Chapter 5 Willa
FIVE
willa
“Ain’t you done, darlin’? Go home, or wherever it is you spend your time when you’re not here.” Eli grins.
“Home for sure. My boss is a real asshole if I’m late.” I level a teasing stare at him.
“Ha ha.” His tone is as dry as burnt toast. “Really, Willa, you’ve been back home for weeks. Go out, get a drink. Lord knows you’ll never meet a pack if you never leave the old homestead. Hell, you’re too young to spend a Friday night folding laundry.”
I don’t rise to the bait. Eli’s been trying to nudge me toward a pack since I got back. He’s old-school in a lot of ways, but I know he only wants what’s best for his people. And for some reason, as soon as I returned, he decided I was his people.
“Folding laundry is what gets me off.”
He chokes on the beer he just put to his lips and nearly spits it all over the roster.
He reminds me of my dad—if my dad had not been an utterly worthless sack of shit. So yeah, I definitely have a soft spot for him.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t do that, darlin’.”
I just laugh and shove the clipboard back into Eli’s hands, giving him a mock salute. “Later, Eli. And if you see my asshole boss, tell him I’ll be late because I’m too busy getting drunk… and folding my laundry.”
I clip the radio back onto the rack and shoulder my kit. I’ll need to restock in the morning before checking in. It’s been a couple of days since I checked in with the clinic, and I’m sure the doc will want to hear how it’s been going.
Every muscle in my body is screaming for my couch, whiskey, a hot bath, and about twelve hours of sleep. The arena grounds are finally quiet, most of the crew having packed up and left an hour ago.
Even the die-hard fans have cleared out, leaving nothing but empty beer cans and the lingering scent of dust and animal shit. There are a few big trucks tucked over by the arena animal entrance. Probably tomorrow’s riders are doing last-minute checks.
My car sits alone under one of the security lights, looking as tired as I feel. I slide into the driver’s seat and turn the key.
Nothing.
“Come on,” I mutter, trying again. The engine turns over weakly, then dies with a pathetic wheeze. “Don’t do this to me. Not tonight.”
I lean back against the headrest and start counting.
One. Two. Three.
It’s something my therapist taught me back in college—count to twenty when you feel like the world is closing in. Give your nervous system time to reset.
Four. Five. Six.
Through my windshield, the Wyoming sky stretches, endless and dark, scattered with more stars than I’d forgotten existed. In California, the sky always felt smaller somehow. Contained. Here, it goes on forever, like you could drive straight up into all that darkness and never find the end.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
What the actual fuck happened today?
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
This morning feels like a lifetime ago. This morning, I was Dr. Willa James, a competent veterinary intern with a clear plan for the day. Nothing complicated for this Omega.
Now I’m sitting in my broken-ass car, trying not to think about ice-blue eyes and devastating smiles and the way my Omega is all kinds of jittery after not one but two Alphas decided to run headlong into my world.
I think the universe missed my “no cowboys” memo.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
Beau McCrae.
My skin tightens when I remember how good he smelled. I used to fall asleep staring at his poster on my bedroom wall—teenage me convinced no other ass could ever look that good in Wranglers. The man who fueled more late-night fantasies than I’d ever admit out loud.
I knew he had to be a fucking amazing. You don’t take home two world championships if you’re not. But he was… Christ. He thoroughly dismantled and destroyed everything I thought I knew about Alpha pheromones.
I’ve never been that close to forgetting myself and letting my designation take over. My Omega brain wanted nothing more than to climb him and ride until I couldn’t see straight. Until I was drenched in slick and his scent. Until I smelled like him for a week.
Just recalling how big his hands felt on my elbow makes my pulse stutter… and even with my blockers, my scent spikes hot in the cramped little space of my car. I clench my thighs and swallow a moan at the sudden pulse between my thighs.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
Closing my eyes, I try desperately to wrestle myself back under the tight control I’ve lived in for years. But Beau’s face melts into Charlie’s.
The boy who used to patch up my scraped knees and sneak me extra cookies from his mom’s jar. The boy who gave me my very first kiss on his tailgate, searing itself in my memory.
Except he’s not a boy anymore.
The man I saw in the barn tonight was all broad shoulders, strength, and power. His callused hands, every inch of him carved out of work and grit. No mistaking him for anything but an Alpha. His eyes seemed to strip away every lie and story I’ve wrapped around myself since I left.
The way he looked at me… I’d surprised him, that much was clear.
But that look also promised things I’m too scared to admit I want. My skin still itches with the rush of sensation that flowed through me when our eyes met. I don’t even have a name for it—anticipation, longing, hunger—all tangled together until it felt like drowning.
