Chapter 28
Saramaria
Idon’t know if it is the aftermath of the hoedown, or the way the dynamic has shifted between us, but being around them is becoming a physical struggle. Every time one of them walks into a room, my stomach knots itself into complicated twists.
It’s their hands.
I can’t stop thinking about their hands. I keep remembering Rhett’s fingers sliding inside me, offering relief that bordered on nirvana. Or the way Knox’s hand gripped my waist in the truck, rough and demanding. Or Boone’s hand on my belt, unclasping it with a single, decisive motion.
It has been two days since the party. Two days of tripled effort.
With the fundraiser money and the money Knox sent, we went on a spending spree.
Lumber, wire, paint. The ranch is currently a construction zone.
We’re fixing the barn roof, reinforcing the fences, repairing the electrical grid that the storm tried to destroy.
I’m usually so exhausted by the time dinner is over that I curl up in my bed—my actual bed, back in my room—and pass out before my head even hits the pillow.
It’s a good thing, because I know I caught something.
My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, my bones ache, and my temper is hanging by a thread.
I am up on a ladder, painting the trim of the porch, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I wipe my hands on a rag and check the screen.
Pearl.
“Hello?”
“Saramaria, sweetie,” Pearl’s voice comes through, bright and urgent. “Get in your truck. You need to get to The Salt Lick. Now.”
“What is it? Is it the sabotage? Did West find something new?”
“No, nothing like that,” she says. “Just get here. Trust me.”
I look down at my paint-splattered clothes. “I’m a mess, Pearl.”
“You’re fine. Go.”
I climb down the ladder. I find Rhett by the barn, tightening a bolt on a gate.
“I have to go to town,” I say. “Pearl needs me.”
He looks up, wiping grease from his hands. “Everything okay?”
“I think so,” I say. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
I drive into town, my head throbbing in time with the ruts in the road. The Salt Lick is quiet in the afternoon light, the only cars belonging to a few sleek sedans parked out front.
I walk inside.
The main floor is empty, but I hear voices in the back office. I head that way, pushing open the swinging door.
I stop dead.
Sitting around the small conference table are three men in suits. They look out of place amid the rustic decor, like eagles perched on a fence rail.
Pearl and Dot are there too, along with Josie, who is pouring coffee.
“Saramaria!” Pearl says. “Come in. You know the APbrA executives.”
My eyes widen. I recognize them from the gala events in Denver.
Marshall Lane, the president of the APbrA.
A polished Alpha with silver hair and a politician’s smile.
Next to him sits Anthony Hayes—the CFO, stern and hard, though his eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at me.
And Dane West, the logistics coordinator, a boisterous man who looks like he’d rather be at a rodeo than a boardroom.
“Ms. Cruz,” Marshall Lane says, standing up. He extends a hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard a lot about your... efforts.”
I shake his hand. “My efforts?”
“The hoedown,” Dane West booms. “It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. We’ve been talking about it non-stop since we heard.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“The turnout, the community support,” Marshall says, sitting back down. “It’s exactly the kind of grassroots energy the sport needs right now. We’re trying to repair the image of the APbrA. Move away from the corporate stuff and get back to the riders, the fans, the heart of it.”
“We raised a lot of money,” I say.
“And you brought the town together,” Anthony Hayes adds. “That’s no small feat, especially given the... recent turmoil.”
“So,” Pearl cuts in, beaming, “they have a proposition.”
Marshall leans forward. “We want to make the hoedown an annual event. The official kick-off to the rodeo season. We want to host it right here in Muddy Creek, the weekend before the circuit begins.”
“We want your book club to run it,” Dane says. “You did such a great job this time, we don’t trust anyone else.”
My mind spins. “The circuit... you’re bringing it back?”
“We are,” Marshall confirms. “We’ve cleaned house. Jack Dalton is gone. We’re instituting new protocols. We’re starting fresh. The season will resume next month.”
My heart stutters. Next month.
If the season is resuming, does that mean Knox will come back? Does he cancel the Bayou Circuit? Or is he contractually obligated to Louisiana for this season? Hope flares in my chest, bright and painful, before I shove it down. I can’t rely on him. I can’t build my future on a maybe.
“We’d love to help,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the conversation. “But I’m not sure how much time I’ll have. I’m still fixing the ranch.”
“We’ll help,” Anthony Hayes says. “The APbrA wants to invest. This is good PR for us, and it helps you. It’s a win-win.”
They spend the next hour discussing logistics. Dates, permits, marketing. It’s surreal. A week ago, I was trying to sell this place. Now, the head of the APbrA is talking about turning it into a festival destination.
When they finally pack up to leave, the mood in the room is lighter. The executives shake my hand again, promising to send over contracts.
“Good work, Saramaria,” Marshall says.
After they walk out, the silence in the room is replaced by a collective exhale.
“I think that went well,” Dot says, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, sinking into a chair. “They actually listened to us.”
“They have no choice,” Josie says, stacking chairs. “They need a win. You gave them one.”
Pearl pats my shoulder. “We’ll make it work, honey. We’re good at parties.”
She turns to leave. “I’m going to head back and start a list. You coming?”
“In a bit,” I say. “I need to finish my coffee.”
Dot lingers behind. She watches me with that unnerving gaze of hers.
“You look pale,” she says.
“Just tired,” I say. “It’s been a long week.”
“A headache?” she asks.
“Constant,” I admit. “Tension. It just... won’t go away.”
Dot looks at Pearl, then back at me. They exchange one of those looks that speaks volumes.
“Saramaria,” Dot says, her tone dropping, “are you feeling okay? Aside from the headache?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just stressed.”
