Chapter 1 Willa
ONE
willa
“Morning, darlin’.” Eli Briggs tips his hat as I approach the holding pens. The big Alpha treats his bulls like royalty, and he’s one of the few men here who’s never made me feel like I have to prove myself twice as hard. “Got a couple new ones in the mix today. Figured you’d want first look.”
“Appreciate it.” I flip open my chart, pen ready. “What’s their story?”
“Fresh from a ranch outside Cheyenne. Been on the amateur circuit but never faced riders of this caliber.” He gestures toward two massive Brahma crosses, their dark eyes calm but alert. “That one’s called Thunder Road, and the paint there is Midnight Express.”
I approach slowly, letting them scent me before running my hands along their flanks. Good muscle tone, no obvious stress signs. “They look solid. Any behavioral notes?”
“Thunder Road’s got a spin to the left, likes to get riders off early. Midnight Express is a straight bucker but strong as hell.” Eli grins. “Should make for some interesting rides.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them.” I make my notes, checking off their clearance for competition. The familiar routine steadies me, reminds me why I decided to get back here.
The morning flies by in a blur of routine checks and paperwork. By the time the riders start filtering in for warm-ups, I’m feeling good about the day.
By afternoon, I’ve gone through hydration assessments, checked for any signs of lameness or respiratory distress, updated charts, and reviewed the day’s roster with the stock contractors.
I keep my head down, do my job, and avoid Mark Felton like the plague he is.
It’s worked so far. Now I have one more round to go before I can head out.
The Muddy Creek fairgrounds are alive with movement—trucks parked in long rows, families bundled in wool coats, and vendors hawking hot cider and roasted nuts that steam in the sharp November air. Christmas banners flap on the fence posts, red bows tied up neatly against a fresh dusting of snow.
Muddy Creek is dressed up for the holidays, and it looks beautiful.
A loud whistle startles me, and one glance at my watch makes my stomach drop. Hell. I’m late for a wellness check. Tugging my coat tighter around my neck, I take off at a jog toward the indoor arena.
The moment I shove through the side doors, the world explodes in sound and scent. Heat wraps around me. The air is warmer, but it’s heavy too—saturated with dust, leather, hay, and pheromones.
My dual-acting scent blockers are working overtime, but even with suppressants in my system, I feel it like a hum in my bones.
There are too many Alphas in one place, too much adrenaline.
The whole arena is steeped in pheromones so thick it’s almost tangible; the haze of masculine energy is fucking overwhelming.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and press forward.
The sound is a living thing, alive and electric.
The crowd roars from the rafters, boots pounding against the bleacher benches in a rhythm that shakes the arena.
Christmas wreaths hang from the posts, and more than a few Santa hats bob in the sea of cowboy hats and wool beanies.
For all the chaos, I can’t help it—I love this time of year.
I check three bulls in the holding pens, running quick eyes over backs, hooves, and shoulders. Hydration is good. Respiration normal. The brindled beast in front of me, called Ghost Pepper, swings his head, and I murmur low until the white of his eye softens.
“Atta boy,” I say, giving the pen boss a nod. “He’s fine to go.”
Once Ghost Pepper’s ride is done, I’m almost done for the day, and I’m beat. I’ve got a bath waiting for me tonight. I check my watch again—just in time to see Ghost Pepper tense in the chute.
The announcer’s voice peaks, and the crowd erupts. I keep my focus on the bulls in the holding pens, their flanks twitching, nostrils steaming in the artificial light. My job is to check vitals, watch for strain, and keep the animals fit to ride. Not to get caught up in the spectacle.
By the time I’m done with the final checks, I’m surrounded by a river of bodies.
Gate men. Bull fighters. Hands with rosin-blackened fingers.
I move sideways like a crab, hugging the fence, radios chattering at my hip.
I’m not tall, but I am stubbornly unmovable once I pick a line, and men twice my size flow around me because they’ve learned it’s easier than catching my glare.
The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, hyping up the next ride.
I weave my way through the chute alley, past handlers chalking ropes and slapping riders on the back. My kit is heavy on my shoulder, stocked with stethoscopes, syringes, and antiseptic.
I ignore the way men’s eyes flick toward me—some curious, some dismissive, a few downright skeptical. I’ve learned to live with it. If I let every look knock me off balance, I’d never make it in this job.
