Page 75 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

INTO THE FLAMES

~RED~

" F ASTER!" I scream into Luna's ear, pressing myself flat against her neck as she stretches into a full gallop.

Her hooves thunder against the packed earth, each stride covering impossible ground, but it's not fast enough.

The smoke billows thicker with each second, black fingers reaching toward the darkening sky like they're trying to pull the stars down with them.

My mind races faster than Luna's feet. Are they inside? The construction workers—was it really them? Three hours, Duke said. Three hours is enough time for anything to happen. Enough time for a fire to start, to spread, to consume everything.

The image of my pack trapped inside, unconscious from smoke inhalation, makes bile rise in my throat. I lean forward more, urging Luna faster even though she's already giving everything she has.

A familiar bark cuts through the sound of hooves and my own ragged breathing.

"Duke!" I call out, spotting the German Shepherd racing toward us at full speed, his dark fur almost invisible against the smoke-hazed landscape. "DUKE!"

He barks again, louder, more frantic, keeping pace with Luna despite her speed. His eyes are wild with panic, and I realize he must have been at the ranch when the fire started. But if Duke is here, running toward us...

My brain kicks into overdrive. Town is too far.

By the time Duke could run there and back with help, even if he could somehow communicate what's happening, it might be too late.

But Duke knows the other Duke—the restaurant owner.

They've met dozens of times when we've eaten there, when we've tied the horses outside.

Duke the dog is smart enough to find Duke the human.

"Duke!" I shout, pulling slightly on Luna's reins to slow her just enough that I can make eye contact with the dog. "Go to town! To older Duke! GET HELP!"

For a second, he keeps running alongside us, and I think he doesn't understand. Then he barks once, sharp and decisive, and veers off in a tight turn, racing back the way I came. His form disappears into the distance, and I pray he understands, that he'll find help, that someone will come.

But I can't wait for maybes.

Luna needs no encouragement to resume her breakneck pace. She can smell the smoke too, feel the wrongness in the air. Horses have an instinctive fear of fire, and the fact that she's still running toward it instead of away speaks to her training and trust.

The farmhouse comes into clearer view, and my worst fears are confirmed.

The entire structure is engulfed, flames licking from every window, the roof already partially collapsed.

The heat hits us like a physical wall even from a hundred yards away, and Luna starts to fight me, her terror finally overriding her training.

"I know, girl, I know," I murmur, scanning desperately for any sign of movement, any indication of where my pack might be.

The main house is dark but intact—if they're there, they're safe from the flames at least. But something in my gut says they're not there.

Says this is connected to those construction workers, to Marnay's threat, to everything we've been running from.

I slide off Luna's back before she's fully stopped, hitting the ground hard enough that my knees buckle. The heat is already unbearable, like standing too close to a massive bonfire, and I'm still fifty feet from the structure.

"Luna, go!" I shout, slapping her flank. "To the north pasture, where the other horses are!"

She tosses her head, whinnying in distress, clearly not wanting to leave me.

"GO!" I scream, and something in my voice must convince her because she wheels around and gallops toward safety, toward the secondary stables we'd moved the horses to just yesterday in preparation for the renovation.

The renovation that was clearly never going to happen.

My brain catalogues what I know about the ranch layout.

Every building has a fire extinguisher—Corwin insisted on it, said his time as a combat medic taught him that fires kill more people than bullets in most situations.

The farmhouse should have one near the entrance, another in what used to be the kitchen area.

I spot it—the red cylinder mounted on a post about twenty feet from the burning structure.

My fingers fumble with the pin, hands shaking from adrenaline more than fear.

There's also rope coiled nearby, probably left from some ranch work.

Without thinking too hard about what I'm about to do, I wrap it around my torso and shoulder, creating a makeshift harness.

The heat intensifies exponentially as I approach the farmhouse. The front door is gone, consumed or collapsed, leaving a gaping maw of flame and smoke. But through it, in what remains of the main room, I see them.

Four figures, slumped in chairs, arranged in a circle like some sick dinner party.

