Page 73 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS

~RED~

T he heat pulls me from sleep like invisible hands, my skin feeling too tight, too sensitive against the sheets. I kick them off with a frustrated groan, the cool air providing minimal relief against whatever fire seems to be burning under my skin.

Three-fifteen AM glares at me from the bedside clock in angry red numbers.

I sit up, pushing sweat-dampened hair from my face, and pad to the window. The ranch spreads out under moonlight, peaceful and silver-washed, completely at odds with the restlessness thrumming through my veins. Maybe water will help. Cold water. Lots of it.

The house creaks familiarly as I make my way downstairs, avoiding the third step that always groans and the floorboard near the kitchen that sounds like a dying cat when stepped on. Three months of midnight snack runs have taught me the house's secret language.

The kitchen tile is blessedly cool under my bare feet. I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water cold enough to make the glass fog, and drain it in desperate gulps. The second glass goes down just as fast, but the heat under my skin persists, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

I sniff the air, catching the lingering scents of my pack.

Shiloh's cedar and rain, strongest near the living room where he probably fell asleep watching security footage again.

Talon's amber and smoke from the garage entrance—he must have worked late on that restoration project.

Corwin's medicinal pine mixed with old books from his study.

But no ice and winter storms. No Rafe.

Soft clicking on the tile announces Duke's arrival before his wet nose presses against my calf. He sits at my feet, tail sweeping the floor, looking up at me with those intelligent brown eyes that always seem to understand more than a dog should.

"Hey, buddy," I whisper, crouching to scratch behind his ears. "Can't sleep either?"

He tilts his head, then stands and trots to the back door, scratching at it with deliberate intent.

"Where's Rafe?" I ask, though talking to a dog at three in the morning probably says something about my mental state.

Duke's tail wags harder as he scratches the door again, more insistent this time. He looks back at me, then at the door, then back at me. The message is clear: follow me.

I glance around the dark kitchen, weighing my options. Stay inside where it's safe but stifling, or follow Duke into the night for what's probably a completely innocent reason at three in the morning?

The heat under my skin makes the decision for me. I need air, movement, something other than tossing and turning in sheets that feel like they're made of sandpaper.

"Alright," I tell Duke, grabbing one of Shiloh's hoodies from the hook by the door—it hangs to mid-thigh on me, practically a dress. "But if this is some elaborate plan to chase rabbits, you're on your own."

The night air hits my overheated skin like a blessing, cool and crisp with that particular autumn smell of dying leaves and distant frost. Duke takes off immediately, not quite running but moving with purpose across the yard.

I follow, bare feet sinking into dew-wet grass that should feel cold but instead feels perfect against my burning soles.

The moon is nearly full, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

Duke leads me past the main garage, past the storage sheds, toward the barn that Rafe barely acknowledges exists most days.

The one I just won a renovation for, the one that made him blush like I'd seen straight through to his soul.

Light seeps through the cracks in the barn doors, warm and golden against the night.

Duke scratches at the door, whining softly, and I hear movement inside. The door creaks open slightly, and Rafe's voice drifts out.

"What are you doing out here, hmm?" His tone is soft, affectionate in a way I rarely hear. "Making sure everything's safe? Or just making the whole ranch smell like Red?"

My breath catches. He can smell me on Duke?

I hear him shift inside, and Duke—the traitor—trots through the door like he owns the place. I creep closer, peering through the gap, and what I see makes my heart clench.

Rafe's sitting on the floor near what looks like a makeshift shrine.

There are photos I can't quite make out, some dried flowers that have seen better days, a few books stacked carefully.

A bottle of perfume that probably hasn't been touched in years.

All arranged on an old wooden crate like an altar to grief.

He's wearing sleep pants and nothing else, his usually perfect hair mussed from bed or maybe from running his hands through it. In the lantern light, he looks younger, vulnerable in a way that daylight and expensive suits never allow.

Duke pads over to him, and Rafe absently pets him while staring at the shrine. The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of memories I'm not part of, grief I can only imagine.

Then Duke barks— loud, happy, sudden —and bounces back from Rafe's reach.

"What's gotten into you?" Rafe asks, frowning as Duke runs in a circle, tail wagging frantically.

Duke barks again and charges directly at where I'm hidden, hitting me with enough force to knock me off balance. The "oof" that escapes me is entirely involuntary, but it's enough.

Rafe's head snaps toward the door, one eyebrow arching in that way that usually means someone's in trouble. His gaze finds mine through the gap, and something flickers across his face—surprise, embarrassment, maybe relief?

"So you're guilty with an accomplice," he tells Duke, who barks happily and literally runs away, disappearing into the night like he's completed his mission.

"Smart dog," I mutter, then louder, "Can I join you?"

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing it—the vulnerability of being caught in this private moment against the loneliness of carrying it alone. Finally, slowly, he nods.

I slip through the door, closing it softly behind me. The barn smells like old hay and motor oil, dust and something floral that must be from the perfume.

I settle beside him on a stack of hay bales, careful to leave space between us, not wanting to intrude more than I already have.

The silence wraps around us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that exists between people who understand that sometimes words would only cheapen what needs to be felt.

I look at the shrine without really seeing it, understanding without being told that this is for Sophia. The photos are careful angles where I can't see faces clearly, like even in death he's protecting her privacy or maybe protecting himself from the full weight of her image.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten, maybe twenty. Time moves differently at three in the morning, especially in spaces haunted by ghosts.

Finally, Rafe speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"When she died, they never let me see the body."

The words hang in the air like a confession, and I turn slightly to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the shrine, jaw working like he's fighting to get the words out.

