Page 9 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Nine

Ash and Grit

Colt

S unday mornings always started the same.

Coffee in a ridiculously expensive mug, black as sin. Two eggs scrambled lazy. Boots by the back door, coated in yesterday's dust. I liked the quiet. The kind that settled deep in your bones and didn't ask much from you.

Except today, it didn't sit right.

I leaned against the counter, cup in hand, watching the sun break over the hills. The TV murmured low in the background—some gospel station I didn't remember setting. It was race day in Dallas. I didn't need the calendar to tell me.

Tessa would be suiting up. Zipping into fireproofs. Sliding into the cockpit of that old beast she still called a dragster.

My fingers hovered over my phone more than once. Thought about texting her good luck. Just those words. Nothing loaded. Nothing messy. But hell, what was the point?

She didn't owe me anything. And I'd already said too much or not enough, depending on the day.

If she was ever gonna come home to Lovelace, it had to be because she wanted to. Not because I pulled her back with some half-assed text at seven on a Sunday morning.

I finished my eggs and scraped the pan clean, then tugged on my hat and headed out. I had feed to pick up before the store got crowded with weekend ranch hands.

As I passed through town, familiar storefronts blinked to life one by one.

The scent from the Lodgepole pines hung in the air, faint but steady.

It always brought back memories of being with my father, when he taught me how to ride.

As I rounded the bend past Dalia's place, something caught my eye—the roses.

Big old things, blooming wild in the side yard. Crimson and peach, curling heavy at the tips like they'd been left to grow without pruning. Her sister, Marge, planted those decades ago, back when Dalia still hosted backyard socials and kept jars of sun tea on the porch rail.

I slowed the truck just a touch. The gate was crooked again. Her blinds were still drawn. I made a mental note to stop by later just to check-in.

I pressed the pedal and moved on.

The feed store sat just off the edge of town like it always had—the sign faded, the parking lot half gravel, half guesswork. Joe's truck was already there—same spot, same old dent in the fender.

Some things in Lovelace never changed.

And some—well, some came back around whether you were ready or not.

The feed store bell jingled overhead like always—off-key, rusty at the hinge, but familiar. Smelled like molasses, hay dust, and old sweat. I took a breath of it and stepped inside.

"Colt Bennett," Joe called from behind the counter. "You're late."

“Isn’t he always,” Sawyer teased.

I smirked. "Ten minutes."

“Seen Tessa lately?” Sawyer asked.

I waved that off, already walking toward the coffee pot Joe kept on a hot plate next to the register. “Nope.”

Sawyer clapped me on the back on his way out. “Well, nothing changes… if nothing changes. Looks like you need to make the next move.”

Sawyer’s words stung as Joe handed me a Styrofoam cup, no cream, no sugar—just how I liked it. "Got your standing order pulled already. They're loading it now."

"Appreciate it." I leaned against the edge of the counter, sipping. The coffee was strong enough to grow chest hair on a fence post.

Joe gave me a long look over the rim of his own cup. "Heard you were back to being local famous. Little Miss Kenzie's been runnin' barrels like her boots are on fire."

I chuckled. "She's got more drive than half the boys I used to train. Keeps me on my toes."

Joe's eyebrows arched. "That girl's been wearin' glitter since she was in diapers, and now she's got her sights on championships."

We stood in easy silence for a minute. Through the front window, I could see the younger kid from Joe's crew hoisting sacks into the back of my truck bed.

Then Joe got quiet in that way he does when he's about to say something that matters. "You heard about the new rancher moved in west of town?"

"Rancher?" I asked, taking another sip.

"Yeah. Bought up the old Miller spread. Fella's got money and ambition. Wants to raise bulls for the circuit. Good stock, too—talked about bringin' in Brahman crosses, maybe even some Mexican fighting lines."

I let out a low whistle. "Ambitious."

"Needs a consultant,” Joe said. "Somebody local. Somebody who knows rodeo and breeding bulls from the inside out."

I laughed and rubbed the small of my back, feeling the old ache flare just from the thought. "Long as I ain't the one gettin' tossed again. Reckless did a number on me."

Joe didn't smile at that. "I remember. Took us a half hour to get you out of the dirt that night."

I nodded. "Yeah, well. Some lessons you only need once."

Joe leaned back against the counter. "Still. Art asked around. I told him I knew someone with the right kind of sense. Someone who understands both riders and bulls."

"You give him my number?" I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

"Not yet," Joe said. "Wanted to see if you were open to it."

I stared down into my coffee, watching it ripple. The thing about bulls—they don't care what broke you last time. They just want to see if you'll flinch.

"Tell him to call," I said finally. "I'll talk. No promises."

Joe smiled like he already knew that's what I'd say. "You've still got more to give than you know."

"Maybe," I said, draining the rest of the cup. "Or maybe I'm just too stubborn to quit."

We walked outside together. My truck bed was stacked and tied down neatly, bags lined up like soldiers. I tossed the cup in the trash and nodded my thanks.

As I climbed behind the wheel, he called out, "Colt?"

"Yeah?"

He shrugged. "You ever think about what it means that people keep comin' to you when they need something steady?"

I didn't answer.

Just tipped my hat and drove off.

Some things in this town never changed, but something was shifting. I could feel it.

It wasn't just the weight in my back.

I was halfway home, humming along to an old George Strait tune, the feed bags shifting just a little in the back when I saw it.

