Chapter 1: Control
Billy Benson adjusted his belt. Just turned 18, it would be his first rodeo as an adult and he was psyched. He had rolled up the sleeves of his blue plaid cowboy shirt to show off his arms for the ladies. His black cowboy hat was the perfect top. Ready. Confident. Sure of himself when he realized he left his wallet with his entrance ticket back in his camper.
He did the long walk to the parking field, muddy from the last rain, abandoned and looked down at his new boots, getting scuffed with mud. "Fuck, I'll have to clean them..." was his last thought when he was jumped from behind and a chloroform rag was shoved over his face. It would be hours later when Billy would awake roped to a chair in what smelled like an old cow barn.
Stay calm. Think.
Billy's head pounded like a sledgehammer against his skull. The taste of cotton and chemicals coated his tongue. He tried to move his arms—nothing. His wrists were crossed behind the chair and wrapped tight with rope. The hemp cut into his skin when he tested the bonds.
Okay. Wrists are tied. Just rope. I can work with rope.
He focused on his upper arms next. The sleeves he'd rolled up to impress the girls were now bunched at his shoulders, exposing his whole upper arm for the thick rope that circled his bare biceps, pulling them tight against the sides of the chair. The rope had been frapped—wrapped around and around—creating an intricate web he couldn't see but could feel cutting into his flesh.
Arms tied to the chair. Multiple wraps. Professional.
His shirt hung open, the snaps having popped apart during the struggle he couldn't remember. Sweat already beaded on his bare chest where more ropes crisscrossed his torso, holding him firmly to the chair back. The hemp scratched against his skin with every breath.
Stay methodical. Catalog everything. There has to be a weak point.
Billy tested his legs. His boots were gone—just his socks now. His feet had been pulled back against the rear legs of the chair and roped tight. He couldn't even wiggle his toes. More rope circled his thighs, one at each corner of the seat, spreading his legs and pinning them down.
The worst part was his head. A bandanna had been stuffed deep in his mouth, then more rope wrapped around his head to keep it in place. Another rope held a blindfold tight over his eyes. He could taste the cotton and feel the hemp fibers against his teeth.
Gag. Blindfold. Can't see. Can't call for help. But I can think. I can figure this out.
Billy forced himself to breathe through his nose, slow and steady. He had to stay calm. Had to think. Panic would only make the ropes feel tighter, make his heart race faster, make everything worse.
Someone did this for a reason. Someone who knows what they're doing.
But who? And why?
Chapter 2: The Knots
The wrists. Start with the wrists. If I can get my hands free, everything else comes undone.
Billy twisted his wrists against the rope, feeling the hemp fibers bite into his skin. His hands were crossed behind the chair, wrists bound together with what felt like multiple wraps of rope. If he could just find some slack, work his hands smaller...
Come on. There's always some give in rope.
He pressed his thumbs against his palms, trying to collapse his hands into the smallest possible shape. The rope cut deeper, but he felt something—maybe a millimeter of movement. His wrists burned, but there might be hope.
Keep trying. Rope stretches. Rope loosens.
Billy could feel the hemp wrapped around and around his wrists, then tied off to something behind the chair. He tested it, pulling forward with his shoulders. The rope held firm, but it was just rope—not metal. He tried rotating his wrists, hoping to find slack. The rough fibers scraped against his skin like sandpaper.
Think. How would you tie someone so they couldn't get free? Multiple wraps. Tight knots. But it's still just rope.
His upper arms were the key. Billy could feel every coil of rope around his biceps, the way they'd been frapped to the chair sides. If he could somehow slip his arms up and out of those loops...
Just need to make myself smaller. Compress the muscle.
He tried to relax his biceps, letting all the tension drain from his arms. The rope was tight, but maybe if he could work it down his arms, inch by inch...
Jesus. How many times did they wrap this?
Billy counted the pressure points around his left arm. At least six separate coils of rope, each one cinched tight against his bare skin. His right arm felt the same. But it was rope—rope could be worked loose, stretched, manipulated.
Professional. But still just rope.
He flexed his biceps, then relaxed them. Flexed and relaxed. Maybe if he could work the rope down his arms, create just enough space...
The hemp bit deeper into his flesh. Sweat stung the fresh rope burns. His arms were already starting to cramp from the awkward position, but he had to keep trying.
These are the only ropes that matter. Get the arms free, get the wrists free, everything else is just rope.
Billy pulled harder against the arm ropes, ignoring the burning pain. The rope was tight, professional work, but whoever did this was still human. Humans made mistakes.
There has to be a way. There has to be.
But even as he strained against the bonds, the knots held firm.
Chapter 3: Spiral
Stay calm. Stay focused. There has to be a reason.
But Billy's heart was racing now, hammering against his ribs. The rope burns on his wrists were getting worse, raw and bleeding. His biceps cramped from the constant strain against the arm ropes. And still, nothing. No give. No slack.
Who the hell would do this? Who?
His mind started cycling through faces. Tommy Martinez from school—Billy had beaten him up last year, but this seemed extreme. The drunk guy at the bar two weeks ago who'd gotten angry when Billy flirted with his girlfriend. But that was just a stupid bar fight. This was...
This is insane. This is crazy.
Billy's breathing quickened. The bandanna in his mouth felt like it was expanding, cutting off his air. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was bone dry. The taste of cotton and his own fear coated his tongue.
Please. Please just loosen up a little.
He found himself talking to the ropes—or trying to, through the gag. Muffled sounds escaped his throat, desperate whimpers that meant nothing to anyone but him.
Come on, rope. