“Let’s start the bidding at five hundred!” she yells.
Hands go up all over the room.
I look at the men standing in front of me. For a second, the noise fades.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For being here.”
Boone reaches out, his hand brushing my arm. “We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
It’s a simple sentence, but it means everything.
The night whirls on. I talk to people I haven’t seen in years. I drink too much sweet tea. I watch the pile of cash in the donation jar grow.
I watch Willa laugh with Dot and Pearl. I see Sammy manage to avoid tripping over a cowboy.
And I watch the men. I watch them talk to the locals, deflecting the rumors about Jack Dalton, keeping the conversation focused on the ranch.
At one point, I catch Boone looking at me from across the room. He’s leaning against a post, a drink in his hand. He isn’t smiling. He’s just watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I look away. I can’t go down that road right now. I can’t think about the rain or the tree or the way his hands felt on me.
I have to focus on the money.
And as the band starts playing a fast-paced reel, and couples spin onto the dance floor, I realize something.
I’m happy.
I’m tired, and I’m stressed, and my future is still a mess.
But right now, in this noise and this heat, surrounded by people who are fighting for me... I am happy.
I catch Willa’s eye across the room. She raises her glass to me.
I raise mine back.
We’re going to save the ranch. I can feel it.
And maybe I’m going to save myself, too.
Knox
Iwasn’t sure I was going to come.
Standing in the parking lot of The Salt Lick an hour ago, I seriously considered turning the truck around. The gravel was crunched, the music was already thumping against the walls, and all I wanted to do was go back to the cabin, drink a beer alone, and stare at the ceiling until morning. The idea of being surrounded by people—by the town that knows every dirty secret of the APBRA, by the riders who are wondering if their careers are over—felt like a special kind of hell.
But then I thought about her. Saramaria.
I thought about her standing in the rain, demanding we fix her roof. I thought about her curled up on the mattress in front of the fire, protecting that damn dog. I thought about the way she looked when she told us she’d handle the fines herself, that stubborn set to her chin that made my chest ache.
So I parked the truck. I walked in.
And now I’m leaning against the bar, a glass of bourbon in my hand, watching the room spin.
It’s a good turnout. Better than good. The place is packed, wall-to-wall with bodies. The air is thick with the scent of barbecue sauce and cheap perfume. The band on stage is tearingthrough a fast-paced fiddle reel, the noise bouncing off the exposed rafters.
“Knox Wilder!”
A hand claps me on the shoulder, hard enough to spill a drop of my drink.