I find a spot on the rails where I can watch Ghost Pepper’s run and flip open my chart to jot down a few last notes. A rider swings into the chute, but I barely register him.
“McCrea, go!”
The name makes my head snap up. I had no idea he was here.
I look toward the chute just as the rider drops down, knees hugging the bull, settling onto his back in one smooth motion.
In record time, he sets his rope and gets his seat.
His shoulders rise and fall once, right before he nods to the latch man.
Then he looks up and meets my stare. His eyes, so light-blue they almost blend into the whites, stare right back.
Beau McCrea. Legendary bull rider. The Saint of the Circuit and the man who was the subject of every girlhood crush…
It’s surreal to see the object of fantasy in the flesh.
I’ve seen him ride before—he was the rookie who stole the championship from my father.
And if I’m honest, that might be what started the infatuation.
His ice-blue eyes slide away as fast as they found me. The chute clangs open, and the bull explodes into the arena, hide slick with sweat, muscles rolling like thunder under the glare of the spotlights. Ghost Pepper—aptly named, mean as fire—bucks hard, twisting high.
And on his back is the rider that makes my traitorous heart skip, beating a little faster.
For a moment, I’m mesmerized. Bull riding always gets me. I don’t know if it’s the danger, the sheer reckless courage, or the energy pouring off animal and Alpha alike. But when it’s good? It’s pure ballet. Time slows. The whole world shrinks to eight seconds of grit and grace.
And Beau McCrea blows most others clean out of the water.
He’s tall even at a distance, shoulders filling out his dark shirt, thighs clamped around the beast like he was born in that seat. The brim of his helmet shadows his face, but I catch a flash of a grin—wide, dangerous, devastating. The crowd’s cheer tightens into a single held breath.
Eight solid seconds stretch long enough to live a whole other life inside them. A buzzer screams. The arena erupts, the sound pressing against my skin.
The cowboy flies free, tucks into a roll, and pops back to his feet like it’s nothing. He vaults up onto the shark cage, pounding his chest three times before pointing to the stands with a wild whoop that rattles the rafters.
The Saint of the Circuit. The Golden Boy. I don’t even need to see the score to know it was technically perfect. Bull and rider made history.
The announcer’s voice booms—“Ninety-six point eight!”—and the crowd loses its mind. He grins, soaking up every decibel of their adoration. He’s magnetic, the kind of man who makes the very air bend toward him.
He jumps down from the cage, jogs toward the rail, and flashes another charming, self-satisfied smile at the fans reaching for him. Then his head turns just enough, and his eyes lock on me… for the second time.
The rest of the world blips out of existence.
His face is unfairly perfect. Scruffy, sharp—cheekbones and jaw carved too severe to be pretty, but somehow all the more devastating for it. Dark hair disheveled from being under his riding helmet. And those eyes… fierce and intent, devouring me.
Then he winks.
Just like that, my world tilts, and then he’s back to whooping at the crowd, leaving me oddly bereft without the weight of his eyes on my skin.
My Omega rears up like she’s on fire. And the proximity of him makes my mouth water. Oh yeah, my Omega side definitely wants whatever that look promised.
Fuck if my core doesn’t clench at what is arguably the most dangerously beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I force my gaze—and my lady bits—to ignore the spectacle.
Chute men slap him on the back as he jogs the fence line, bullfighters keeping Ghost Pepper busy long enough for Beau to clear out.
Then the pen crew takes over, guiding the bull toward the exit gate.
The chute alley narrows near where I’m positioned, just beyond the gate, a buffer between the animal’s path and the hundred hands reaching out to touch a bit of glory.
I’ve seen a thousand rides. I’m not here for a man in a hat. Even if this one just happens to be the cowboy who fueled my very first crush—and more than a few late-night fantasy sessions I’d rather not admit to.
“Fuck me,” I mutter to myself, and turn to the business of not caring. I fix my attention where it belongs: on the numbers that keep these animals safe. Breathing and blink rate. Hoof angles. The hitch of a flank that might mean soreness. Anything but him.
But too late, I realize the Saint himself is coming straight down my lane. And the way I’m wedged here, there’s no graceful way out.
Panic zips through me. I spin on my heel and head for the side exit that feeds into the barn walkway.
Even the sight of the grim little row of portable outhouses looks better than colliding with Beau McCrae’s gravitational field.
Dignity be damned—I’ll hide anywhere if it means avoiding that pressure system bearing down on me.