Chapter Four
Ginger's scream ripped Teagan out of sleep like a gunshot.
She was moving before her eyes fully opened—feet hitting the trailer floor, hands finding the door handle, her body responding to a sound that every horseperson knew meant danger.
The predawn darkness hit her face as she threw herself outside, wearing nothing but boots, underwear, and the oversized t-shirt she'd slept in.
The stabling area was shadows and shapes. But Ginger's stall wasn't hard to find.
Her mare was thrashing against the temporary panels, ears pinned flat, the whites of her eyes catching what little light filtered from the distant parking lot. And there—a figure crouched at Ginger's front legs, something glinting in his hands.
Wire.
The bastard was trying to hobble her horse with baling wire.
Teagan didn't think. She crossed the distance in three strides and grabbed the man by his collar, hauling him backward with every ounce of strength she'd built throwing hay bales and wrestling thousand-pound animals.
He yelped, dropping the wire, and she threw him into the fence panel hard enough to rattle the whole structure.
"Get away from my horse!"
He scrambled up, face twisted with surprise and anger. Behind her, she heard boots on dirt—another one, coming fast.
Arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning her elbows to her sides. She smelled cigarettes and sweat, felt the heat of a body pressed against her back. The man she'd thrown was getting up, pulling something from his pocket.
Teagan didn't wait to see what.
She drove her elbow back into her captor's ribs—the same strike she'd used a hundred times breaking rank colts who tried to crowd her against the fence. He grunted, his grip loosening for just a second. She stomped down on his instep, twisted, and slammed her forehead into his nose.
Blood sprayed. He let go.
The first man was coming at her now, and she could see the knife in his hand. Teagan backed toward Ginger's stall, her mind racing through options—the pitchfork leaning against the hay stack, the lead rope coiled on the fence post, anything she could use as a weapon—
A shape exploded out of the darkness.
Striker hit the knife-wielder like a freight train, taking him off his feet and driving him into the ground with a sickening thud. The knife went flying. Striker's fist came down once, twice, and the man stopped moving.
The second attacker—the one with the broken nose—was running for the parking lot. Striker was on him in five strides, catching him by the back of his jacket and spinning him around. One punch dropped him to his knees. A second put him on his face in the dirt.
Silence fell over the stabling area. Just Ginger's panicked breathing and Teagan's own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
Striker straightened, breathing hard, his knuckles dark with blood that wasn't his. He turned to look at her, and even in the dim light she could see the fury in his eyes.
"You hurt?"
"No." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Check on Ginger."
He was at the stall in three strides, hands running over the mare's legs with surprising gentleness. Ginger flinched but held still, recognizing the touch of someone who knew horses.
"Wire marks," Striker said. "Superficial. Didn't get deep."
Relief crashed through Teagan so hard her knees almost buckled. She moved to the stall, her hands finding Ginger's neck, her forehead pressing against the mare's warm coat.
"It's okay, girl. You're okay. I've got you."
Ginger snorted and shifted, still trembling, but her ears were coming forward now. The panic was fading.
Striker was already on his phone. "Ridge. Stabling area, now. Two down, probably more incoming. Get the truck."
He ended the call and turned back to Teagan. His eyes dropped, taking in her bare legs, the oversized shirt that barely hit mid-thigh, the way she was shaking despite the adrenaline.
He stripped off his cut, then the flannel beneath it, and wrapped the flannel around her shoulders without asking.
"You're cold."
"I'm pissed." But she pulled the shirt tighter anyway, breathing in leather and motor oil and the warmth of his body. "They were going to cripple her. Wire cuts on the legs—that's what they did to Amy's horse."
"They won't get another chance." His voice was flat. Final. "We're moving you tonight. The motel I mentioned—it's club property. Safe."
"My competition is tomorrow—"
"Is two days from now, at a different fairground." He stepped closer, and she felt the heat of him even through the borrowed flannel. "Pollard accelerated his timeline. Sent these bastards to make a point before you could compete again."
"How did you know they were coming?"
"I didn't." His jaw tightened. "I was watching your trailer from the lot. Saw movement, heard your horse scream. If I'd been thirty seconds slower—"
"But you weren't."
"But I almost was."
The words hung between them. Teagan looked at the two men on the ground—both still breathing, both going to wake up with headaches that lasted a week. She thought about what would have happened if she'd been alone. If there had been no one watching.