All I know is it sank its claws deep, and I’m fighting against the fear that whatever door these two Alphas just opened in me, I won’t be able to close.
Nineteen. Twenty.
And then—as if two Alphas weren’t enough to send my Omega instincts into a tailspin even through souped-up blockers—I get Mark Felton.
I’ve spent all my time here making damn sure I’m never alone in the same space as him, and for whatever reason, he’s blessedly left me to my work. But tonight, apparently, my amnesty is over.
My stomach clenches at the memory of his voice—slippery as spit and twice as gross. His rank scent hit me so hard it almost made me gag, dragging me straight back to seventeen again, trapped and helpless.
That subtle threat wrapped in corporate speak still echoes in my head: Maybe you should try to be more grateful for your opportunity here…
Damn, I hate him.
I try the ignition again. This time, the engine coughs to life for a few seconds before dying with a shudder that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
“This is not happening,” I tell the dashboard. “I refuse to be stranded here with my luck. So you better get it together.”
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. Eli. Again.
“Please tell me you’re calling to offer me a ride home,” I say without preamble.
“Actually, I was hoping you were still on the grounds.” His voice is tight with worry. “We’ve got a situation.”
My heart sinks. “What kind of situation?”
“Hell or Highwater. One of the handlers thought he saw some swelling in his left rear leg, but the animal was too worked up to get a good look, and we need a vet to order the transport if it’s necessary. I know it’s late, but—”
“I’m on my way.”
Because that’s what you do when you’re the new girl trying to prove yourself. You say yes to everything, even when your car won’t start, and your Omega is having a nervous breakdown, and you’ve already had enough excitement for one lifetime.
“But Eli, my car’s dead,” I add. “Is anyone around to give me a ride home after?”
“Miguel’s still here cleaning up. I’ll have him swing by and get you after you look at him.”
Five minutes later, I’m rounding the holding pens and heading across the arena grounds, trying not to think about how this day just keeps getting worse.
The handler—Jim, I think his name is, or maybe it’s Ben? He brought the bulls this morning from South County. He’s still leaning on the fence and gives me a quick once-over.
“Rough day?” he asks, glancing at me sideways.
“You could say that.”
“Well, Hell or Highwater’s been having a rough day too, so you’re even.”
I snort. “What’s his deal?”
“Ornery as hell since they trucked him in from Colorado. Been kicking at everything that moves and half the things that don’t.”
Just then, Miguel pulls up to the big open bay in his truck, next to the stock barns, and kills the engine. “Hey, Wills, I have to talk to a couple of people, unless… Want me to stick around?”
Miguel is one of the good ones. He has always been super professional, if not a little overprotective.
“Nah, I got it. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”
Famous last words.
The injured bull is in the far pen, and I can see the problem the moment I approach. He’s favoring his left rear leg, shifting his weight like the limb’s bothering him. Could be soft-tissue, stress from transport—hard to say without getting closer.
“Hey there, big guy,” I murmur, approaching the pen slowly. “Let’s see what’s got you so cranky.”
The bull eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t charge, which I take as a good sign. I slip through the gate, moving with the careful deliberation that years around livestock has taught me. Never rush. Never corner. Always give them an out.
“Easy, boy. Just want to take a quick look.”
Hell or Highwater snorts but allows me to approach his hindquarters. Up close, the swelling is obvious—definitely a strain, probably from his transport. Nothing that can’t be handled with some anti-inflammatory and rest.
I’m crouched by his left leg, running gentle hands over the swollen tissue, when everything goes sideways.
Maybe it’s the sudden sound from the loudspeaker or a particularly tender spot on the tendon. But something spooks him, and fifteen hundred pounds of panicked bull decides that the small Omega crouched behind him is suddenly a threat.
He kicks and lunges away from the direction of the announcer booth—which unfortunately happens to be toward me.
I throw myself sideways, but there’s nowhere to go. The back of the pen walls are too close, too high, and Hell or Highwater is spinning toward me, fear-blind. Time slows to a crawl as I realize I’m about to become a very small, very flat pancake.
This is going to hurt. Trampled by a bull because my car wouldn’t start, and I’m too stubborn to say no to overtime.
But instead of hooves and pain and head trauma, massive arms wrap around my waist, and I’m lifted clean off the ground. We clear the top rail and crash down into the alley beyond, my rescuer rolling us to take the hit as the bull slams the fence behind us.
For a moment, we just breathe. Hard. His chest heaves under me, my face inches from his.