Chapter 9
Knox
The air in the conference room is recycled and tastes of stale coffee and anxiety. It’s a world away from the clean scent of pine and earth at the ranch.
This is the other side of my life. The side of polished boardroom tables, tailored suits, and conversations that feel like they’re happening in a language I barely speak.
Gary, my manager, sits across from me, his face a mask of grim professionalism.
To his left is Ms. Sterling, my lawyer, a woman in a razor-sharp blazer who looks like she could disembowel a rival attorney with a single glare.
To his right is Leo, the publicist, a young man with an artfully messy haircut and a perpetually nervous energy.
“Knox,” Gary begins, his voice low and serious. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. He pushes a tablet across the table, the screen glowing with a dizzying array of notifications. “You need to see this.”
I pick it up. My thumb swipes, and the world explodes. Headlines, in bold, screaming fonts, leap out at me.
DALTON DISGRACED: APbrA HEAD FIRED AMID SHOCKING ABUSE SCANDAL.
BULL RIDING ASSOCIATION IN CRISIS AFTER EXECUTIVE ACCUSED OF ASSAULT.
WILLA JAMES: THE OMEGA AT THE CENTER OF THE STORM.
My gut clenches with anger and disbelief.
Jack Dalton. The head of the Rough Riders Circuit.
A legend in the sport. A man I’ve looked up to, respected.
The pictures accompanying the articles are grainy, long-lens shots of Jack looking furious, and another of Willa, her face pale and shielded by a tall, broad-shouldered Alpha I recognize as her packmate, Beau McCrae.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, my voice a low growl. I’m not big on social media—I leave that to Leo. I ride bulls. I don’t tweet about it. But this... this is a tidal wave. A shitstorm of epic proportions.
“It’s out,” Gary says, his tone flat. “The story broke about an hour ago. It’s everywhere. Every sports outlet, every gossip rag. It’s the lead story on the national news.”
“Was he... did he...” I can’t even finish the sentence. The thought of it, of a man in his position of power, a figurehead of our sport, preying on an Omega... it’s sickening.
“According to our sources, he made an unwanted advance on Willa James. At the APbrA headquarters,” Ms. Sterling says, her voice crisp and devoid of emotion. “He was terminated immediately. The board is trying to get ahead of it, but the dam has broken.”
I lean back in my chair, the expensive leather creaking under my weight.
Anger, hot and potent, courses through me.
This was supposed to be my sanctuary. The Cruz ranch, with its quiet routines and the familiar rhythm of the land, was the place I came to escape the politics, the pressure, the bullshit of the circuit.
And now this. The scandal has followed me here, contaminating my safe place.
“What’s being done?” I ask, my voice tight.
“Jack is gone,” Gary says. “The APbrA is releasing a statement condemning his actions and expressing their full support for Willa and all Omegas in the sport. They’re scrambling to do damage control.”
Leo chimes in, his hands fluttering nervously. “We need to discuss the best way forward for you, Knox. Your name is already being dragged into this, by association. You’re one of the top riders on the RRC. The media is going to be looking for comments from all the major players.”
But I’m barely listening. My mind is stuck on one thing. One person. “First things first,” I say, my voice cutting through their corporate-speak. “Is Willa okay?”
Gary’s expression softens, just a fraction. “As far as we know, she is. She’s with her pack. Beau McCrae, Charlie Holt, Jake Dillon... they’re not letting anyone near her.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can’t imagine what that would do to an Omega, the violation, the fear. But I’m glad she has them. A pack to protect her, to surround her with their scent and their strength. It’s what they’re supposed to do.
An image flashes in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
Saramaria. Standing in my shower, wrapped in a white robe, her hair a wild mess, her green eyes flashing with defiance.
If something like that happened to her, who would protect her?
She’s alone. She has no pack. She has a dog she calls Doggy and a stubborn streak a mile wide.
The thought is a painful jab in my chest.
I push it away. Hard. Not my fucking problem. She’s trying to sell my home. She pepper sprayed me. I need to focus on my career.
“Knox,” Gary says, pulling me back to the present. “We need to know if you want to step away from the competition this year. Lay low until this blows over.”
“Absolutely not,” Ms. Sterling interjects before I can even answer.
“We would strongly advise against that. Stepping away now would look like an admission of guilt by association. You need to be visible. You need to be seen as part of the new guard, the riders who are moving the sport forward, away from this kind of toxic, old-school behavior.”
She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right. Hiding would only make it worse.
“I need a minute,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
Leo slides another tablet in front of me. “We’ve already drafted a media statement for you. Something you can post on your socials. It expresses your support for Willa and your condemnation of Jack’s actions, without being overly specific.”
I read it. The words are hollow, a carefully crafted piece of corporate PR designed to protect my brand. “I am shocked and deeply saddened by the allegations against Jack Dalton. I stand in full support of Willa James and all Omegas in our sport. There’s no place for this kind of behavior...”
It feels fake.
“I need to think about whether I’ll even participate this season,” I say, pushing the tablet away. The thought of getting on a bull, of putting on a show for the cameras while this is happening, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Of course,” Gary says smoothly. “Take all the time you need. We just need to know by the end of the week.”
“In the meantime,” Leo adds, “we still have several ad shoots scheduled. The Wrangler campaign, the energy drink endorsement. We should probably keep those. Show that business is continuing as usual.”
I nod, my head starting to ache. “Fine. Schedule them.”
The meeting drags on for another hour, a blur of strategies and talking points and potential PR nightmares. By the time I leave, I feel like I need to scrub my skin clean. I get in my truck, the engine a comforting, familiar rumble, and pull out into the city traffic.
As I drive, the anger and confusion churn inside me. I need to do something. Something real. Not a media statement. Not a carefully crafted photo-op.
