My Fiancee's Vengeance

The roar of the Cheyenne crowd was familiar thunder, but on my 100th matchup against Wesley Johns, it felt heavy.

I' d beaten him ninety-nine times straight.

Just before I entered the chute, my fiancée Bree held my arm, pleading, "Caleb, please... let him have it."

I refused, swinging onto the bull, ready for another easy win.

My rope snapped.

I hit the dirt, my ankle exploding with pain, hearing a crack louder than the crowd.

Wesley won.

From the ground, I watched Bree run not to me, but straight to him, embracing him victoriously.

Their friends cheered, "That new rope worked like a charm!"

My blood went cold as Bree presented my dream prize, a custom saddle, to Wesley.

"You don't mind, do you, Caleb?" she asked, her voice bright.

In a haze of pain and disbelief, I branded the pristine saddle with a searing iron, a scar for her betrayal.

Bree screamed, accusing me of cruelty, diverting medics to a scatheless Wesley.

Later, packing my bags to leave her ranch and our engagement, I overheard her call, "Marry him? Oh, honey, please. The plan is to invite him to the wedding. He can watch me marry Wesley."

She laughed.

My hand froze on the doorknob as the pieces clicked: her protection, Wesley's reputation, my humiliation.

The old 'W' brand on my chest, burnt by Wesley himself, throbbed.

I left without a word, my professional career shattered, my leg broken.

Scrolling through a rodeo forum weeks later, a vintage silver belt buckle, identical to my lost father's, caught my eye.

It was the prize at a dusty, unsanctioned rodeo.

A new purpose ignited within me.

I had to ride, even with a cast. My ride was the performance of a lifetime.

But before I could claim what was mine, Bree appeared, ready to challenge me again.

The roar of the Cheyenne crowd was a familiar thunder, but tonight, it felt different, heavy. This was my 100th matchup against Wesley Johns, and I had beaten him every single time before. Ninety-nine wins. A clean sweep.

Bree, my fiancée, had her hand on my arm just before I entered the chute. Her grip was tight.

"Caleb, please," she said, her voice low and urgent. "Just this once. Let him have it. It would mean the world to him."

I looked from her face, the face of the woman who saved me, to Wesley, who was watching us from across the arena. He had that smirk on his face, the one I' d known since we were kids. It was a look of pure, unearned confidence.

"No," I said, my voice flat. I couldn't do it. Not for him.

Bree pulled her hand back like I' d burned her. "You're being cruel, Caleb."

I didn't answer. I just swung myself over the gate and onto the bull. I ran my hand over the bull rope, checking the grip, the tension. It was perfect, just like always. I gave the nod.

The gate flew open, and the bull exploded into the arena. The first few seconds were a blur of raw power, a violent dance I knew by heart. I was in control, matching the beast's every move. Then, I felt a sudden, sickening give.

My rope, the one I' d just checked, snapped.

The world turned upside down. I was thrown, not just bucked off. I hit the dirt hard, and a white-hot pain shot through my left ankle. I heard a crack that was louder than the crowd.

Wesley' s ride was easy, almost lazy. He stayed on for the full eight seconds. The buzzer blared, and the arena erupted. He' d won.

I watched from the ground, propped up on my elbows, as Bree rushed into the arena. But she didn't come to me. She ran straight to Wesley, throwing her arms around him in a triumphant hug.

Her friends, the wealthy sponsors and rodeo elite, swarmed them. I could hear their voices over the announcer' s.

"You did it, Bree! You finally evened the odds for your boy!"

"That new rope worked like a charm!"

My blood went cold.

Bree led a beaming Wesley over to the prize stand. The grand prize for this 100th-anniversary event was a custom saddle, a masterpiece of leather and silver I' d been saving for, talking about for months. Bree picked it up and presented it to him.

She finally looked over at me, my leg twisted at an unnatural angle in the dirt.

"You don't mind, do you, Caleb?" she asked, her voice bright. "He deserved a little boost."

I didn't say a word. I used the fence to pull myself up, the pain in my ankle a roaring fire. I limped past the paramedics who were just starting to move toward me. I went straight to the prize stand.

Next to the display was a decorative branding iron, still hot from being used in the opening ceremony. I grabbed it. The handle was warm.

I turned to the saddle in Wesley' s hands.

"Not at all," I said.

Then I pressed the hot iron deep into the pristine leather seat, searing a long, ugly scar right across the middle.

The smell of burning leather filled the air. Wesley shrieked like a terrified child and stumbled backward, dropping the saddle.

Bree lunged forward to protect him, putting herself between him and me. The edge of the hot iron brushed her forearm as I pulled it away. She gasped.

"Caleb, what the hell is wrong with you?" she screamed, cradling her arm. It was a faint red mark, nothing more.

She ignored my mangled ankle, the sweat pouring down my face from the pain. Her eyes were locked on Wesley, who was putting on the performance of a lifetime, his face a mask of fake terror.

"Paramedics!" Bree yelled, waving them over. "Get over here! He's in shock! And look at my arm!"

She commandeered the medical team for Wesley, who didn't have a scratch on him. They started checking his pulse while I leaned against a post, my vision starting to blur.

I looked at Bree. "He sabotaged my rope, Bree. You know he did."

"You tried to hurt him!" she shot back, her voice dripping with venom. "You're a sore loser and a bully! I saw it with my own eyes!"

The words hit me harder than the fall. Bully. That was Wesley' s word for me, the one he' d used for years to turn people against me.

I decided right then. It was over. All of it.

Later that night, after a doctor at a local clinic confirmed my ankle was shattered, I drove back to Bree's ranch to pack my things. The engagement was off. I couldn't live like this anymore.

The house was quiet. I packed my bag, my movements slow and deliberate. As I walked past her bedroom, I heard her voice. She was on the phone.

"I can't believe he did that," she was saying, her tone light, almost amused. "Branding the saddle right in front of everyone. So dramatic."

There was a pause. Then Bree laughed. It was a sound that made my stomach turn.

"Marry him? Oh, honey, please. Can you imagine? Me, standing at the altar with Caleb Fowler? No. The plan is to invite him to the wedding. As a guest. He can watch me marry Wesley. It' s the least he deserves for all those years he made Wes' s life a living hell."

My hand froze on the doorknob.

Her friend on the other end must have asked something, because Bree's voice softened. "Why Wes? Because he needs me. And I won't tarnish his reputation by being with him while I'm still engaged to Caleb. It wouldn't be right."

The pain in my ankle was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. I instinctively touched the spot on my chest, hidden under my shirt. It was a permanent scar, a brand in the shape of a 'W' that Wesley and his friends had burned into my skin with a heated piece of metal when we were sixteen.

Bree' s protection. Wesley' s reputation. My humiliation. It all clicked into place.