“You’re sweating,” she points out. “And you’re fidgeting. You’ve been twisting that ring around your finger for the last ten minutes.”
I look down at my hand. I stop twisting the silver band.
“I’m just hot,” I say. “It’s warm in here.”
“It’s not that warm,” Josie says from the doorway. “And you smell... different.”
I stiffen. “Different how?”
“Sweet,” Josie says. “Like... richer? I don’t know.”
Panic flutters in my chest. I try to rationalize it. I’m stressed. I’m tired. I ate too much sugar at the hoedown.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice rising. “I’m just overtired. My OCD is acting up because everything is chaotic. That’s all.”
“Is your skin sensitive?” Dot asks. “Are you feeling... restless? Anxious?”
“Of course I’m anxious! I found out yesterday someone is trying to sabotage my property!” I snap. “I have a right to be anxious.”
Dot steps closer. “When was your last shot?”
I blink. “My what?”
“Your heat suppressant,” she says. “Are you due for one soon?”
The room goes still.
I think back. I try to remember the date. The schedule is usually in my phone calendar, synced with my Outlook at the firm.
“I... I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been so focused on the ranch. I haven’t looked at my calendar in days.”
I pull out my phone. I pull up my email app. I type in heat suppressant appointment.
I scroll through the messages. Work updates. Bills. Spam.
Then I see it. An email from the clinic. It was sent last week.
Appointment Reminder: Heat Suppression Shot.
It sits there, unopened. Buried under a flood of emails from the county assessor and the lumber yard.
“I missed it,” I whisper. “I missed the email.”
My heart drops into my stomach. I missed the shot. With everything—the storm, the men, the fines, the sabotage—I forgot.
I look at Pearl and Dot. The realization hits me like a physical blow.
“I think I’m going into heat,” I say, my voice shaking.
Pearl doesn’t blink. “Okay. Don’t panic.”
“How can I not panic?” I cry out. “I’m on the edge of a heat cycle. I’m surrounded by three unmated Alphas who are living in my house! This is a disaster!”
“It’s not a disaster,” Dot says. “It’s biology.”
“It’s a disaster!” I snap. “I can’t control it. I can’t organize it! My brain is going to short-circuit!”
My OCD kicks into high gear. The room feels too bright. The coffee cup on the table is not centered with the placemat. The label on the sugar jar is crooked. I need to fix it. I need to organize something, anything, to regain control.
I stand up to straighten the sugar jar.
“Sara,” Pearl says, grabbing my hand. “Breathe.”
“I can’t!” I say, pulling away. “I need to call Brenda. I need to get an appointment immediately.”
I dial my assistant. It rings four times before she picks up.
“Saramaria? Where have you been?”
“Brenda, I missed the shot. The email got buried. I think I’m pre-heat. I need an appointment.”
“Oh,” Brenda says. “That explains the mood swings.”
“Brenda, please.”
“I can get you in tomorrow morning,” she says. “Dr. Wyatt has a cancellation. But... Saramaria, you might need to take precautions. If it hits tonight, you might want to isolate yourself.”
Isolate myself. Go back to the ranch and hide in my room? While three Alphas are wandering around?
“No,” I say. “I can’t go home. Not yet.”
I hang up. I lean against the counter, my head in my hands. The fever is rising. I can feel it. A low, throbbing heat building low in my belly.
“I need a cold compress,” I say, my voice weak.
“Josie, get a cloth,” Pearl orders.
Josie disappears into the kitchen and returns with a wet towel.
“Here,” Pearl says, pressing it to the back of my neck. “This will help.”
I lean into the cold. It feels good. It doesn’t fix it, but it dampens the fire.
“I have to call them,” I say. “I have to tell Rhett. And Boone. And Knox.”
“Do you want us to drive you?” Dot asks.
“No,” I say. “I have to do this. I have to tell them... so they don’t think I’m... I don’t know. Trying to jump them.”
“Okay,” Pearl says. “Call them. We’ll be here.”
I pull out my phone. My hand is shaking. I scroll to Rhett’s number.
“Hello?” he answers on the second ring.
“Rhett,” I say.
“What’s wrong? You sound strange.”
“I need you to come to The Salt Lick.”
“Are you okay? Are you safe?”
“I’m safe. But... something has happened. I missed my shot. The heat... it’s coming, Rhett.”
The silence on the other end is heavy.
“How soon?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Soon. Hours? Maybe tomorrow morning. I have an appointment tomorrow, but until then...”
I trail off. I don’t know how to ask for what I need. I don’t know how to ask them to stay away, or maybe... I don’t know what I want.
“We’re on our way,” he says.
“No,” I say. “I’ll drive back. Just... be prepared.”
“We’ll be ready,” he says.
He hangs up.
I look at Pearl and Dot.
“Well,” Pearl says. “That was... brave.”
“I’m going to die,” I mutter. “Or I’m going to do something incredibly stupid.”
“Stupid is okay,” Dot says. “As long as you’re safe.”
I grab my keys. I have to go back. I have to face them.
I walk out to the truck. The wind is cold, but it feels good against my overheated skin.
I think about the APbrA executives. About the circuit coming back. About Knox.
If the circuit is back, maybe he comes home. Maybe he doesn’t have to go to Louisiana.
I start the engine.
I have to survive the next twenty-four hours first. I have to survive the heat. And the three Alphas who are waiting for me.
I put the truck in gear. I head toward the ranch. Toward the men who drive me insane.
My stomach knots again.
I’m in so much trouble. My vision is getting blurry now.
“Saramaria!”
I turn to see Pearl and Dot running to me. The last thing I hear is one of them screaming the word, “Fuck.”