Ginger could be hobbled right now. Her season could be over.
Her life, too, if they'd decided she wasn't worth leaving alive.
"Hey." Striker's hand found her chin, tilting her face up to his. His touch was rough but careful, his eyes searching hers. "You did good. You fought back. That elbow strike—that was clean."
"I've handled worse than these two."
"I know." Something shifted in his expression. "That's what scares me."
Before she could respond, headlights swept across the stabling area. Ridge's truck pulled in, and the big biker swung out of the cab with a grim expression.
"These the only two?"
"So far." Striker released Teagan's chin—reluctantly, she thought. "Load them in the bed. We'll have a conversation later."
"And her?"
"She's coming with me."
Ridge's eyebrows went up, but he didn't comment. He and Striker hauled the unconscious men into the truck bed while Teagan gathered her scattered wits and started loading Ginger.
The mare was calmer now, responding to the familiar routine of trailer loading. Teagan guided her up the ramp, secured the divider, and double-checked every tie and latch. By the time she finished, Striker had hitched her trailer to a club truck.
"I'll drive." He held up his hand when she started to protest. "You're in no shape to haul a trailer. You can yell at me about it later."
"I'm holding you to that."
They rolled out of the fairground as the first gray light of dawn crept over the horizon.
Ridge stayed behind to clean up the scene—whatever that meant in outlaw terms—and Teagan sat in the passenger seat, Striker's flannel still wrapped around her shoulders, watching the Texas landscape slide past.
The Mother Road Motel appeared twenty minutes later.
It looked like something out of a fifties postcard—neon sign buzzing, twelve rooms in a row, a vacancy light that probably never turned off.
But the parking lot was clean, the fences were solid, and there was a flat gravel area behind the building that would work for temporary stabling.
Striker backed the trailer into position with the ease of someone who'd handled rigs before. Teagan was out of the cab before he finished, dropping the ramp and leading Ginger out into the pale morning light.
"Flashlight."
Striker produced one without question, holding it steady while Teagan crouched beside her mare's front legs. The wire marks were visible now—thin red lines just above the hooves, where the baling wire had started to bite before she'd interrupted.
She ran her fingers along every inch of Ginger's legs. Checked the tendons, the cannon bones, the fetlocks and pasterns. Lifted each hoof and examined the soles. Watched the mare walk, then trot, then walk again.
"Well?" Striker's voice was quiet.
"She's sound." Teagan let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "The marks are superficial. They didn't have time to do real damage."
"Because you got there first."
"Because you were watching." She straightened, meeting his eyes. "You saved her. You saved both of us."
"You saved yourself. I just cleaned up."
Teagan shook her head. The adrenaline was fading now, leaving her exhausted and hollowed out. The borrowed flannel smelled like him, and she was suddenly aware of how little she was wearing underneath it.
How close he was standing.
How much she wanted him to keep standing there.
"I should check her hooves again," she said, even though she'd already checked them twice. "Make sure I didn't miss anything."
"You didn't."
"I should—"
"Teagan." His hand found her arm, warm and steady. "She's okay. You're okay. You can stop now."
She looked up at him—at the blood still drying on his knuckles, the concern he wasn't bothering to hide, the way his whole body was angled toward her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I don't know how to stop," she said. "If I stop, I have to think about what almost happened."
"Then don't think about it yet." He stepped closer, his hand sliding from her arm to her hip, anchoring her. "Just breathe. Just be here. The thinking can come later."
She leaned into him. Just a little. Just enough to feel his chest against her shoulder, his warmth cutting through the chill of the early morning.
They stood like that while the sun crept higher, while Ginger settled into her temporary corral, while the world slowly came back into focus.
Finally, Teagan pulled away.
"I need to check her legs one more time."
Striker nodded, stepping back to give her space. But his eyes never left her—watching, protecting, claiming in a way that should have made her bristle but instead made her feel something she hadn't felt in years.
Safe.
She knelt beside Ginger and ran her hands over the mare's legs one more time, finding nothing, proving what she already knew. The horse was sound. The damage was superficial. They'd survived.
When she finally stood, the sun was fully up, and Striker was still watching.
She didn't go inside until she was absolutely sure her horse was okay.
And even then, she felt his eyes on her back all the way to the door.