Smoke.

Not the kind that comes off a grill or a burn pile. No, this was thick, rising fast, curling black into the June sky—pouring out from the side window of Dalia's house.

I slammed on the brakes so hard that the tires shrieked. Gravel scattered as the truck fishtailed sideways, dust and panic tangling in my gut.

"Shit—Dalia."

I yanked the gear into Park and was out the door before the engine finished idling. Phone already in my hand, I dialed 911 with a shaking thumb as I sprinted toward the porch.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"There's a house fire," I said, breath already ragged. "Just outside Lovelace—Dalia Walker's place on County Road 12. Smoke's pourin' out of the kitchen window. She's likely still inside."

"We're dispatching a unit now. Can you confirm if anyone's in the house?"

"I'm goin' in to find out."

"Sir, wait for the responders?—"

But I'd already shoved the phone in my pocket and kicked at the locked door with my boot. Once. Twice. The third time it gave way, splintering inward with a groan.

The smoke hit me like a freight train—choking, hot, blinding. I dropped low, covered my mouth with the crook of my arm, and moved through the house, memory guiding me more than sight.

"Dalia!" I called, coughing. "It's Colt! Where are you?"

No answer.

Just the crackle of something burning in the kitchen and the low moan of the structure starting to protest.

I turned into the hallway and saw her, crumpled on the floor near the bathroom, gray curls fanned out like spilled cotton. Her lips were moving faintly.

I dropped beside her. "Dalia?"

Her eyelids fluttered. Barely conscious.

"Marge…" she whispered.

"Marge's been gone a long time," I murmured. "It's me. Colt. You're gonna be okay, but we gotta get out of here."

When I lifted her into my arms, a bolt of pain shot through my lower back so sharp I almost dropped her. The world tilted. My knees buckled. But I gritted my teeth and held on.

With each agonizing step, I stumbled through the smoke-filled living room, Dalia limp against my chest. Her breath was shallow and raspy, and my eyes burned. My lungs begged me to stop.

But I didn't.

Couldn't.

Outside, the air was clearer—but the sirens were still distant.

I couldn't wait.

I laid Dalia in the passenger seat of my truck as gently as I could manage, trying not to scream when the angle wrenched my spine again. I slammed the door shut and ran around to the driver's side, barely able to climb behind the wheel. Every nerve in my back was on fire.

I drove like a bat out of hell, windshield streaked with soot, one hand clamped to the wheel, the other bracing my side. My teeth were grinding, and my breath was shallow. But I kept going.

Half a mile down the road, red lights blazed in the rearview mirror. The fire crew. Too late.

I leaned on the horn as I passed them, flashing my lights. One of the firefighters recognized me—I saw his mouth form my name even as they rolled by.

"Hang on, Dalia," I muttered. "We're almost there."

She didn't answer.

But her chest still moved.

And that was enough to keep me driving.

Even if my back was screaming.

Even if the pain made the edges of my vision blur.

Even if something deep inside me already knew—this wasn't just about Dalia anymore.

It was about what happens when fate grabs you by the collar… and drags you back into someone's life, whether you're ready or not.

The fluorescent lights in the ER made everything feel too sharp—too clean. Like they were trying to scrub away the smoke, the adrenaline, the pain still curling like barbed wire in my spine.

A nurse pressed a cold pack to my lower back while I sat propped against stiff pillows on the exam table. I must've looked like hell, but I could only think about whether Dalia was still breathing in the next room.

"She's stable," the doctor finally said when he returned, flipping through a chart. "Some smoke inhalation, but she was lucky. You got her out just in time."

I nodded once, jaw tight.

"Unfortunately," he added, glancing over his glasses, "you weren't as lucky."

I gave him a look. "Doc, I've been thrown by bulls. I'll bounce back."

"You've slipped a disc. We'll do imaging to confirm, but I'd bet it's herniated." He looked almost apologetic. "You're going to need surgery."

The words hit like a quiet punch.

Not because I hadn't known. I'd felt the pop. Heard the way my back screamed on every step outta that house.

But hearing it said out loud—surgery—it meant downtime. No training. No riding. No pretending I wasn't still haunted by the last time my body betrayed me.

I exhaled slowly. "Well. That's just damn peachy."

He offered a sympathetic smile and stepped out.

The room felt too still. I leaned back and let the silence stretch, only now letting my hands tremble.

That's when I remembered my phone.

I pulled it from my pocket and thumbed it to life, expecting a missed call from Joe or Rhett.

But the notification waiting for me wasn't from either of them.

Voicemail: Tessa Walker.

My heart kicked hard in my chest.

I stared at the screen for a long second before pressing play.

Her voice filled the quiet.

"Hey. It's me. I, uh… I won. In Dallas. Thought maybe you'd want to know. I just—yeah. That's all."

The message ended.

I held the phone in my hand like it might say more if I waited long enough.

I should've called her this morning. I'd thought about it. Even reached for the damn phone.

But now?

Now life had handed me something else. Something I hadn't planned. Again.

Still, one thing was certain.

She'd reached out.

And fate… well, she had a twisted sense of timing. Because the fire, the injury, the message—it was all too close, too pointed.

Our lives were circling again.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Or the universe grabbing the reins, yanking us both back into the same damn orbit.

I didn't know how it'd play out, but one thing was clear.

Tessa wasn't done with me yet.

And I sure as hell wasn't done with her.