in you."

"He also brings out the urge to commit homicide," I mutter.

Knox chuckles. "That's just the Hayes family love language."

I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "We are pretty fucked up, aren't we?"

"Born and raised," Knox agrees. "We love fast and hard.”

"And we break just as hard," I add quietly.

We sit in silence for a while, the weight of the past settling between us like an old familiar blanket—worn and frayed at the edges but still capable of providing comfort.

"Get some sleep," Knox finally says, pushing himself to his feet. "I've got first watch."

I nod, knowing I won't sleep, but appreciating the gesture anyway. Knox moves to the window, a silhouette against the city lights outside.

Rhett shifts in his sleep, his hold on me tightening like he senses I might leave. His breath hitches, then evens out again, warm against my hip. I trace the line of his jaw with my eyes, mapping the stubble I know would feel rough under my fingertips.

Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.

M orning comes like a thief, stealing what little rest I managed to get. The alarm on my phone buzzes at 4:30 AM, and I carefully extract myself from Rhett's grip. He grunts but doesn't wake, just rolls over and buries his face in the pillow I vacated.

"Rise and shine, assholes," I announce, flipping on the lights. The chorus of groans is immediate and satisfying.

"Jesus Christ, Willow," Logan mumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes. "The sun's not even up yet."

"Neither are you," I counter, tossing his duffel bag onto his chest. "Move it. We roll out in thirty."

Knox groans. “I thought you said we were leavin’ at six?’

I shrug as I pack my bags up. “Change of plans. Keepin’ anybody and everybody on their toes.”

The room erupts into controlled chaos—grown men stumbling around, packing their shit, fighting for bathroom time.

Rhett moves like a thundercloud across the room, all dark energy and coiled tension. His hair sticks up in a dozen directions, and he hasn't bothered with a shirt yet. The sight of his bare chest – all lean muscle and familiar scars – sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the coffee I'm gulping down.

"You're a dictator, Hayes," he growls as he passes me, deliberately bumping my shoulder. "A tiny, terrifying dictator."

"And you're moving too slow, Calloway," I fire back, checking my watch. "Twenty-five minutes."

The convoy of trucks looks imposing in the predawn darkness – three massive pickups with trailers, equipment bags piled high in the beds. We've traveled like this for years, a nomadic tribe following the rodeo circuit like modern cowboys chasing glory across state lines.

The drive to Devil's Fork is quiet, everyone half-asleep despite the two gas station coffee stops I force on them. I take point in the lead truck with Knox riding shotgun, Rhett drives the middle rig with Logan and Kade, leaving Levi and Weston with Jace bringing up the rear.

The Wyoming landscape stretches endless and open around us, a big sky country that makes you feel both free and exposed at the same time.

"You sure about this place?" Knox asks as we pass the weathered "Welcome to Devil's Fork" sign, population barely over three thousand.

"As sure as I can be," I reply, checking the rearview to make sure the other trucks are still behind us. "Paid in cash through a friend of a friend. Place is technically closed for renovations."

Knox raises an eyebrow. "And by 'friend of a friend,' you mean..."

"Someone who owes me a favor and doesn't ask questions."

The Airbnb sits at the end of a winding dirt road, about three miles outside of Devil's Fork proper. It's a sprawling ranch-style house with peeling white paint and a wraparound porch that's seen better days. But it's the massive red barn behind it that sold me on the place—big enough to swallow our convoy whole.

"Homey," Knox comments dryly as we pull up to the gate. The property is surrounded by a tall fence with a padlocked chain that I hop out to unlock with the key I was given.

"It's not the Ritz," I reply, swinging the gate open. "But nobody's gonna be looking for the Savage Eight out here."

I drive through first, the others following in a neat line. The gravel crunches under our tires as we curve around the main house and head straight for the barn. Its huge doors creak open with a sound that echoes across the empty property, revealing a cavernous space inside. The barn smells of hay and old wood, mixed with the lingering scent of horses long gone.

"Pull 'em in tight," I direct, guiding the vehicles into formation. "Cover 'em with those tarps in the corner once we've unloaded."

One by one, our trucks and trailers disappear into the shadows of the barn, becoming nothing but hulking shapes beneath dusty canvas covers. By the time we're done, you'd never know the Savage Eight was here at all.

The house isn't much better on the inside than it is on the outside. The furniture is dated but solid, with a massive stone fireplace dominating the living room. The kitchen's got that 70's vibe with avocado-colored appliances that probably haven't been updated since Nixon was the damn president.

Jace pulls the cooler in and starts to take everything out to cook up some dinner.

"Everybody pick a room," I call out, dropping my duffel on the scratched hardwood floor. "We've got six bedrooms, so some of you will have to bunk together."

The guys scatter like buckshot, racing to claim the best spots. I hear Weston and Logan already arguing over who gets the room with the view of the mountains.

Rhett picks up my bag, tosses it over his shoulder, and walks down the hall without a word. I blink, trying to process what just happened.

"Did Rhett just—" Knox starts.

"Yep," I cut him off, watching Rhett's broad back disappear through a doorway at the end of the hall.

Knox's mouth twitches. "Looks like your room's been chosen for you."

"Shut up," I mutter, grabbing my backpack and following after Rhett like I'm walking to my own execution.

The bedroom he's claimed is the master at the end of the hallway, separated from the others by a small sitting area. Smart tactical choice—I hate that I approve. The room itself is surprisingly nice compared to the rest of the house, with a king-sized bed covered in a patchwork quilt and windows that face away from the main road.

"Staking your claim?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed.

Rhett tosses my duffel onto the bed like it belongs there. Like I belong there. "Figured I'd save us both the trouble of pretending we weren't going to end up in the same room anyway."

The sheer audacity makes me want to throw something at his head. Or kiss him. My brain can't seem to decide which.

"Pretty sure of yourself, Calloway."

He turns to face me, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Tell me I'm wrong."

I don't. Can't. Won't. Whatever.

"There's a perfectly good couch in that sitting area," I point out instead, nodding toward the little alcove just outside our—the—bedroom.

"There is," he agrees, stepping closer, crowding my space in that way he does that makes the air feel too thick to breathe. "But I think we both know you'd just end up sneaking in here anyway."

I roll my eyes, but my heartbeat picks up pace. "In your dreams, Calloway."

"Every night," he says, his voice dropping to that low register that vibrates through my bones. "And sometimes during the day, too."

The bastard doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed by the admission. Instead, he's looking at me with those storm-cloud eyes, the ones that see too much and give away nothing.

I stare at him, heat crawling up my neck despite my best efforts to remain unfazed. The absolute confidence in his stance makes me want to knock him down a peg or five.

"You're insufferable," I inform him, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind me with a decisive click. "And presumptuous."

"And right," he adds, not moving an inch as I advance on him.

"The guys are right down the hall," I remind him, though we both know it's a weak argument. The walls in this old house are thick as fortress walls, and everyone's too exhausted to pay attention to what we're doing anyway.

"Never stopped us before." His eyes track my movement as I circle him like we're sizing each other up before a fight. Which, in a way, we are. Everything between us has always been a battle for control.

"Get out of my way," I say, but there's no real heat behind it.

"Make me," he challenges, that cocky grin spreading across his face like wildfire.

The tension between us snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. I grab him by the shirt and shove him backward, watching with satisfaction as surprise flickers across his face. The power rush hits my bloodstream like pure adrenaline.

"Sit down," I order, pushing him toward the oversized armchair in the corner of the room.

Rhett raises an eyebrow but doesn't fight me. "Yes, ma'am."