Dallas Rivals (Walker Brothers #3)

1. Oliver

The way Eliza pounds on my door tells me immediately that something is wrong.

Her knock is frantic, each thud carrying a sense of urgency that sets my nerves on edge.

Then I hear her voice, strained and desperate as she calls out, “Oliver!” The panic in her tone is unmistakable, and I know without a doubt that whatever has happened cannot wait.

I throw the sheets off me and jump out of bed. It’s still dark out—no sign of dawn. Thunder cracks and rain slams hard against the ranch windows. I push open the double doors and find my housekeeper standing there, drenched to the bone, her face bare, eyes red.

“Oliver! It’s Lucien! The horses!”

I don’t waste a second asking what the hell’s going on. I run straight past her toward the back door.

Lucien isn’t just my foreman; he’s been a steady presence on this ranch for five years.

In his sixties now, he’s earned my trust and respect, and I consider him a friend—a title I don’t grant often or lightly.

When Lucien first came to work for me, I wanted him to feel at home, so I built a small house for him right on my land.

Over the years, that gesture has come to symbolize more than just employment; it stands for the bond we’ve forged and the loyalty he’s shown through every storm and long day.

My boots are by the door, caked with dry mud, waiting. The old military-green Land Rover’s parked a few yards away.

I grab my flashlight, the beam trembling in my grip as thunder rattles the windows.

Without hesitating, I bolt outside, the rain instantly drenching me to the skin.

The wind howls, whipping the storm against my face as I make for the Rover.

I climb inside, slamming the door behind me, and fumble to start the engine.

The windshield wipers squeal in protest, barely able to keep up with the relentless downpour.

Even with the headlights on full, they manage to cut through only a few feet of the black, raging night ahead.

It’s as dark as a damn well, and every sense is screaming that something is terribly wrong.

Out of nowhere, the horses burst onto the path, wild-eyed and terrified. Their hooves strike sparks in the mud as they scramble, the thunder spooking them badly—just as it always has. The storm’s fury drives them into a frenzy, and their panic is palpable in the chaos of the rain-soaked night.

They shouldn’t be loose.

I slam the brakes, my heart pounding in my chest as the Rover skids to a halt.

The headlights cut through the storm just enough to reveal what’s ahead.

A body sprawled in the mud, motionless and half-buried beneath the relentless rain.

For a moment, the world narrows to that single, haunting sight.

The downpour blurs everything except the outline in the headlights, and the urgency of the night intensifies.

I stare, frozen, as the reality of the situation sinks in: someone is lying there, battered by the storm, and I am the only one who can help.

“What the hell…”

My legs burn as I sprint across the yard, each stride forced and desperate. Every muscle aches, but I push on, focused only on reaching Lucien, whose safety matters more than anything else in this chaotic moment.

“Lucien!” I drop to my knees beside him, the mud sucking at my jeans.

I press my fingers to his neck—there’s a pulse. Faint, but there.

A low groan slips from his throat. Hoof marks cover his face and chest.

“Goddammit.”

I haul his weight up over my shoulder, the rain blinding me, the storm roaring like a freight train in my ears.

Each step is a struggle, the mud sucking at my boots and threatening to pull me down, but I refuse to let go.

My grip tightens, driven by the urgency of the moment and the fear that Lucien’s pulse could fade at any second.

The wind lashes at us, and the relentless downpour makes it nearly impossible to see, but I push forward, refusing to stop until we reach the safety of the Rover. I lay him across the back seat.

Without wasting a second, I leap into the SUV and slam my foot on the gas, tires kicking up mud as I speed off into the storm.

“I’m Lucien Saint-Clair’s daughter!” I hear the shout from the reception desk.

I’m on my feet before I even think about it, leaving the hard plastic chair behind as I follow the sound of that terrified voice.

Rounding the corner, I find a young woman—mid-twenties, small frame—leaning over the counter, pleading with the nurse who’s taking her sweet time typing something into the computer.

Her hair is as black as the crows that circle my fields, falling in a straight, glossy sheet all the way down to her waist. There’s a warmth to her skin—an olive tone that stands out beneath the harsh hospital lights.

One glance is all it takes to see Lucien mirrored in her features; the resemblance is unmistakable, a living echo of her father.

“Mr. Walker?” a voice calls behind me.

Both the girl and I turn.

“Mrs. Saint-Clair,” I say “He’s in surgery.” My voice comes out faster than usual, tight with worry.

