Chapter 1
Carla
Istared at my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of my button-down shirt for the third time. Outside, the December air carried the crisp promise of snow, and Christmas lights sparkled from every building along Lonesome Creek’s Main Street.
The small Western tourist town looked like something out of a holiday movie, all rustic charm and twinkling magic. The kind of place where families gathered around dinner tables and kids left cookies and milk out for Santa. The kind of Christmas I’d watched through other people’s windows growing up.
I made sure my hair was secure in its no-nonsense bun and checked the time on my phone. Seven fifteen. Early enough to grab coffee and donuts from the bakery before heading to the rodeo arena. I wasn’t actually expected to start working until tomorrow, but I’d made some reparation plans for today.
Yesterday’s disaster still made my stomach clench when I thought about it. I’d walked into that saloon so confident, ready to dazzle my new boss with my expertise, and instead I’d managed to insult the one person I most needed to impress.
The kid who never quite fit anywhere had struck again.
This three-week contract was supposed to change everything. My first major independent consulting job, the chance to build my own business instead of working for someone else’s company forever.
Ten years of managing rodeo operations, and I’d walked in acting like I already knew everything about a completely different species. I’d successfully launched programs in three states, managed budgets in the millions, negotiated with insurance companies and city councils and temperamental contractors. But none of that mattered if I couldn’t adapt to working with sorhoxes.
The memory made me cringe all over again. I’d walked into that saloon like I owned the place, tablet in hand, ready to dazzle everyone with my credentials. My new boss, Becken, had been sitting at a table, nursing a drink, his big orc frame somehow managing to look both relaxed and intimidating in that oversized wooden chair.
“You’re the rodeo consultant,” he’d said when I introduced myself. Not unfriendly, exactly, but there had been something flat about his tone that should’ve warned me.
Instead, I’d launched into my spiel about modern operations and implementing industry-standard protocols. The more I talked, the more his expression had closed off, until he’d looked like he was carved from stone. When I’d mentioned safety improvements for “the animals,” he’d actually grimaced.
“They’re not animals,” he’d said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the saloon’s chatter. “They’re sorhoxes.”
“Of course,” I’d said, waving my hand. “The principle remains the same. With proper management?—”
“Have you ever worked with sorhoxes?” The question had been quiet, almost conversational, but something about his stillness made the entire saloon go silent.
“Well, no, but I’ve managed dozens of rodeo programs with horses, bulls, broncos?—”
“So, no.” He’d set his drink down with deliberate care. “You’ve never ridden a sorhox. Never trained one. Never even seen one, I bet.”
The dismissal in his voice had made my cheeks burn, but I’d pushed forward anyway. “Managing a beast like that is nearly the same thing as?—”
“No.” He’d stood then, all seven feet of him unfolding from his chair like a mountain coming to life. “It’s not.”
Then he’d walked out, leaving me standing there with my tablet and my theories while half the town watched in uncomfortable silence.
I grabbed my coat, mentally rehearsing what I’d say when I saw Becken again.
I’ve never encountered a situation that couldn’t be managed with proper adherence to established protocols.I’d actually said that. Out loud. To a male who’d probably been working rodeos since I was a teenager.
And when he’d asked if I’d ever actually ridden a sorhox? The way my voice had gone all defensive when I said, “Managing is nearly the same thing”.
I wanted to crawl under a rock just thinking about it. I’d felt like a complete fraud standing there with my tablet and my theories.
The morning air bit at my cheeks as I walked through town, my boots crunching on the frost-covered boardwalk. Maybe coffee and pastries would help. It was a pathetic peace offering, but at least it showed I was trying.
The bakery’s windows glowed warm and golden, and the scent of fresh bread made my mouth water. A Christmas garland framed the door, and hand-painted signs advertisedholiday specials in cheerful red and green letters. A bell chimed overhead as I pushed through the door.
“There you are. How are you this morning, Carla?” A blonde woman looked up from where she was arranging pastries in the display case, her smile bright and genuine. She looked to be in her late thirties, and she had the kind of easy confidence that came from being exactly where she belonged. “I’m Holly. I was…”
I winced. “In the saloon last night.”
“Um, yes.” She directed her gaze down at the display counter.
If only I could escape yesterday’s spectacular introduction. Half the town had been in that saloon, watching me make an ass of myself.
