Chapter 25
Knox
Iwasn’t sure I was going to come.
Standing in the parking lot of The Salt Lick an hour ago, I seriously considered turning the truck around.
The gravel was crunched, the music was already thumping against the walls, and all I wanted to do was go back to the cabin, drink a beer alone, and stare at the ceiling until morning.
The idea of being surrounded by people—by the town that knows every dirty secret of the APbrA, by the riders who are wondering if their careers are over—felt like a special kind of hell.
But then I thought about her. Saramaria.
I thought about her standing in the rain, demanding we fix her roof.
I thought about her curled up on the mattress in front of the fire, protecting that damn dog.
I thought about the way she looked when she told us she’d handle the fines herself, that stubborn set to her chin that made my chest ache.
So I parked the truck. I walked in.
And now I’m leaning against the bar, a glass of bourbon in my hand, watching the room spin.
It’s a good turnout. Better than good. The place is packed, wall-to-wall with bodies. The air is thick with the scent of barbecue sauce and cheap perfume. The band on stage is tearing through a fast-paced fiddle reel, the noise bouncing off the exposed rafters.
“Knox Wilder!”
A hand claps me on the shoulder, hard enough to spill a drop of my drink.
I turn to see Shay Houlighan grinning at me. He’s holding a beer, his hat pushed back on his head.
“Didn’t think you’d show your face,” Shay shouts over the music.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, taking a sip of the bourbon. It burns good.
“Because the whole world is falling apart!” Eli Warren appears on my other side, sliding into the booth next to us. Ford Whitehorse follows, carrying a tray of shots.
“The circuit is on life support,” Ford says, sliding a shot glass toward me. “Jack Dalton is radioactive. And here we are, partying like it’s 1999.”
“We’re partying because we have nothing else to do,” I say, clinking the shot glass against Ford’s. “And because it’s for a good cause.”
“Saramaria Cruz,” Shay says, nodding toward the crowd. “The Ice Queen herself. I heard she’s the one putting this together.”
“She is,” I say. I scan the room, looking for her.
I find her near the stage. She’s standing with Pearl and Dot, laughing at something Pearl is saying. She isn’t wearing a suit. She’s wearing jeans that look like they were painted on and a blue shirt that makes her eyes pop. Her hair is down, wild and curly, framing her face in a halo of frizz.
She looks... different.
She looks happy. Actually, genuinely happy. Her head is thrown back, her laugh ringing out clear and bright over the noise of the bar. She isn’t thinking about fines or evictions or betrayals. She’s just living in the moment.
It makes my chest ache.
I’m going to miss this.
The thought hits me out of nowhere. I’ve only known her for a few weeks. I should be annoyed by her. I should be plotting how to get her to sell so I can keep my retreat. But looking at her now, all I can think about is how much it would suck to never see this again.
“You staring at the lawyer?” Eli asks, following my gaze.
“Maybe,” I mutter.
“Careful, Wilder,” Shay warns. “She’s the one who tried to blind you with pepper spray.”
“She has spirit,” I say.
“She’s trouble,” Ford says, downing his shot. “All the pretty ones are.”
I finish my drink. The alcohol warms my blood, but it’s not enough to drown out the restlessness. The feeling that I’m on the edge of a cliff, and the wind is picking up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I groan when I see the name on the screen. Gary.
I’ve been ignoring his calls for two days. I know what he wants. He wants a decision. He wants to know if I’m staying or if I’m running.
“I gotta take this,” I tell the guys.
“I’ll save you a seat, cowboy,” Shay says.
I slip out the side door, stepping into the cool night air.
The music is muffled out here, a dull thrumming beat. The parking lot is full, trucks and cars parked haphazardly in the mud. I lean against the rough siding of the building and hit answer.
“Knox,” Gary says. He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Where are you?”
“At the fundraiser,” I say. “The hoedown.”
“Right. The hoedown.” He sounds tired. “I heard it’s a success.”
“It looks like it.”
“Good. Listen, we need to finalize your schedule for the fall. I’ve been talking to some people.”
I close my eyes. “Gary, the APbrA is suspended. We don’t have a schedule.”
“The APbrA is suspended,” Gary agrees. “But the world doesn’t stop turning just because Jack Dalton is an idiot. I’ve been in talks with the organizers of the Bayou Circuit down in Louisiana.”
My eyes snap open. “The Bayou Circuit?”
“It’s a regional circuit, but it’s got backing. Deep pockets. They’re looking for headliners to draw a crowd. They want you.”
