24. The Burn Behind The Rodeo
The Burn Behind The Rodeo
~AUSTIN~
M y hands won't stop moving—checking my phone, smoothing my shirt, adjusting the collar that feels too tight despite being unbuttoned at the throat.
The October evening should be cooling down by now, but the crush of bodies at the festival entrance traps heat like a living thing, making my palms sweat against the phone screen.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, probably looking like an idiot to anyone paying attention, but I can't help it. She should be here by now.
The Harvest Rodeo Festival spreads before me in all its chaotic glory.
Monster trucks rev their engines in the distance, the growl of machinery mixing with carnival music and the general roar of too many people crammed into Sweetwater Falls' tiny fairgrounds.
Dust kicks up with every footstep, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that'll take days to wash out of clothes and hair.
The smell hits in waves—fried food, hay, diesel exhaust, and underneath it all, the mingled scents of hundreds of people enjoying their Friday night.
A family pushes past me, the kids sticky with cotton candy and practically vibrating with sugar-fueled excitement.
The mother's wearing pristine white jeans that won't stay that way for long, and the father's got on a cowboy hat so new it still has the price tag dangling from the brim.
Tourists. They flood in every October, turning our sleepy town into something unrecognizable.
The locals dress different—worn boots that have seen actual ranch work, hats shaped by years of weather rather than factory molds, jeans faded from sun rather than fashion.
I check my phone again. Nothing new since Mavi's last text five minutes ago.
The traffic situation makes me want to punch something, preferably the mayor's smug face.
Who schedules road construction during the biggest tourist weekend of the year?
Every route between the ranch and town is clogged with out-of-state plates and RVs moving at glacial pace. I should have left earlier, should have fought through the mess to pick Willa up properly instead of meeting her here like some teenager afraid to meet his date's parents.
Except this isn't a date.
Not officially.
The medical restrictions might have lifted yesterday, but that doesn't mean—I shake my head, trying to derail that dangerous train of thought.
My phone buzzes.
Mavi again: *She's two blocks out. Walking from Wendolyn's shop. ETA 3 minutes.*
I can't help the eye roll.
Of course he's tracking her. Probably convinced himself it's for her safety, but we all know Mavi's particular brand of paranoia runs deeper than simple protection.
He needs to know where his people are at all times, needs that control to keep his anxiety at bay.
Still doesn't explain how he got a tracker on her without her knowing.
*How?* I text back, already knowing I'll regret asking.
*Hair tie. The sparkly one I gave her yesterday. Has a micro GPS in the elastic.*
Jesus Christ.
Only Mavi would think to bug hair accessories. I'm torn between being impressed by the innovation and concerned about the violation of privacy. Though knowing Willa, she'll either find it endearing or use it to torment him by leaving the hair tie random places just to watch him panic.
The thought makes me smile despite the nervous energy crawling under my skin.
She's good for us that way—matching our quirks with her own, giving as good as she gets. Like last night when she caught Mavi's ear and scolded him for blackmailing the mayor.
The memory of her kissing him after, just a soft press of lips that left him speechless and blushing, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
Another buzz:
*River says the Morrison family is interested in breeding rights for Dusty. Potential 10K deal.*
Good.
River's always been our secret weapon at these events.
While everyone else sees the quiet veterinarian, he's actually brilliant at reading people, knowing exactly when to mention our prize stallion's bloodline or offer a tour of the ranch. By the end of the night, he'll have secured enough deals to cover feed costs through spring.
A third text, this time from Cole:
Luna's down for the night. Stop fretting and enjoy yourself.*
Easy for him to say.
He's back at the ranch with Mavi, probably going over livestock schedules and pretending he's not checking his phone every thirty seconds for updates.
We're all nervous about tonight, about Willa making her first real public appearance as part of our pack.
The town's been buzzing with speculation since she arrived—the mysterious woman living with the Iron Ridge pack, the one who survived a fire and divorced her previous Alphas.
They don't know the half of it.
