“Where are you headed tonight?” Jovie asks, though I can tell by her tone what she’s really asking.
“Out for a bit with Dallas, then in for the night. I have another double this weekend at the department.”
She nods, a hint of concern creasing her forehead that she tries to hide. As she stands to hug me and gently kiss my cheek, she whispers softly, “You’ve had a long day. Please be safe and don’t push yourself. Love you. Text me when you’re home tonight.”
“I will.”
And I would. I always made sure I let her know when I got home after being out. I owed Jovie that much for keeping my secret and supporting me when I’d first told her what I was doing with Dallas.
With that, I head out to my truck, ready to stop briefly at home before meeting with Dallas to head to the place where I currently felt the most myself…
Chapter 4 – Clay
It all started by accident—at least, that’s what I tell myself.?
If it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. I was at a crossroads, searching for purpose, a deeper meaning, something to shake up the monotony of my life.
It had been my twenty-eighth birthday, and I wanted to celebrate by doing something that made me feel alive, something beyond managing Ashwood Ranch with Nash, which felt less like a calling and more like a familial duty.
Savannah was busy recording new cooking videos for the co-op, which she said would keep her occupied until late in the evening. She’d invited me over for a special birthday dinner around seven. That left me with hours to kill, so I headed into town, where I ran into Dallas Golden.
Dallas is Wylie’s neighbor, a former Marine, and the owner and operator of Golden Farms, the hobby farm that neighbors Cameron ranch. Dallas is also married to Dove Hart, a full out rock star and the only celebrity our small town has ever produced. And if Dallas isn’t tinkering on his farm or spending time with Dove, he’s usually working as a security guard for the town’s famous rodeo.
Or so I thought that’s what he was doing.
That was my first mistake—assuming that a guy like Dallas, who never knew how to stay still, didn’t have some secret underground pastime.
When Dallas asked about my plans for that day, I’d let my guard down and told him how I was itching to try something new, to break free from the comfortable, boyish persona I’d worn all my life and the framework within most people in this small town viewed me. He responded with an offer I couldn’t resist: underground fighting, mostly mixed martial arts or MMA.
That night, we drove to a seedy facility in San Angelo. Dallas was working as a bouncer, doing a favor for an old Marine buddy. He’d mentioned that he’d been in the ring a few times for a quick spar, but those days were long behind him.
I stood at the edge of the mat, watching two hulking, farm-grown men go at it. The raw energy, the sheer physicality—I was hooked from the moment the first punch landed.
In love with the danger of barely any protective gear, the damp, moldy smell of the building, the blood, the fury, and the power behind their punches and kicks. And the way that despite all of the fierceness within their dispositions, there was always an underlying theme of brotherhood and respect from fighter to fighter.
I watched with a mix of pleasure, excitement, and horror as one fighter’s foot slammed into the other’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the room. Blood sprayed, and two teeth flew from the guy’s mouth, painting the brutal reality of the sport in front of me.
When Dallas and I left later that night, heading back to my calm, predictable life as a cowboy with a long-term girlfriend, a promise began to form deep within my gut. I’d turned to him, the adrenaline still pumping through me. “I want in,” I swore. “Next time, I’m stepping into that ring myself.”
Dallas had laughed but six weeks of relentless training with him—where he taught me to fight while I repaid him with hard labor on his farm and repairs on his new, heavy machinery—culminated in my first time inside the ring.
The combination of manual work and rigorous training had sculpted my body in ways it had never been before, despite my years working on the ranch. I had developed both the skills and the physique to hold my own on the mat. With newfound confidence, I was ready to see how I measured up against the fighters I’d been observing.
My first fight was more intense than I’d anticipated. I landed a few clean hits before taking a punch to the face that left me momentarily blacked out. The bruise that spread across my entire eye was a hard-earned trophy, but it was the new fire ignited within me that truly marked the experience. It was a flame I knew would never extinguish.
And the biggest compliment? Was Dallas, a motherfucker so scary no one dared get near Dove, a dude I was one hundred percent sure had killedhundredsof men with his bare hands, telling me that I wasn’thalf bad.
Not half bad for a cocky, young cowboy.
It was all the motivation that I needed to throw myself into training regularly, with Dallas as my head coach.
Wylie had always been the oldest, the protector, and the one who held our family together—not with love or sensitivity, but with sheer force, intimidation, and a heavy measure of fear.
Nash was the steady middle child, calm and even-tempered, though often grumpy, and distant. He worried endlessly about his siblings and anyone he cared about, always carrying the weight of their well-being on his shoulders.
And then there was me, the youngest—the flighty one and the jester. My antics, including a brief experiment with making my own moonshine, kept the family laughing and light-hearted.
I was the easygoing Cameron son, described by my mom as perpetually sunny and easy to love. She had called me this when I entered fourth grade at ten years old, the same year she passed away from cancer. It was a descriptor I carried proudly like a badge, a constant reminder of her gentle love and the ways that she and I were alike.
