Chapter 7 Willa
SEVEN
willa
The porch boards are cold beneath me, the chill biting through my jeans despite the blanket around my shoulders. My work boots are untied, laces dragging in the frost that’s painted everything white and crystalline.
It’s barely six in the morning, and the sun is just starting to peek over the mountains, turning the sky from indigo to pink to gold.
I should be sleeping. After yesterday, I should be entitled to at least twelve more hours of unconsciousness.
But unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury today to hide. This is the final day of competition for this event, one day of load-outs, and then a four-day break before I’m back on the road and headed to Denver.
The end of the season is so close I can taste it.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, press the button, and turn it on. And I’m taken by surprise when it nearly vibrates out of my hand.
Twenty text messages. Nearly sixty-three notifications. But it’s Josie’s message that fills me with dread.
Josie: You need to see this.
I click the link she sent.
The post loads, and my heart stops.
@PbrNationOfficial: Pro bull rider Jake Dillon pulls a woman out of danger after she inadvertently ends up in the path of a startled bull during Saturday’s Sweet Creek Classic. Sources say no one was hurt—but fans can’t stop talking about this photo. #Pbr #JakeDillon #CowboyRescue
The photo. Oh God, the photo.
It’s me. On all fours in the dirt. And Jake behind me, his body pressed against mine, his hands on my hips in a way that looks—that looks like—
“No, no, no, no, no,” I mutter, scrolling through the comments with mounting horror.
@RodeoQueen89: Tell me why I’d sell my kids to be that girl.
@AlphaRanchMom: “Pulls her out of danger” my ass—ten bucks says she faked the whole thing.
@BullRidersAnonymous: The way his hand’s on her ass??? Someone call the fire department.
@BarrelRacerJess: If Jake Dillon looked at me like that, I’d fake it every damn weekend too.
@OmegaRightsNow:Can we not romanticize near-death experiences? The woman clearly looks shaken.
@TeamDillon:Jake was doing his job, folks. Everyone’s safe—let’s keep it classy.
@SaddleUpBabe: Safe? Maybe. But damn if I wouldn’t trade places with her for five seconds.
Somebody tagged me on my personal account. I don’t even know how. You can’t see my face in the photo, but with me being tagged, it’s not hard to tell that the woman in the photo is me. Not too many people have the hair I have.
My phone vibrates nonstop as I turn notifications back on, and suddenly I’m drowning in a sea of reactions, retweets, and increasingly creative commentary about what exactly Jake Dillon was doing with his hands.
Another text from Josie: Don’t panic. My dads are handling it. Also, are you OKAY? That bull looked massive.
I tell her I’m fine and I’ll text her later. That girl will worry herself into a panic attack if she doesn’t hear from me.
It seems the quiet, sneaky homecoming I’ve been enjoying is suddenly over. I pull the thick wool hat Josie made me lower over my forehead and try to adjust it so the little pin—a pair of joined horseshoes—doesn’t scratch at my skin.
When she slipped it into my hand that first day I saw her, she reminded me that I’d given it to her when we were ten. I was still shocked that she’d kept it all these years.
Pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, I stare at the crisp, clear horizon. I really do love it here. Out of all the places I’ve been, I’ve yet to see a place more beautiful. Endless atmosphere and pastel shades that only exist in a Wyoming sky. I’ve missed this porch.
Even if my ass is starting to freeze off, watching my breath fog in the cold air. But I can feel the bubbling anxious sludge threatening to boil over. I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee.
How did not one, not two, but three apparitions from the past materialize in not only the same place but the same day?
It’s not that crazy that I would have eventually run into Jake or even Beau.
We work for the same organization, after all.
Or even Charlie—being Caleb’s best friend, he was bound to be somewhere in my circle again at some point.
But seeing them all at once has thrown me so far off my axis.
The sun climbs higher, warming my face, and I realize I’m shaking.
“Get it together, James,” I mutter to myself. “You’re a professional. You’ve got a degree, a career, and absolutely zero time for Alpha drama.” Maybe saying it out loud will convince my Omega to listen.
No Alphas, no more—and not them.
But I can’t ignore the goosebumps that pop up on my skin when I think of how the presence of Beau’s almost overwhelming… Alpha-ness? Is that a word? Whatever it is, it made my Omega sit up and want to beg.
A flush creeps over my face. Oh god. I squeeze my thighs together at the sudden flood of awareness and sensation at my core.
My stomach growls, interrupting my pep talk and backslide. Right. Food. That’s what normal people do when they’re having a crisis. They eat.
