Chapter 4 – Clay
It all started by accident—at least, that’s what I tell myself.
If it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. I was at a crossroads, searching for purpose, a deeper meaning, something to shake up the monotony of my life.
It had been my twenty-eighth birthday, and I wanted to celebrate by doing something that made me feel alive, something beyond managing Ashwood Ranch with Nash, which felt less like a calling and more like a familial duty.
Savannah was busy recording new cooking videos for the co-op, which she said would keep her occupied until late in the evening. She’d invited me over for a special birthday dinner around seven. That left me with hours to kill, so I headed into town, where I ran into Dallas Golden.
Dallas is Wylie’s neighbor, a former Marine, and the owner and operator of Golden Farms, the hobby farm that neighbors Cameron ranch.
Dallas is also married to Dove Hart, a full out rock star and the only celebrity our small town has ever produced.
And if Dallas isn’t tinkering on his farm or spending time with Dove, he’s usually working as a security guard for the town’s famous rodeo.
Or so I thought that’s what he was doing.
That was my first mistake—assuming that a guy like Dallas, who never knew how to stay still, didn’t have some secret underground pastime.
When Dallas asked about my plans for that day, I’d let my guard down and told him how I was itching to try something new, to break free from the comfortable, boyish persona I’d worn all my life and the framework within most people in this small town viewed me.
He responded with an offer I couldn’t resist: underground fighting, mostly mixed martial arts or MMA.
That night, we drove to a seedy facility in San Angelo. Dallas was working as a bouncer, doing a favor for an old Marine buddy. He’d mentioned that he’d been in the ring a few times for a quick spar, but those days were long behind him.
I stood at the edge of the mat, watching two hulking, farm-grown men go at it. The raw energy, the sheer physicality—I was hooked from the moment the first punch landed.
In love with the danger of barely any protective gear, the damp, moldy smell of the building, the blood, the fury, and the power behind their punches and kicks.
And the way that despite all of the fierceness within their dispositions, there was always an underlying theme of brotherhood and respect from fighter to fighter.
I watched with a mix of pleasure, excitement, and horror as one fighter’s foot slammed into the other’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the room. Blood sprayed, and two teeth flew from the guy’s mouth, painting the brutal reality of the sport in front of me.
When Dallas and I left later that night, heading back to my calm, predictable life as a cowboy with a long-term girlfriend, a promise began to form deep within my gut. I’d turned to him, the adrenaline still pumping through me. “I want in,” I swore. “Next time, I’m stepping into that ring myself.”
Dallas had laughed but six weeks of relentless training with him—where he taught me to fight while I repaid him with hard labor on his farm and repairs on his new, heavy machinery—culminated in my first time inside the ring.
The combination of manual work and rigorous training had sculpted my body in ways it had never been before, despite my years working on the ranch.
I had developed both the skills and the physique to hold my own on the mat.
With newfound confidence, I was ready to see how I measured up against the fighters I’d been observing.
My first fight was more intense than I’d anticipated.
I landed a few clean hits before taking a punch to the face that left me momentarily blacked out.
The bruise that spread across my entire eye was a hard-earned trophy, but it was the new fire ignited within me that truly marked the experience.
It was a flame I knew would never extinguish.
And the biggest compliment? Was Dallas, a motherfucker so scary no one dared get near Dove, a dude I was one hundred percent sure had killed hundreds of men with his bare hands, telling me that I wasn’t half bad.
Not half bad for a cocky, young cowboy.
It was all the motivation that I needed to throw myself into training regularly, with Dallas as my head coach.
Wylie had always been the oldest, the protector, and the one who held our family together—not with love or sensitivity, but with sheer force, intimidation, and a heavy measure of fear.
Nash was the steady middle child, calm and even-tempered, though often grumpy, and distant. He worried endlessly about his siblings and anyone he cared about, always carrying the weight of their well-being on his shoulders.
And then there was me, the youngest—the flighty one and the jester. My antics, including a brief experiment with making my own moonshine, kept the family laughing and light-hearted.
I was the easygoing Cameron son, described by my mom as perpetually sunny and easy to love.
She had called me this when I entered fourth grade at ten years old, the same year she passed away from cancer.
It was a descriptor I carried proudly like a badge, a constant reminder of her gentle love and the ways that she and I were alike.
Yet, beneath the surface, there’s always been something darker lurking—a need to feel powerful, to be more than just the perpetually happy one who never let anyone down.
I craved attention and validation that I never received after she left and my brothers and dad went their separate ways, tending to their losses without me.
I sought a way to prove that I mattered beyond the jokes I told, the happiness I could bring to any situation and that my darkness and sadness were significant too.
I’d just never found an outlet to tap into that until now.