I pass a small flower shop on the edge of town, a bright, cheerful spot in a sea of concrete. On impulse, I pull over.
The bell above the door jingles as I walk in. The air is thick with the scent of a hundred different flowers—roses and lilies and carnations, a sweet, cloying perfume. A woman with kind eyes and dirt under her fingernails looks up from arranging a bouquet.
“Help you?” she asks.
“I need to order several bouquets,” I say, my voice still rough. “To be delivered to the Sweetgrass Veterinary Clinic.”
A small smile touches her lips. “For Willa, I assume?”
I just nod.
“What kind of flowers did you have in mind?”
“Something strong,” I say, the words coming out before I think about them. “Something resilient. Sunflowers, maybe. And something soft, too. For comfort.”
She nods, her expression understanding. “I know just the thing.”
I order five massive bouquets, a riot of yellow sunflowers, soft blue delphinium, and fragrant eucalyptus. I write a simple note on a small card. Thinking of you. —Knox W. It’s not much. It’s not enough. But it’s the least I can do.
Back in the truck, the flowers ordered, a small measure of the tension in my shoulders eases. I can’t fix the APbrA. I can’t erase what happened to Willa. But I sent flowers. It’s a small, tangible act of care in a world that feels like it’s spinning out of control.
I pull back onto the highway, heading toward the ranch. Toward the mess waiting for me there. Toward a stubborn Omega in a fluffy white robe and a fight I’m not sure I can win.
It feels like I’ve done something, but it also feels like I’ve done nothing at all.
As I turn onto the dirt road that leads to the cabins, I see them.
Boone and Jasper. They’re in the small corral near the barn, and Boone is holding one of the younger ranch horses, a nervous-looking bay with a skittish energy.
Jasper, a tall, inked Alpha I’ve only known for a couple of years, is on the ground, one of the horse’s hooves propped between his knees.
The metallic scent of the farrier’s torch hangs in the air, mixed with the smell of singed hoof and horse sweat. Jasper is focused, his movements precise and economical as he trims the hoof. He’s good at his job. Quiet. Efficient. A man of few words, which I appreciate.
I kill the engine, the sudden silence feeling heavy after the roar of the highway. I get out, slamming the door of my truck a little harder than I mean to. The sound makes the horse jump, but Boone’s hand on its lead rope is a calming, steady weight.
“How’d the meeting go?” Boone asks, his eyes on the horse, not on me. He can probably smell the city on me, the stress and the bullshit.
“Not well,” I say, my voice tight. “But we’ll talk about it later.” I don’t want to get into it here, not in front of Jasper. I want my best friend to help me process the anger coursing through my business. This is pack business.
Boone nods, his gaze finally meeting mine. There’s a concern in his eyes that I appreciate, but I don’t have the energy to address it right now. I give him a subtle shake of my head, a silent “I’m okay” that we both know is a lie.
“Damn,” Jasper mutters, standing up and stretching his back. “Need my nippers. Left ’em in the truck.”
He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and walks toward his battered pickup, giving us the space he seems to instinctively know we need.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Boone’s whole posture changes. The confident ranch hand who can calm a nervous horse with a single touch is gone, replaced by a man who looks utterly lost.
“I fucked up,” he says, his voice so low I almost don’t hear it.
“What did you do?” I ask, my mind immediately jumping to the worst-case scenario. Did he confront her again? Did the stonewalling escalate into something more?
He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of frustration I’ve seen a hundred times. “I’m not even sure.” He looks toward the main house, his expression conflicted. “She hurt herself. Fell out by the old culvert.”
“Is she okay?” I ask, my body already turning, my feet ready to move toward the house. The anger and frustration from my meeting evaporate, replaced by a protective instinct that takes me by surprise.
I don’t like her. She’s trying to sell our home. But she’s an Omega, alone on this ranch, and she’s hurt.
“She’s fine,” Boone says, putting a hand on my arm to stop me. “Wait. I... I took care of it. Got her back to the house. Her wrist is sprained, not broken. I think.”
I relax, just a fraction, but the concern doesn’t fade. “You took care of it?”
He nods, his gaze distant. “Yeah.” He’s quiet for a long moment, the only sound the horse’s soft snorts and the distant clang of Jasper’s tools in his truck. Then he looks at me, and his eyes are full of a question I wasn’t expecting. “Do you think we’re being too hard on her?”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Her,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the house.
“We’ve been giving her the cold shoulder.
Blocking her at every turn. And I get it, I do.
This is our home. But... we haven’t even had a real conversation.
Not about Anthony. Not about why she left.
” He swallows, his throat working. “There’s a reason she took off, right? And I just... I want to know.”
I watch him, seeing the conflict etched on his face.
The history between them is a minefield I have no desire to cross.
“Man, I can’t tell you what to do or how to think,” I say, my voice softer now.
“Because I’m not sure what the hell is going on between you two.
All I know is she wants to sell the land, and we can’t let that happen. ”
“Nothing,” he says, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking back at the house, his expression a complicated mix of anger, regret, and something else I can’t name.
Just then, Rhett’s truck pulls in, kicking up a cloud of dust that hangs in the still afternoon air. He gets out, his face grim, and I know immediately that something is wrong. He doesn’t even wait to get to us before he shouts, his voice cutting through the quiet.
“Have you guys heard about Jack Dalton?”
My stomach drops. The fragile bubble of our small-world problems pops, and the much larger, much uglier reality of the outside world comes crashing in.
“Ah, shit!”
“Shit? What shit? What happened?” Boone asks.
Rhett walks up to us, his eyes wide. “I was at Saddlehorn Café, grabbing a coffee. It’s all over the news. The TV, the radio... everyone’s talking about it.” He looks from Boone’s shocked face to mine. “They’re saying he tried to force himself on Willa James.”