Page 74 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

WHERE THERE'S SMOKE

~RED~

T he final kick connects with the practice pad with a satisfying crack that echoes through the gym.

I hold the position for a beat—leg extended at shoulder height, perfect form despite the burn in my muscles—before lowering it with controlled grace.

Sweat drips down my spine, soaking through my sports bra, but the exhaustion feels good. Clean. Earned.

"And that," I announce to the room full of wide-eyed omegas, "is how you break someone's jaw if they won't take no for an answer."

The silence stretches for a solid minute. Twenty-three omegas of various ages stare at me like I've just performed actual magic instead of a basic defensive kick combination. Their expressions range from shock to awe to something that might be hope.

Then someone starts clapping—Mrs. Patterson, surprisingly, the seventy-year-old omega who runs the post office. The applause spreads like wildfire until the whole room erupts, some of the younger omegas actually whooping with excitement.

"Are you really going to teach us that?" Ashley, one of the newer omegas in town, asks breathlessly. She's maybe twenty- two, mated to a beta who works at the hardware store, and has the kind of nervous energy that speaks of too many years being told to be quiet and small.

I grin, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long drink before answering. "If there's enough omega interest? Absolutely. Every omega deserves to know how to defend themselves."

The squeal that follows is probably heard three blocks away. Even some of the older omegas look delighted, whispering among themselves about signing up for next week. Mrs. Patterson actually does a little shimmy that makes several people laugh.

"That was absolutely amazing!"

Poppy's voice cuts through the chatter as she strides across the gym floor, her vintage-inspired workout gear somehow making her look like a 1950s pinup even while sweating. Her platinum and teal hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that bounces with each step.

Behind her, unexpectedly, are the three omegas from book club—Jennifer, Brittany-or-Bethany, and Madison-or-Addison. I tense automatically, expecting confrontation, but their expressions are... different. Uncertain. Almost shy.

"That was actually impressive," Jennifer says quietly, and the admission seems to cost her something. "Really impressive."

The other two nod in agreement, and Brittany-Bethany adds, "We don't actually know how to defend ourselves. At all."

They exchange glances, some silent conversation happening before Madison-Addison continues, "We all come from... difficult backgrounds. Abusive ones, actually. Our alphas now are good to us, but before..."

She trails off, but I understand. The perfect omega facade isn't just performance—it's armor. Protection. If you're perfect enough, maybe you won't get hit. If you're quiet enough, maybe you'll be overlooked.

"We were jealous," Jennifer admits, the words tumbling out like confession. "You're so different from what we expected. When the Lucky Ace pack got you, we thought you'd be another Sophia."

My eyebrows raise at that, but she continues quickly.

"She bullied us. Constantly. Said no omega in this town could meet her standards, that's why the pack was so into her—because she was better than all of us provincial nobodies.

" Jennifer's voice turns bitter. "So when you showed up, we assumed you'd be the same.

Another perfect omega here to make us feel inferior. "

"But you're not," Brittany-Bethany says softly. "You're nothing like her. You're kind and funny and you actually seem to like being here. With them. With all of us, even when we were horrible to you."

"We were mean," Madison-Addison says firmly. "Trying to isolate you from things you genuinely enjoy because of our own insecurities. That was wrong, and we're sorry."

The apology hangs in the air, genuine in a way I didn't expect. I study their faces, seeing past the perfect makeup and carefully styled hair to the fear underneath. The same fear I carried for three years at the Crimson Roulette.

"Apology accepted," I say, and watch their shoulders drop with relief. "And I'll gladly teach you everything you need to know. Every omega deserves to protect themselves and say no to situations that don't serve them. That includes all of you."

They smile—real smiles, not the practiced ones from book club—and Jennifer actually tears up a little.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Really."

They wave goodbye, already chattering among themselves about signing up for next week, and I feel something warm bloom in my chest. Community. Real community, not the performative kind but the type built on mutual understanding and shared strength.

"Look at you, building bridges," Poppy teases, bumping my shoulder. "Regular omega ambassador."

"Speaking of which..."

Malrik's voice draws our attention as he approaches, holding what looks like a sign-up sheet. His amber eyes are bright with something between pride and amusement as he waves the paper at us.

"What's that fifty-person list?" Poppy asks, leaning over to look.

"First sign-ups for next week's class," he announces with a grin.

I nearly drop my water bottle. "FIFTY? There were only twenty-three people here today!"

"Word travels fast in small towns," he says, handing me the list. "Especially when omegas start feeling empowered. You've got sign-ups from three neighboring towns already."

The names blur together as I scan the list, my heart racing with a mix of excitement and terror. Fifty omegas trusting me to teach them to defend themselves. Fifty omegas who want to be more than decoration.

I pull out my phone, still giddy with pride, and open the pack group chat.

Red : GUYS! Major news! I'm officially teaching an evening kickboxing class! Got 50 signups for next week already!

I wait for the immediate responses that usually come—Talon with enthusiasm, Corwin with medical concerns about proper warmups, Shiloh with pride, Rafe with logistical questions.