When I was six years old and my brothers were sixteen and seventeen, I vividly remember them wrestling on the floor of Cameron Ranch.
They’d go blow for blow, putting each other in headlocks while I tried to join in.
In a matter of seconds, Wylie had me in a headlock, and Nash had my little leg pinned behind my back as I screamed in pain.
Of course, my mom walked in at that moment, and my brothers ended up in so much trouble that they swore they’d never touch me again. And they stayed true to that until we were much older.
But fighting in that underground facility in San Angelo marked a turning point for me. My mom was gone, and I hated not having her protection, but I loved the taste of blood in my mouth, reminding me that I was strong, capable, and still alive.
I hoped she was looking down and feeling proud of me too.
My training with Dallas was going well, that was, until a few weeks later when Savannah noticed my eye and realized I’d been lying about getting injured working on the ranch.
I’ll never forget her warning me to stop my foolishness before I got seriously hurt, rather than embracing the part of me that craved something physical, new and a bit dangerous, something I couldn’t quite describe but was finally my own.
I had complied, staying away from that seedy facility in San Angelo until six months later, the week after her car accident.
I’d been at her hospital bed day and night, not even going home to shower. Her parents had left to rest, and I’d taken the opportunity to walk down the hallway for coffee from the hospital vending machine and stretch my legs before hunkering down for another long night holding her hand and praying.
Savannah and I had been talking about marriage for years, but we both felt it wasn’t the right time yet.
Despite having known each other since our teenage years, we felt young and uncertain about the future.
She was just getting into her gig at the co-op, hosting cooking classes for the community and recording videos to advertise it online and I was still figuring out my future working at Cameron and Ashwood ranches.
When I walked back into her room after a long walk around the hospital, I was taken aback to find a man on crutches, his leg in a cast, standing by Savannah’s bed.
As soon as I knocked, his head turned toward the door, and I recognized him as the driver from the night of the accident. Though I didn’t know his name, the look of anguish in his eyes was unmistakable. I didn’t know who he was, but I knew immediately who Savannah was to him.
He’d spoken words that I could never forget: he was sorry, and Savannah had always loved me, despite the two-year relationship they’d been engaged in that I’d been completely oblivious to.
In my rage and betrayal, I’d hit him, knocking him out cold. The only thing that kept me from facing felony charges was his decision not to press them. He had no idea I was in the dark about their affair—Savannah had told him just that week that she had ended things with me.
After that day, something shifted within me permanently.
The fight that I’d buried at Savannah’s request began to resurface.
I returned to the ring with renewed intensity, training harder with Dallas—who, after making me promise never to assault someone on crutches in a hospital again—pushed me to my limits as punishment.
I mapped out a new path, eventually stepping away from managing Ashwood ranch and knocking on the door of Chief Hollister and his fire department.
It was a transition into a world of fighting, training, and protection, a gateway to the ring and a new chapter in my life.
The balance between saving lives while at work and fighting after, kept me grounded and helped me rebuild and reclaim my new identity.
“Who are ya’ fighting today?” Dallas asks as soon as I arrive at the underground facility.
I kick off my shoes and stretch my toes. It feels good to have them out of my worn cowboy boots, even if the alternative is feeling the familiar, damp, stained carpet of the facility underneath my feet.
“Billy the GOAT,” I respond.
Dallas chuckles, “I heard he’s a mean mother fucker from around here, but it should be a good fight.”
“When are you getting in the ring again, old man?” I shoot back.
Dallas is only two years younger than my brother Nash, but in better shape than any twenty-year-olds I’d ever seen.
I liked to think that his time spent training me is keeping him that way, but the guy never sits still whenever Dove is on tour.
He shakes his head, “Dove doesn’t want me fighting for sport, and I don’t have the fire in me that’s needed to do this type of grappling.
Typically, the crazy guys like you have some sort of deep-rooted anger that’s licking inside you and desperate to come out through your fists.
My life is too good for that. I’ve settled my demons.
Might be something for you to consider someday,” he chuckles at me knowingly and though we’d never gotten into all of the details of my past, he knows that I’m fighting mine every time I enter the ring.
“Clay, you’re up!” a voice calls from outside of the door where I’m getting ready.
I slide on my rash guard and strap on my gloves, pounding the knuckles together to warm the material.
“Hey, don’t forget to have fun too,” he says. “I didn’t get you into this to chase after a death wish. It’s about feeling the pain as much as it is about releasing it and enjoying yourself along the way.”
I nod, but his words barely register. My mind is clouded with pain, regret, and a mountain of anger most days.
I thrive on feeling that pain, perhaps too much.
In the ring, though, there isn’t much room for introspection—just the raw, immediate sensation of every blow you absorb and every move you make.
It’s something I dream now about and what I look forward to every week. ..