Chapter 2
Knox
“So you’re telling me,” I say, pacing the length of my cabin’s small living room, “that Jack Dalton has gone completely off the grid?”
My manager, Gary, sighs on the other end of the line. I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses perched on his balding head. “We’ve been trying to reach him for three days, Knox. No one at the APbrA has heard from him. There are... rumblings.”
I stop pacing, my boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. “Rumblings? What kind of rumblings? You know I hate vague shit, Gary.”
“Trouble with the association,” he says, his words careful. “Some kind of internal conflict. No one’s saying much, but Dalton was at the center of it. Now he’s gone, and no one knows if the season is even going to happen.”
My gut clenches. I’ve spent months training, pushing my body to its limits, preparing for the Rough Riders Circuit. The thought of all that work going to waste makes me want to punch something.
“Is there going to be a competition this year or not?” I demand, running a hand through my hair.
“If the APbrA falls through, we’ll find another circuit,” Gary assures me. “Your talent is too good to waste. We’ll make sure you have somewhere to compete. Your months of practice won’t be for nothing.”
I let out a breath. “Alright. Keep me updated.”
“Will do. Try not to worry too much. Focus on training.”
“Yeah,” I say, ending the call and tossing my phone onto the couch.
I walk to the window, looking out at the sprawling expanse of Meadowlark Ranch.
The Wyoming sun is high in the sky, casting long shadows across the pasture.
In the distance, I can see the roof of Boone’s cabin, smoke curling from its chimney.
It’s thanks to him that I even have this place as my retreat.
Boone and I go way back. We met on the circuit a few years ago, both of us young and hungry.
He was the quiet, intense one; I was the charismatic daredevil.
Somehow, we became best friends. When I mentioned needing a place to escape the noise between events, he put me onto Mr. Anthony Cruz, the old man who owned this ranch.
Mr. Cruz was a character, tough as leather but with a soft spot for rodeo folks.
He’d rented me one of the cabins at the edge of his property, happy to have the extra income and someone to keep an eye on things.
I’d sit with him on his porch sometimes, drinking whiskey and listening to stories about the old days.
It was a damn shame when he died two months ago.
Heart attack, they said. Quick. He’d left instructions to be cremated, no fuss, just the way he lived his life.
I wonder what will happen to this place, who gets to inherit it now.
Anthony always talked about his daughter Angelina, but from what I know, she died almost ten years ago.
I know he has a granddaughter somewhere who abandoned him and the ranch. Did he have anyone else?
Not my business, I guess, but it feels strange knowing the old man is gone.
I stretch my arms over my head, my muscles protesting. It’s almost midday. Hopefully Boone will be done with his chores soon so we can head to The Salt Lick for a couple of cold beers. I could use the distraction.
My phone buzzes on the couch, but I ignore it. Right now, all I want is a shower. The cabin Rhett stays in is empty—he took the cattle to the new pasture this morning, leaving me with nothing to do but wait and worry about my career.
I grab my portable radio from the counter. It’s been with me through every circuit, every city, every victory and defeat. It’s battered and old, but it still works like a charm. I tune it to a classic rock station, AC/DC blasting through the speakers as I head outside.
The shower is just a stone’s throw from my cabin, three walls of weathered wood and no roof.
I love that it opens to the sky. It’s my favorite part of this place—standing under the hot water with nothing but Wyoming wilderness around me.
I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on a nearby rock, and step under the spray.
The water is hot, instantly easing the tension in my shoulders.
I close my eyes, tilting my head back as “Back in Black” fills the air.
I soap up, the scent of pine and cedar mixing with my own whiskey, black tea, and ginger scent.
Out here, I can almost forget about the APbrA, about Jack Dalton, about the uncertainty of my future.
Out here, I’m just Knox. A man in the shower, with good music and hot water.
I shut off the water, the sudden silence ringing in my ears. I push open the simple wooden door, reaching for the towel I left hanging on a hook—
And then my world explodes in pain.
A spray hits me square in the face, searing, burning. My eyes slam shut, tears streaming down my cheeks. My throat closes up. I’m choking, sputtering, bent double as the chemical assault continues.
“What the fuck!” I manage to gasp, my hands flying to my face. “What the fuck?”