I push to my feet, take the blanket inside, and grab my keys. The corner store—or café—opens at six, and if I’m lucky, they’ll have fresh biscuits and gravy. And coffee. Lots of coffee.
The crew must’ve hauled my car back after load-outs; it was waiting in the driveway this morning, keys in the cup holder, and somehow, miraculously, the damn thing actually starts. I can’t tell if the universe is nudging me toward something or…
No, I’m not going there again.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the gravel lot of Sweet Buns, ready for a plate of Hattie Belle’s famous breakfast biscuits.
The bell chimes when I push through the door, and the warm smell of coffee and bacon wraps around me like a hug. There are only a few people here this early—a couple of ranch hands grabbing breakfast before heading out to work, and—
Oh no.
There, sitting at the small table by the window, are Mabel, Dot, and Pearl. The Porch Committee. The three women who know everyone’s business before it even happens. There is no version of reality where they haven’t seen the photo or dived into all the comments.
Mabel spots me first. Her eyes light up like Christmas morning. “Well, well. Look who’s up with the chickens.”
I consider turning around and walking right back out, but that would only make things worse. They do love a good chase. Instead, I paste on a smile and head for the coffee station. “Morning, ladies.”
“Morning, honey,” Pearl purrs, and I can hear the mischief in her voice. “Rough night?”
“No,” I say, refusing to play. “Just an early morning. Work and all.” I pour coffee into a to-go cup with hands that are steadier than I feel. “Lots to do today.”
She leans over and whispers into Dot’s ear, to which Dot bursts into laughter. I just narrow my eyes at them.
“I bet,” Dot says, and there’s a world of meaning in those two words. “Heard you had quite a run-in with a particularly grumpy bull.”
My hand freezes on the coffee pot. Of course they’ve heard too.
“No, all pretty standard stuff,” I say carefully.
“Standard,” Mabel repeats, like she’s tasting the word. “That’s not how I would describe the Dillon boy.”
I firmly ignore the way his name still fills me with want. Am I mad? Hell yes, but under the anger is a bucket of hurt. And not wanting him was never our problem.
I order my biscuits and gravy from Hattie Belle, who gives me a sympathetic look that suggests she knows exactly what I’m dealing with. While I wait, I do my best to ignore the three sets of eyes boring into my back.
“You know,” Pearl says conversationally, “I saw the prettiest thing yesterday. Beau McCrae, helping out at the arena. Such a nice young man. And single, too. He sure has been absent since moving to Muddy Creek.”
I turn so quickly and look at her that she laughs and slaps her knee. So he lives here? In Muddy Creek? Well, that’s… interesting?
I take a drink of the scalding coffee to stop myself from asking what they know and give a shout when I burn my lip. I need cream—I forgot to add it. And the virgin liquid was ten degrees hotter than I expected.
“Mmmm, if I wasn’t deeply in love with this old thing, I’d definitely be curious what he keeps in those pants,” Dot agrees theatrically as she wraps Pearl in a tight hug and presses a kiss to her cheek.
“Sorry, babe, but if Beau McCrae came and offered me what’s in his pants, I’d have to take him up on it,” Pearl deadpans.
I choke on the drink I had in my mouth, nearly spitting it out. There’s something very unsettling about hearing someone as old as your grandma talking about what’s in someone’s pants.
“Though with Jake Dillon back in town, this winter is bound to be a lot more interesting. Remember him, Willa? You two used to have a thing, right?”
My coffee cup vibrates slightly in my grip. “That was a long time ago.”
“And Charlie Holt,” Mabel adds nonchalantly, because apparently, we’re just going to list every man I ran into yesterday. “Heard he’s agreed to help that old codger Eli at the fairgrounds. Funny how these things happen, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” I mutter.
“You guys used to be thick as thieves, right?” Pearl says, all innocence. She knows. They all do. There wasn’t a single summer of my life that I wasn’t running wild with Charlie and Caleb.
He still smells like home.
Hattie Belle saves me by handing over my food, and I grab it like a lifeline. “Well, ladies, this has been lovely, but I really need to—”
I turn toward the door and walk straight into a hard wall of muscle and warmth.
My coffee lid flies off, splashing coffee across the linoleum. My bag of food falls to the floor. The newspaper I’d tucked under my arm goes flying. And I, in all my grace and coordination, stumble backward and would definitely fall on my ass if large, strong hands didn’t catch me by the elbows.
“Whoa, easy there.”
That voice. Deep and rough and laced with amusement. Why…