My brothers always say I sound calm no matter what kind of storm’s breaking loose.

“Oh my God.” The woman looks ready to collapse. Before I can reach her, her daughter’s already at her side, holding her up.

For a second, those dark eyes of hers meet mine—so black you can’t tell where the pupil ends.

I motion toward the waiting area where I’d been sitting. They follow me quietly and take the seats across from mine.

I am not very familiar with Lucien’s family, since neither of us tends to talk much.

Just that his wife’s got one of those autoimmune diseases that keeps her from living a normal life.

That’s why he took the job when I offered it five years ago.

I paid him well, and he needed the money.

He stayed on the ranch during the week and went home to Waco every weekend to see them.

“Mom, take it easy,” the girl whispers, passing her a tissue.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching the two of them. The sight ties a knot in my chest. What I saw tonight wasn’t pretty, and I’ve got a bad feeling the news won’t be either. Looking at his wife, I can’t help but worry how she’ll take what’s coming.

“What happened?” Mrs. Saint-Clair asks.

“I’m not sure,” I answer. “The horses got loose during the storm. I think Lucien tried to round them up, but it was too dark. They must’ve run right over him.”

“Oh, dear Lord…”

Now the daughter’s staring at me like she wants to tear me apart.

I swallow hard.

“How long has he been in surgery?”

Her voice sounds a lot like her mother’s—fast, tense, a little sharp. I figure it’s the nerves talking.

“Fourteen hours,” I tell her.

She nods, doesn’t say a word. Her eyes drift around the hospital, but I doubt she’s really seeing anything. She’s somewhere else—running through every possible outcome, each one worse than the last.

I know that look.

It’s the same one I’ve been wearing all night.

Five hours later, a doctor steps out from the operating room, scanning the crowd.

The three of us jump to our feet.

“Mrs. Saint-Clair?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s me,” she answers, twisting a tissue between her fingers.

“Well,” the man says, checking the paper on his clipboard, “Lucien’s alive. That’s the good news.”

“Oh, thank You, Lord in Heaven!” she cries out. Her voice trembles, high-pitched and relieved.

She’s one nervous woman.

“And the bad news?” her daughter asks.

The doctor exhales, lips pressed into a thin line.

Here it comes.

“I’m afraid his spinal cord’s been severely damaged.”

“What does that mean?” Mrs. Saint-Clair asks, lost and panicking. She turns to her daughter for answers—though really, the doctor’s the one who should be giving them.

I step in instead. “It means paralysis.”

My arms are crossed tight over my chest; my eyes fixed on the doctor’s quiet nod.

They both stare at me, mouths open.

“My God, honey,” the older woman whimpers, “what are we gonna do?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll figure it out,” the daughter whispers, rubbing her back.

I take a deliberate step back, giving Mrs. Saint-Clair and her daughter room to process the news. Their grief fills the space, and I realize I need distance—not just for them, but for myself. The weight of the moment presses down on me, tightening my chest.

As I retreat, I drag my hands over my face, desperate for relief.

The roughness of my palms grounds me, but the ache inside doesn’t fade.

Pressing my fingers into my eyes, I squeeze until bursts of light flicker behind my eyelids, stars dancing in the dark.

It’s a small distraction from the overwhelming reality, a brief escape before facing what comes next.

Can’t believe this.

Guilt drops heavy and black across my shoulders as their sobs echo down the sterile hallway.

Lucien—my friend, my right hand, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father—is gonna spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair because he was out there trying to protect my horses.

Not prize animals. Not racers. Just a few rescues I took in because I couldn’t stand to see them put down.

The air’s gone from my lungs, and no matter how hard I try, it won’t come back.

I need to get out.

Need open sky.

Need stars.

Stumbling, I find the elevator and jab the button repeatedly.

“Come on… come on…” I growl, pacing as it creeps down floor by floor.

The moment the elevator doors part, I move quickly, my stride purposeful and unbroken.

Each long step pulls me farther from the heaviness inside—past the sterile brightness of the hallway, through the automatic doors, and out into the embrace of the cold night air.

Only when I am finally outside do I allow myself to breathe, the chill settling over my skin as the tension begins to loosen its grip.

In for four.

Hold for two.

Out for four.

Again. And again.

Until my lungs stop burning.

My hands rest on my knees, back bent, eyes fixed on the wet concrete as the weight of the world presses down on me.