Page 1 of Dallas Rivals

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.