Through the blur of tears and pain, I make out a shape. Small. A woman. She’s wearing a skirt suit and holding a small canister, her hand shaking.
“Who the fuck are you?” I shout. My throat is already feeling scratchy.
She’s choking too, coughing as the spray catches her in the crosswind. “Who the fuck are you?” she screams back with a mix of fury and panic. “This is my property!”
“Fuck!” The word tears from my throat, raw and broken. My eyes are on fire, a thousand tiny needles stabbing into them. Tears stream down my face, and I can feel the towel slipping, the damp cotton a pathetic shield against this assault.
I clutch it to my hips with one hand, the other flailing blindly in front of me. I’ve been thrown from bulls, broken bones, torn muscles, but I have never had pepper spray to the face. This is a different kind of agony.
I stumble backward, my feet catching on an uneven rock. The world is a watery, painful blur of green and brown. I need water. Now.
My back hits the rough wood of the shower stall.
Fumbling, I find the knob and twist it. Cold water sprays out, and I shove my hands under it, the shock of the temperature a brief distraction from the burning in my eyes.
I scrub at my skin, the water turning pink as it washes away the immediate residue.
Through the cascade of water, I can see her.
She’s still choking, bent at the waist, one hand clutching that damn canister like it’s a lifeline.
The other hand is wiping furiously at her face.
Her skirt suit—some expensive-looking gray number—is completely wrong for this place.
The blazer the color of a storm cloud is now streaked with dirt, and her heels are sinking into the soft ground, making her wobble.
She looks like a city-dweller who got dropped on another planet.
“Need help?” I shout, my voice coming out as a hoarse croak.
“No!” she screams back, her voice strained. She straightens up, still sputtering. “Who the hell are you?”
My brain is still scrambled from the spray. “Knox,” I say. “And you are?”
She blinks, the motion rapid and furious. “Who?”
“Knox,” I repeat, turning my face back into the spray. The water helps, but the burning is still there, a relentless fire under my skin. I risk opening my eyes a slit, watching her through the curtain of water.
She’s still struggling, the canister slipping in her grasp. She’s crying now, real tears mixing with the chemical ones, tracking clean paths through the mess on her cheeks. She looks lost. Furious, but lost.
“The water can help a little bit,” I say, my voice softer now. I shut off the shower and take a step toward her, my hand outstretched.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” she shrieks, stumbling back. “I have a gun!”
Even through the haze of pain, I can tell she’s lying. Her hand shakes too much to hold a weapon steady. The threat is too loud, too brittle, like a cornered animal making itself sound bigger than it is.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, taking another step.
“Uh-huh,” she says, but her voice wavers. She’s all bluster and fear, her bravado crumbling as quickly as it appeared.
I feel a strange pull, an instinct to comfort that wars with the anger still simmering in my gut. I cup my hands under the shower head, filling them with cold water. I ignore her sharp intake of breath as I close the distance between us.
“Hold still,” I command, leaving no room for argument.
Before she can protest again, I gently wipe at her eyes with my wet hands. Her skin is soft, her lashes long and dark against the redness of her eyelids. She flinches at my touch but doesn’t pull away, her body frozen as I clean the chemical from her face.
She blinks up at me, her eyes finally focusing. They’re an incredible shade of green, like new leaves in spring. Even with the acrid smell of pepper spray still hanging in the air, I can smell something else. Something underneath it all.
A thread of scent so potent it cuts right through the pain.
Vanilla cream. Wild honey. Almond blossom.
It hits me like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that has nothing to do with the chemicals still stinging my skin. My entire body goes taut, every nerve ending suddenly alert. My Alpha roars to life inside me, a possessive, primal force I haven’t felt this strongly in years.
An Omega.
This is an Omega. Right here. In front of me.
The world narrows to her face, to those wide, green eyes, to the scent that’s now wrapping around me like a warm blanket. The pain in my own eyes fades into the background, insignificant compared to the sudden, overwhelming need to...
To what?
Protect her. Claim her. Bury my face in her hair and breathe her in until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin.
I drop my hands, my towel forgotten, my entire being focused on her.
“Who are you?” I ask again, my voice thick with an emotion I can’t name.
She swallows hard, her throat working. “Saramaria,” she says. “Saramaria Cruz.”