“Louisiana?” I ask. “That’s... far.”
“It’s a ten-event series,” Gary says, his voice picking up speed. “Weekends only. September through November. Lafayette, Baton Rouge, Shreveport, maybe even New Orleans. The payout structure is solid. Ten grand a win, plus a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus for the championship.”
Fifty grand. That would cover the fines. It would cover the money I have tied up in investments. It would set me up for a year, maybe two.
“The structure?” I ask, trying to sound professional. “Is it PRCA sanctioned?”
“No, it’s independent,” Gary says. “Which means there are no union rules, but also no union protections. But the prize money is guaranteed. No purse splits. You win, you get paid. And if you win the championship... you’re looking at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars total.”
One hundred and fifty thousand.
My grip tightens on the phone. That’s life-changing money. That’s security.
“It sounds too good to be true,” I say.
“It’s an opportunity,” Gary says. “The rodeo world is shifting, Knox. The big associations are going to be tied up in lawsuits and investigations for months. The independent circuits are where the action is going to be. This is your chance to stay on top while the titans fall.”
I look out at the dark horizon. I can see the lights of the town in the distance. I can see the dark shape of the mountains.
“It starts in two weeks,” I say.
“Yes. So I need to know. Are you in or are you out?”
I open my mouth to say yes. It’s the logical choice. It’s the smart choice. I’m a rider. I ride bulls. I don’t fix fences. I don’t play house with a lawyer and two ranch hands.
But something tethers me here. Something heavy and invisible.
I think about the broken irrigation line Rhett was fixing this morning. I think about the pile of lumber we still need to buy. I think about the way Saramaria looked when she realized she might lose the ranch.
I think about the pack.
“We can discuss the contract details later,” I say. “But Gary... I can’t just leave right now.”
“What do you mean you can’t leave? It’s your job.”
“The ranch is in trouble,” I say, the words coming out rough. “The fines, the repairs. Saramaria... she’s trying to fix it, but she can’t do it alone. If I leave now, I’m abandoning them.”
“Them?” Gary asks. “Who is them?”
“My... pack.”
The word hangs in the air. I’ve never said it out loud before. I’ve never admitted that what we have—what’s forming between us, including her—is real. That it’s not just roommates.
Gary is silent for a long moment. “You’re kidding, right? You’re talking about that girl? The one who pepper sprayed you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m talking about her. And Rhett. And Boone. We’re in this together. I can’t just pick up and leave for three months while they’re drowning in debt and work. I have to see this through.”
I can hear Gary sighing on the other end. He thinks I’m throwing my career away for a woman. Maybe I am.
“I need to talk to them,” I say. “I need to talk to my pack before I make a decision that affects all of us. I can’t just abandon them, Gary. That’s not how it works.”
Gary doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “You have until tomorrow morning, Knox. If you don’t commit, I’m giving your spot to Gage Rivers. He’s hungry for it.”
“I know,” I say.
“Don’t do something stupid,” Gary says. “This is your career we’re talking about.”
“I know,” I repeat.
He hangs up.
I lower the phone. The screen goes black. I stare at it, my reflection staring back at me.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
I turn around, leaning my back against the siding.
And I freeze.
Saramaria is standing a few feet away.
She is holding the door open with her shoulder, a glass of wine in her hand. The light from inside spills out, illuminating her profile.
She heard me. She heard me say it. She heard me call them my pack.
“I was just coming out for some air,” she says. Her voice is soft and barely audible over the music inside.
“Yeah,” I say. “Same.”
I shove my phone into my pocket. I feel guilty, though I don’t know why. I was offered a lifeline. A chance to save myself. But looking at her, I feel like I was caught cheating.
“Is it true?” she asks. She takes a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. “Are you leaving?”
I walk over to her. The night air is cool, but the space between us feels charged.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “It always is with you guys. Everything is complicated. Nothing is ever just ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“It’s a job offer,” I explain. “A circuit down South. Good money. It would solve a lot of problems.”
“Problems,” she repeats. “Like me? Like the ranch?”
“Like the debt,” I say. “The fines.”
She nods slowly. She looks down at her boots. “Well. You should take it then.”
I stare at her. “What?”
“You should take the job,” she says, looking up. Her eyes are bright, too bright. “You’re a rider, Knox. That’s who you are. You don’t belong here fixing fences and arguing with me. You belong on the back of a bull. If this circuit offers you what you need, you should go.”