36. Winnie
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
winnie
Danger
You up?
Winnie
No
Danger
You answered
Winnie
Sleep texting
Danger
Come on
I owe you somethin that qualifies as fun
Winnie
Fun can’t happen this early
Danger
Throw on some clothes
Winnie
I am currently in my cupcake pajamas
Danger
Like I said throw on some clothes
Winnie
This is kidnapping
Danger
Boots pretty girl
Danger doesn’t say a single word the entire drive. Not even when my booted foot keeps tapping the glove box, not when we pass the mailbox painted “STETSON” stenciled on it in white paint. He just stares ahead, one forearm slung over the wheel, his jaw set in a way that makes my chest flutter.
The truck smells like coffee, motor oil, and whatever cologne he must’ve sprayed on before I hopped in the truck. I don’t know if there’s anything he can say to soften the blow of whatever farm-chore hell he’s about to inflict on me, but I just take in the view.
He turns past the rusted sign that says “NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT MORE.”
We pull up beside a long line of whitewashed pens, steel gates gleaming like they’re polished more than most people’s trucks. Everything is solid—heavy chains, smooth-welded latches—built to hold some serious power. The bulls pace behind the rails, muscled and restless.
He kills the engine.
“This is where your fun is?” I say when I finally unclench enough to find my voice. “Are you planning to feed me to them?”
Danger huffs, not even a real laugh. “Only if you keep up with that smart mouth of yours."
He hops down and circles to my side, opening my door before I can even reach for the handle.
He walks ahead of me, boots crushing dry grass, muscle working tight under his black shirt. The pens are louder now—angry, dinosaur-sounding snorts that make the fence rattle.
He stops at the first gate and gestures for me to climb up.
“Go ahead,” he says. “You’ll wanna get a bird’s eye.”
I hop the lowest rail, then the next, settling on the third because it feels like the right mix of brave and “I’d rather not die today.”
Below me, the bull paces, huge and black and radiating violence that makes me want to apologize for every burger I’ve ever eaten.
“So, what’s the game plan?” I ask, forcing the words. “You gonna teach me to ride one of these?”
He doesn’t smile, but the left side of his mouth lifts, just a twitch. “You got a death wish? Fuck no. I’m gonna teach you to read a bull. That’s half the fun for me.”
He says it like it’s a normal thing, like most people’s idea of fun isn’t a Netflix binge and a half-bottle of moscato. He plants a boot on the bottom rail and leans close. The bull catches his scent and stops, head swinging. Danger whistles, soft and low, and the animal backs up two steps.
“First thing you gotta know,” he says, “is they’re not stupid. They get a bad rep for being the dumb animal, but you watch long enough and you see what’s really going on.”
He gestures at the bull, a flick of two fingers. “That one’s called Beast. Mean as they come, but he’s not mean for no reason. You see how he keeps his head down? That’s not submission. That’s calculation. He’s waiting for you to make the first move. Then he’ll end you.”
I nod like I get it. My hands are slick now, but I don’t dare wipe them on my jeans.
“You scared?” he asks.
I try to laugh. “Of dying? Yeah. Maybe a little.”
He shrugs, like death is just a small inconvenience. “You get used to it. You learn where to stand. When to jump.”
He walks down the line, and I skitter along the top rail, eyes locked on the animal as it watches his every step. He points out a smaller bull, brown with white splotches, chewing moodily on something that might once have been hay.
“That’s George. Don’t let the name fool you. He’s the laziest, sure, but he’ll flip a switch if he thinks he can get the drop on you.”
He gives me a look. “You remind me a little of him, actually.”
“I remind you of George?” I say, rolling my eyes, but there’s a weird sort of pride in being compared to something that could snap a man in half if provoked.
“Yes. He gets underestimated, but he’s so much tougher than anyone thinks.”
Danger makes me stand on the rail while he does a slow parade in front of each pen, giving me a crash course about what their movements mean. Which ones are showboats, which are stalkers, which look calm but are really just winding the spring.