Nothing.

"You heading out?" Poppy asks, already shouldering her gym bag.

"Need a ride back?" Malrik offers, spinning his keys around his finger. "We're heading to the other side of town, but we can drop you at the ranch first."

"Nah," I say, still staring at my phone. "The guys will probably pick me up. They always do after my sessions."

They exchange one of those looks that makes me wonder what they know that I don't, but Poppy just shrugs.

"Cool. Text if you need anything!"

They leave in a whirlwind of chatter about some new cocktail Poppy wants to try making, and I'm left alone in the gym with my pile of gear and an increasingly unsettled feeling in my stomach.

I check the group chat again. Still no response. Not even read receipts.

That's... weird.

I start gathering my things—water bottle, towel, the extra wraps I brought in case someone needed them. Five minutes pass. Then ten. At fifteen minutes with no response, worry starts creeping in like fog.

Maybe they're at the clinic? Corwin sometimes gets emergency cases that require all hands. Or maybe they're dealing with ranch business? Though that usually doesn't require all four of them...

I shoulder my bag and head out into the late afternoon air. The sun is low, painting everything golden, but there's something off about the light. Too orange, too hazy.

The walk to town center only takes about ten minutes, and the first thing I notice when I reach Main Street is Luna. She's tied to the post outside Duke's restaurant, the one we always use as informal "horse parking." Her saddle is there, but no sign of Rafe or any of the others.

Duke—the human one, not the dog—is wiping down outside tables when he spots me.

"Red! Good to see you, sweetheart. How was the class?"

"Great," I say distractedly, still looking around for any sign of my pack. "Have you seen Rafe? Or the others?"

He pauses, thinking, polishing the same spot on the table absently.

"Rafe came by on Luna for daily errands—picked up some supplies, checked the mail.

Normal afternoon routine." He frowns slightly.

"But then those construction folks showed up.

The ones from Henderson Construction? Said they needed to inspect dimensions for the barn renovation, wanted him to show them exactly what he had in mind. "

My stomach tightens. "When was that?"

Duke glances at his watch, then at the restaurant windows where the dinner rush is already starting.

"Well, I'd already done the evening prep, started the dinner service... probably three hours ago? Maybe more? He went with them in their truck, said he'd be back for Luna later."

Three hours. Rafe's been gone three hours, left Luna here, and hasn't checked his phone once? That's not just unusual—it's wrong. Rafe checks his phone obsessively, responds to messages within minutes even when he's in meetings.

"I'll take Luna back," I decide, already moving toward her.

Duke's eyebrows shoot up. "You sure, sweetheart? She can be particular about riders."

"I know how to ride," I say with a wink that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Better with horses than cars, apparently."

He laughs, the sound following me as I approach Luna. "I heard about that! Your driving's already legendary. Hey—come back for lunch soon, yeah? You get free meals for life after that bull riding spectacular!"

I manage a genuine smile at that. "I'll hold you to it!"

Luna nickers softly when she sees me, and I take a moment to stroke her neck, letting her get used to my presence. She lips at my hair, probably smelling the others on me, and seems to decide I'm acceptable.

Getting up with a gym bag is awkward, but I manage it, settling into Rafe's saddle and trying not to think about how intimate it feels to be where he usually sits. Luna shifts beneath me, testing, and I keep my hands gentle but firm on the reins.

"We need to go home," I tell her softly. "To the farmhouse. Can you take me there?"

She tosses her head once, then sets off at a steady pace, apparently deciding I'm competent enough to trust. The rhythm of her movement is soothing, and I try to let it calm my racing thoughts.

There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. Maybe they're all at the barn, planning renovations. Maybe cell service is bad there—it happens sometimes in the more remote parts of the property. Maybe they're dealing with some pack business that requires focus.

But the unease in my stomach grows with each hoofbeat.

The sky is wrong. I noticed it earlier but now it's impossible to ignore.

The sunset should be golden, maybe pink, but instead it's this angry orange-red that makes everything look like it's been filtered through blood.

The air feels heavy, thick in a way that has nothing to do with my lingering heat from last night.

Luna's ears flick back and forth nervously, and she picks up her pace without me asking. Animals always know first when something's wrong.

We're still a mile from the ranch when I smell it.

Smoke.

Not the pleasant wood smoke from a fireplace or the autumn smell of burning leaves. This is acrid, chemical, wrong. It gets stronger with each step Luna takes, and she's practically dancing now, wanting to run but held back by my grip on the reins.

My heart hammers against my ribs as we crest the final hill, and the world seems to stop.

In the distance, where our ranch should be spreading peaceful and perfect in the evening light, orange flames lick at the sky. Smoke billows black and thick, obscuring the outline of buildings, but I can see enough.

The structure engulfed in flames, the one sending sparks shooting into the darkening sky like deadly fireworks, the one that should be standing sturdy and untouched...

"No," I breathe, the word torn from my throat as Luna rears slightly, whinnying in distress.

The farmhouse... is on fire.