"No, no, no!" The words tear from my throat as I pull my shirt up over my nose and mouth and plunge into the inferno.

The heat is beyond description. It's like being inside an oven, every breath searing my lungs, every exposed inch of skin screaming. The smoke is thick enough to chew, and my eyes stream tears that evaporate almost instantly.

But I can see them clearly now. All four of my alphas, tied to chairs with professional-looking knots, heads lolled forward or to the side. Unconscious. Or worse.

I reach Rafe first, partly because he's closest, partly because some instinct drives me to him. My fingers find his pulse point—steady, strong. Alive. Thank God, alive.

"Rafe!" I shake his shoulders, probably harder than necessary. "Wake up! RAFE!"

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

I check the others quickly—all breathing, all with steady pulses, but none responding to voice or touch. The smell hits me then, cutting through the smoke. Sweet and chemical, with an undertone that makes my stomach drop.

I know that smell.

It's the same cocktail they used at the Crimson Roulette for "difficult" clients.

The ones who needed to be compliant but conscious, aware but unable to resist. Marnay's special blend, he called it.

Imported from somewhere in Eastern Europe, impossible to trace, perfect for making people cooperative.

Or, in higher doses, completely unconscious for hours.

This was the setup. The renovation inspection was fake—probably hired muscle dressed as construction workers. They'd offered a drink, a toast to the project maybe, and my trusting pack had accepted. Why wouldn't they? This was Jackknife Ridge, not Chicago. This was supposed to be safe.

My hands pat frantically at pockets, searching for anything sharp. Talon has a multitool somewhere—no, that's in his work jumpsuit. Corwin might have medical scissors—nothing. Rafe's pockets are typically organized but empty of anything useful.

Finally, in Shiloh's tactical pants, I find it. A folding knife, probably kept there out of habit more than necessity these days. My fingers are clumsy with heat and urgency, but I manage to flip it open.

The ropes are thick, professional, but the knife is sharp. I saw through them as quickly as I dare, terrified of cutting him but more terrified of the creaking sounds from above. The farmhouse won't last much longer.

Shiloh slumps forward as the ropes release, and I barely catch him before he hits the floor. He's heavy—God, he's so heavy. Two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and I need to move him now.

The rope I'd wrapped around myself becomes useful. I loop it under his arms, creating a crude harness, and apologize to his unconscious form.

"Sorry for the headache you're gonna have," I mutter, then start dragging.

Every muscle in my body screams as I pull him across the floor.

The months of comfortable pack life have softened me some, but the muscle memory from Malrik's training is still there.

All those sessions dragging weighted sleds across the gym floor, him screaming about functional strength and real-world application.

"Thanks, Mal," I grunt, pulling Shiloh inch by torturous inch toward the door.

The heat is getting worse, if that's even possible. Sweat pours off me in rivers, evaporating almost before it can drip. My lungs burn with every breath, and I can feel the exposed skin on my arms starting to blister.

But I get him out. Far enough from the structure that he won't burn if it collapses. Then I run back.

Corwin is next. He's heavier than he looks—all that lean muscle is denser than expected. The smoke is thicker now, and I'm coughing constantly, my makeshift mask doing almost nothing.

"Come on," I wheeze, dragging him across the same path I'd taken with Shiloh. "Work with me here, Doc."

He doesn't, of course. Can't. But I pretend his dead weight shifts slightly to help, pretend I'm not running on pure adrenaline and desperation.

Two down.

Talon is third. By now, my system has figured out the rhythm—loop the rope, lean back, pull with legs not back, ignore the screaming muscles and burning lungs. He's built thicker than Corwin but not as heavy as Shiloh. Still, by the time I get him clear, spots are dancing in my vision.

One more.

The farmhouse groans ominously as I stumble back inside. Beams crack overhead, sending showers of sparks down like deadly rain. The front section looks ready to cave in completely.

But Rafe is still there, still tied to that chair, still unconscious.