After a minute he squints up at me. “Okay. Which one do you think is the problem child?”
I play along, shading my eyes for effect. “Gonna go with the pretty one in the back. The one with the spots and the cute coat. Calm, not trying to get attention.”
“You’re getting the hang of this. You got it. That’s Snoopy. He could end you just for breathing wrong.”
“Wow. You two have so much in common,” I say. “Especially in the mornings.”
Now he actually laughs. Then he opens the gate to a side pen and gestures me down. “Wanna meet him?”
“Define meet,” I say, reluctantly.
He grabs a battered sorting stick from beside the fence and raps it once against the boards. The gate swings open. The bull steps into the arena with slow, deliberate confidence, his massive head low as he takes in every inch of the pen.
Then he explodes. He slams into the far fence with a crack that rattles through my ribs.
I yelp. Loudly.
Danger doesn't even flinch. "Still breathing?" he asks, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I nod because I'm not convinced my voice still works. The bull turns. Dark eyes lock on us. He starts our way. Before I can think about moving, Danger shifts in front of me. I don't think he even realizes he's shielding me. His body just... moved.
Without looking at me, he says, "If I move, you move."
There's no panic in his voice. No hesitation.
Just certainty.
My heart decides now would be a great time to forget how to function. The bull keeps coming toward us, each hoof sinking into the dirt.
Danger lifts the sorting stick, not threatening, not aggressive. Just enough to catch the bull's attention.
"See his ears?" he says quietly, eyes never leaving the animal. "They're listening. He's deciding."
The bull stops.
His head tips ever so slightly.
"He doesn't always make the same decision twice." Danger clicks his tongue once, calm and steady. "That's what makes him different."
For a long second, neither of them moves. Then the bull huffs, swings his head away, and ambles toward the opposite side of the pen.
Only after he's several yards away does Danger let out a slow breath.
I realize I'm still standing so close behind him I can smell sandalwood and clean laundry, and for the first time in my life, safety and desire feel exactly the same.
When the bull finally chills out, Danger turns to me, arms folded, the trace of a smile playing at his mouth. “You wanna try?”
I glance at the animal, then at Danger. “You’re joking.”
He leans in, whispering, “They sense fear. Don’t let ‘em see it.” Then he hands me the stick.
My knees are actual jelly, but I square up anyway, trying to mimic his posture. The bull and I lock eyes. I wave the stick. The bull doesn’t move, just blinks at me with that quiet stare.
“Now what?” I hiss.
“Hold your ground,” Danger says simply.
We have the gate between us, but I’m pretending I'm in the dirt. I breathe, channel every ounce of stubbornness I’ve ever had. The bull finally snorts, shakes its head, and backs up.
Danger claps, a single, sharp sound. “Not bad.”
I turn, triumphant, proud, and promptly step in a puddle of something I really hope is just mud.
“Shit,” I say, but I’m smiling like an idiot.
Danger shakes his head then flicks a piece of something off my forehead and says, “You’re a mess.”
“So are you,” I shoot back.
He looks at me long enough that my heart stumbles, then he shrugs. “Yeah. Always have been.”
By the end of this, I’m laughing, real, head-thrown-back, ugly-loud laughter. Danger watches me, and his eyes—gray, flecked with something brighter—soften in a way I have literally never seen on a human face.
He waits until my lungs finally give out, then says, “Didn’t think you’d enjoy my kinda fun.”
And it hits me in that moment that none of this was about bulls. He was just testing me, to see if I could handle him, his world, his hard edges and weird tenderness. I could. I do.
I square up, offer him the stick, and say, “Next time, I’m picking the animal.”
He grins, wide and wolfish, and then I see my favorite version of him. I think I see everything past the Danger everyone talks about. The Danger I know.
The drive back is quieter, but it’s a different kind of quiet. I lean my head against the cool window, and when he glances at me—just once, at a stop sign—I let him see that I’m not scared anymore.
If anything, this is just the very beginning of us.