Don't know about Blake's attempted murder or Iron Ridge's greed or the way she rebuilds herself a little more each day, becoming someone magnificent. They just see an unmated Omega with a complicated past, and in a small town, that's enough to set tongues wagging.
*Tell Cole I'm fine,*
I type back, knowing Cole will see right through the lie but appreciate the effort anyway.
The omega brunch was Wendolyn's idea, and brilliant in its simplicity.
Get Willa around other Omegas in a safe, supportive environment.
Let her build connections that aren't filtered through us.
When she'd mentioned it yesterday, hesitant like we might object, all four of us had practically fallen over ourselves encouraging her to go.
She needs friends, needs a life outside our pack dynamics, needs to remember she's more than just our potential mate.
Though Christ, when she'd come down the stairs this morning in that sundress River bought her, hair still messy from sleep and smelling like honey and home, it had taken every ounce of control not to crowd her against the wall and?—
Stop. Not helping.
I force myself to scan the crowd instead of dwelling on dangerous thoughts.
The festival's bigger this year, spillover from some canceled event in Wyoming drawing extra visitors.
Good for the town's economy, good for our ranch's bottom line, hell on anyone trying to navigate the streets.
The mayor's probably preening like a peacock over the turnout, taking credit for drawing tourism while simultaneously making life hell for anyone who doesn't fit his narrow vision of propriety.
My phone shows 7:47. She'll be here any minute.
I straighten my shirt again —the navy button-down she said brings out my eyes —and try to look casual despite the hurricane in my chest. This matters.
Not just the tradition or showing up the mayor, but proving to Willa that we're worth the risk she's taking.
That we're nothing like Iron Ridge. That when we make promises, we keep them.
Movement catches my eye near the ticket booth, and my breath catches.
Through the crowd, I spot a familiar figure moving with surprising grace despite the packed fairgrounds.
My heart does something complicated and painful and perfect, and I know— know with absolute certainty —that tonight's going to change everything.
"Austin!" Her voice cuts through the carnival noise like it's meant just for me, and I turn toward the sound with my heart already climbing into my throat.
And then I see her.
The world doesn't stop— that would be too cliché —but it definitely stutters, like a film reel catching and skipping frames.
Because Willa James, the woman who usually favors practical jeans and tank tops that smell faintly of hay and horse, has transformed into something that makes my brain short-circuit.
The dress is cream-colored silk that catches every light—the setting sun, the string of bulbs over the entrance, the neon from the midway—and throws it back in subtle sparkles from what must be hundreds of tiny gems sewn into the fabric.
It's short enough to be daring, ending mid-thigh in a way that makes my mouth go dry, but the cut is so elegant she looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread about rich cowboys' wives.
The neckline dips just low enough to hint at the shadow between her breasts without being obvious about it, and the way the fabric clings to her waist before flaring slightly—fuck, I need to look somewhere else before I embarrass myself.
But there's nowhere safe to look. Her legs seem to go on forever, bare and glowing with some kind of shimmer that catches the light when she moves.
The heels—Christ, the heels—are these delicate strappy things that somehow she's navigating the dirt and gravel in like she was born in them.
They make her legs look impossibly long, muscles in her calves defined with each step.
Her hair is what really scrambles my circuits though.
The auburn waves I'm used to seeing pulled back in practical ponytails or messy buns have been transformed into these Hollywood-perfect curls that bounce with each step.
They're longer too—extensions, my brain supplies helpfully—and threaded through with tiny crystals or glitter that catch the light like stars.
The way they frame her face makes her look younger and older at the same time, sophisticated but touchable.
And her face. God, her face. The makeup is there but subtle, enhancing rather than hiding.
Her cheeks have this perfect rosy glow that makes me wonder if it's blush or just Willa being Willa.
Her lips are red—not bright fire-engine red but this deep, rich color that makes me think of wine and berries and things I definitely shouldn't be thinking about in public.
Her eyes seem bigger, the unusual orange-gold color emphasized with something that makes them almost glow in the festival lights.