The knife is slippery with sweat and soot, but I manage to cut his bonds. He's the smallest of them—still six feet of lean muscle, but after dragging the others, he feels almost manageable.

"Come on, Ice King," I murmur, looping my exhausted arms under his. "Let's get you out of here."

I'm halfway to the door when he stirs slightly, a groan escaping his lips.

"Red?" His voice is thick, slurred from whatever they gave him.

"Don't worry, Ice King," I pant, still dragging him backward. "I got you."

"Run," he manages, the word barely audible. "Leave... run..."

"Yeah, can't do that," I tell him, muscles screaming with every step. "You're heavy as fuck, but lighter than Shiloh, so I'm thankful you don't eat more."

He tries to respond, but the words come out as unintelligible mumbles before he goes limp again. The drugs are still too strong in his system.

I get him clear just as something inside the farmhouse explodes—probably an old gas line or something flammable stored in the walls. The blast of heat nearly knocks me over, but we're far enough away that it's just heat, not fire.

Four alphas laid out on the grass like discarded dolls, unconscious but breathing. Safe. Alive.

But something nags at me. The shrine. Rafe's shrine to Sophia, with all those memories he's been trying to process, to either keep or let go. We'd only moved the truck and the horses yesterday. Everything else is still in there.

"Fuck," I breathe, looking at the inferno that used to be a farmhouse.

I should leave it. Should stay here with my pack, make sure they keep breathing, wait for help to arrive.

But I think about Rafe's face last night, the vulnerability when he talked about moving forward. Those items aren't just things—they're the physical manifestation of his grief, his process, his journey toward healing. If they're gone, just destroyed without his choice...

"Fucking hell."

I run back toward the flames.

The shrine is in the back section, the part that hasn't collapsed yet but will soon. The heat is beyond unbearable now—it's like swimming through fire. Every instinct screams at me to turn back, but I push forward, shirt pulled up over my face doing absolutely nothing to help.

The shrine is somehow still intact, though the wooden crate it sits on is starting to char. My eyes water so badly I can barely see, but I grab everything I can—the photos, the books, the perfume bottle that's probably about to explode from the heat.

One photo catches my eye as I shove items into my shirt, creating a makeshift pouch. Sophia's face, clearer than I've seen it before.

I freeze.

There's something familiar about her. Not the blonde hair or the delicate features. It's her eyes. Gray-green, distinctive, with a particular tilt at the corners that I've seen before. Recently. Not in Nevada—that's not it. Here in town?

But that doesn't make sense. She's dead. Has been for over two years.

Yet those eyes...

A massive crack from above breaks my concentration. The ceiling beam directly overhead splits, raining burning debris. The front section of the farmhouse suddenly collapses with a roar that shakes the entire structure.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!"

I shove the photo into my shirt with the other items, grabbing the last book from the shrine. It falls open as I pick it up, revealing not pages but a hollowed-out center containing what looks like letters. No time to investigate. I clutch it to my chest and turn to run.

That's when I see it—the blanket on the floor has been disturbed by my frantic movements, revealing the metal hatch Rafe had mentioned. The storm shelter. The hurricane bunker that never saw a hurricane.

Another beam cracks overhead. The entire back section is about to come down.

I don't think. I just react, yanking the hatch open. It's heavy, rusted from years of disuse, but adrenaline gives me strength I don't actually have. The ladder leading down is barely visible in the smoke and flame-light.

The farmhouse groans its death knell.

I jump.

The drop is longer than expected. Much longer.

My feet miss the ladder entirely, and I'm falling through darkness, the rectangle of fire above me getting smaller.

I have just enough time to think this was a terrible idea before my head connects with something hard—a beam, the ladder, the floor, I'll never know.

Pain explodes through my skull, sharp and then immediately fuzzy as darkness rushes in from all sides.

The last thing I see is the hatch above framing a square of flame and destruction. The last thing I hear is the final collapse of the farmhouse, the roar of it caving in on itself.

Then nothing.

Darkness.

The photo of Sophia with those familiar eyes still clutched against my chest as everything goes black.