"We didn't have the right," he continues, voice bitter. "We weren't her 'official' pack on paper. Never finalized the bonds, never filed the paperwork. So according to the law, we didn't have the right to see her, to say goodbye, to even properly mourn her."

My chest tightens at the pain in his voice, the way his hands clench and unclench in his lap.

"Luca had more money than me back then," he says, laughing but there's no humor in it, just broken glass and regret.

"He finessed his way into seeing her. Bribed someone, called in favors, I don't know.

But he got to see her, and then he bragged about it.

Told me how peaceful she looked, how beautiful even in death.

Like he was the one who loved her most, who deserved that final moment. "

He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

"It made me so angry. Not just at him, but at myself. At the system. At her for leaving. At God or the universe or whatever for letting it happen."

He gestures at the shrine with a shaky hand.

"I made this because..." he pauses, seeming to gather himself. "There's a hatch at the bottom. A little basement, basically. Storm shelter from when tornadoes were more common here."

He actually smiles slightly, though it's tinged with sadness.

"I'd hide down there sometimes and cry my eyes out.

No one could hear me. The acoustics are perfect for having a complete breakdown without anyone knowing.

It became my... I don't know, my confession booth?

My therapy office? The place where I could fall apart without being the pack alpha who had to hold everyone else together. "

"Those protecting spots for hurricanes," I say softly, trying to lighten the moment just a fraction. "But let's be real, Jackknife Ridge ain't getting no hurricane risks."

He actually chuckles, real humor this time.

"Not enough trees apparently. Or water. Or... anything hurricanes actually need."

We share a small smile before he looks back at the shrine.

"You know," he says quietly, "I never really knew what Sophia liked.

What she was good at besides being perfect.

She mentioned wanting to write once, said she loved crime novels.

That's actually why there's so much fiction in the library—I bought everything I thought she might enjoy, trying to understand her through the books she claimed to love. "

He shrugs, the gesture heartbreakingly young.

"But I wasn't even sure if that was real or just another thing she said because she thought it's what I wanted to hear.

She'd perform everything so precisely, even building her nest. Ordered everything online, had it delivered, assembled it like she was following an instruction manual for 'How to Be a Perfect Omega.

' No personal touches, no mess, no process.

Just... perfection. Immediate and hollow. "

The image makes me frown, thinking about my own nest-building process.

The way I've spent weeks agonizing over every pillow, every blanket, moving things around seventeen times until they feel right.

The chaos of fabric samples and paint swatches and the three different essential oil diffusers I'm testing to get the scent just right.

"It's taking me weeks to build mine," I admit. "I keep changing my mind, moving things around. It's probably driving everyone crazy."

He turns to look at me fully for the first time since I sat down, and there's something soft in his expression.

"I know," he says simply. "And that's the difference.

You're actually putting in effort because it matters to you.

Every pillow you move three inches to the left, every blanket you swap out because the texture isn't quite right—that has meaning.

You're building something real, not performing omega behavior from a manual. "

The weight of what he's not saying hangs between us. That Sophia never cared enough to make it real. That her nest, like everything else, was just another performance in a life that was all show and no substance.

"Everything you add has value," he continues. "Speaks louder than words ever could about what actually matters to you. That giant bull plushie Corwin won? You spent twenty minutes figuring out exactly where to put it. Sophia would have just placed it wherever looked best in photos."

We fall into silence again, both lost in our own thoughts. The heat under my skin has settled into something more manageable, though I'm still warmer than normal. Maybe it's the hoodie, or the barn, or the emotional weight of this moment.

"You don't need to renovate the barn," I say eventually. "I realized after winning that it has value as it is. The memories, the history?—"

"No," he interrupts, firm but not harsh. "I want to remodel it."

He stands, brushing hay from his sleep pants, and offers me his hand.

"I'm over being sad about the past. There's no point, really.

I want to move forward, and I think... I think Sophia would want that too, if she could want anything.

She died being a centerpiece in our lives without ever really making roots.

Maybe it's time to let her ghost rest and build something new that’s real. No more fakeness. "

I take his offered hand, letting him pull me to my feet. His fingers are cool against mine, and he frowns.

"Your hands are really warm."

"Yeah," I admit, "I woke up feeling too hot. That's actually why I was up—needed water and air."

He places his free hand on my forehead, the cool touch making me want to lean into him like a cat seeking attention. His frown deepens.

"You're definitely warm. Not quite fever-level, but close." He makes that scrunched-up worried face that somehow makes him look younger. "In the morning, Corwin should look at you. Make sure you're okay."

He keeps my hand in his as we head for the barn door, and I can't help but notice how right it feels—his cool to my warm, his careful control to my barely contained chaos.

"It's probably from that bull-riding," he mutters as we step into the night air. "All that adrenaline and exertion in ridiculous clothes?—"

I laugh, squeezing his hand.

"Admit it—I looked divine."

"Dangerously so," he whispers, so quiet I almost miss it.

The admission sends a different kind of heat through me, one that has nothing to do with possible fever and everything to do with the way his thumb is now rubbing circles on my wrist.

We walk back toward the house in comfortable silence, Duke materializing from the shadows to trot circles around us, clearly pleased with his matchmaking efforts.

The moon is lower now, morning creeping closer, and everything feels suspended in that magical time between night and day when anything seems possible.

Even a pack alpha learning to let go of his ghosts while holding onto something real and warm and alive.

Duke trots ahead, then circles back, then runs ahead again, tail wagging like he's orchestrated the best possible outcome. Which, I realize as Rafe squeezes my hand one more time before we reach the back door, maybe he has.

The heat under my skin pulses once more, stronger this time, and some distant part of my brain whispers a warning I'm not ready to hear.

But for now, in this moment, with Rafe's hand in mine and Duke trolling around us, I decide to enjoy this peaceful moment of bliss.