Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROCK SPRINGS, WYOMING
The whistle blew, and the gate creaked open, releasing two thousand pounds of muscle and fury into the arena. Whiskey Reaper exploded beneath him. A vertical launch, left spin, and a hard kick, but Wyatt stayed centered. He kept his spurs down, hips forward, as he raised his free hand high.
A pickup man muttered. “That’ll hold.”
Wyatt couldn’t stop smiling. I’m the National High School Finals Rodeo Champion.
An hour later, the buckle was heavy in his palm when they handed it to him under arena lights. I did it. I rode the rankest bull in the draw and won nationals.
His father gripped his shoulder hard enough to bruise, the kind of grip that felt more like possession than pride. “You’re finally getting there.”
Getting there? Are you kidding? Not ‘I’m proud of you,’ or ‘you did it.’ Wyatt stared down at the engraved silver and felt nothing as his father drifted away, bragging about his son being a chip off the old block.
Later, behind the chutes, after the media interviews, with sweat drying into his collar, his father leaned close. “You had more in that third jump. Could’ve dug deeper. Left a few points out there.”
Wyatt blinked. “I won.”
His father shrugged. “Nationals isn’t the end. You want to be a champion, or do you want to play rodeo?”
The question hung in the air. Wyatt looked back toward the arena lights. He had just won the biggest title of his young life, and it still wasn’t enough. He took off his hat and shook the dirt off. It will never be enough.
That night he lay in the bed of his truck, the championship buckle resting against his chest, as he stared at a sky bigger than any arena. Wyatt knew two things. He was good at riding chaos, and he didn’t want his father deciding what that meant.
If this is what the top looks like… then I’m done climbing it.
The following Thursday, before his shift at the feed store, Wyatt stepped out of his truck and crossed the cracked asphalt toward a small brick office tucked beside a strip mall.
He pushed open the door, where the bell above gave a thin metallic jingle.
The office smelled of carpet cleaner and old paper.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one flickering with an irregular crackle that scraped against the silence.
A world map covered one wall, blue oceans and white borders marking places that seemed impossibly far from rodeo dirt. Behind a metal desk sat a man in khaki slacks and a Navy polo, sleeves pressed, posture straight, even though it was barely nine in the morning. He looked up. “You lost?”
“No, sir.”
The man’s eyes dropped to Wyatt’s taped knuckles.
“Rodeo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bull rider?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think that makes you tough?”
“No, sir.”
“You know about BUD/S?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cold water. No buzzer. No crowd. Water is different from dirt.”
Wyatt thought about the buckle in his truck and about the silence after the roar. “I’m not looking for eight seconds.” He straightened his posture. “I’m looking for something that doesn’t end.”
The recruiter studied him. “You’re ready to sign away your comfort?”
Wyatt didn’t hesitate. “I never had much use for it.” He could already see it in his mind. The dark Pacific water, waves breaking against him while instructors shouted, and the cold tried to crawl inside his bones.
The recruiter pulled a thick packet from the drawer and slid it across the desk. “Sit down then.”
Wyatt removed his hat and lowered himself into the metal chair. The vinyl cushion exhaled under his weight.
“Last chance,” the recruiter said. “You sure you’ve got what it takes?”
Wyatt picked up the pen. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. “I will.”
Outside, traffic moved through the parking lot as women chatted walking in front of the window like nothing had shifted.
Inside, Wyatt Boone chose a different arena, one where endurance mattered more than applause.
One without his father’s shadow, and this time he intended to last longer than eight seconds.
PRESENT DAY
WYATT
The memory drifted away as Wyatt forced his focus to her eyes. “You’re the only thing I don’t regret.” His voice was barely above a hoarse whisper.
Letty’s breath hitched as if he’d punched her. “Don’t say things like that.” She trembled. “Not like a goodbye.”
“It’s not.”
She kissed him again, harder this time until she pulled back, eyes blazing. “Okay,” she said. “We’re leaving.”
Wyatt tried to stand straighter.
Letty’s gaze scanned the warehouse. She spotted the drums again; they just didn’t look like they belonged. Her eyes shifted to the thin line of glistening liquid snaking along the concrete toward the interior. “Oh, God, he didn’t lock us in to abandon us.”
Wyatt’s blood ran cold. “He locked us in to burn us.”
Letty’s jaw set as her eyes moved fast. “There.” She pointed toward a narrow corridor at the back with an old office section. A faded EXIT sign hung above a steel door.
Wyatt’s vision blurred. “That door was shut earlier.”
“He sealed the bay doors,” she said quickly. “But there might be a secondary egress. Fire code. Even in an old warehouse.”
“You’re betting on the fire code?”
“I’m betting on builders who didn’t want lawsuits.” She slowed as Wyatt’s strength gave out. “Maybe Cal already figured it out, and he’ll have the exit open for us.”
Wyatt winced. “Love that optimism.”
She tightened her grip on his arm, hauling him forward. He stumbled once and caught himself. They moved as fast as they could with a low whoomph sound behind them.
“Shit.” That’s fire coming at us. Flames raced along the floor in a sudden, hungry line as heat chased Letty’s back. She dragged harder. “Move, Roper!”
He moved as the corridor narrowed, smoke rising fast. The steel door at the end had a panic bar.
Letty shoved it, and it didn’t budge. Her face went tight. “No!”
Wyatt stumbled on his feet as Letty jerked her flashlight up, scanning the doorframe.
“There… hinge pins.” She pulled her multi-tool from her fanny pack and wedged it under the hinge pin to drive it up. It took three hits until she released the first pin.
Wyatt braced his shoulder against the wall, breathing through pain, forcing himself upright. “Letty…”
“Hold on,” she snapped, then added softer, “Hold on, please.”
The second pin shifted while the smoke thickened. The heat behind them roared closer as Letty drove the tool again, and the third hinge pin popped free.
Wyatt grabbed the door edge and yanked. The door sagged, then gave. Cold night air punched into the corridor as Letty dragged him through.
The warehouse behind them exploded. A concussive blast threw heat and debris outward like a wave. Letty hit the ground hard with Wyatt’s weight, the world spinning. Yelling voices and boots approached as radios crackled.
Salt & Steel was there. Cal barking directions as Jackson grabbed Wyatt. Rhea’s voice screamed coordinates into comms.
Wyatt tried to fight them off until he heard Cal’s voice, telling him to calm down. “Easy, Roper. We’ve got you.”
Wyatt’s hand found Letty’s wrist even as they pulled him away. He gripped hard as Letty moved next to him. “Wyatt… Wyatt, look at me.”
His eyes found hers. “You’re safe.” They moved him away as he yelled to Cal. “Protect her!”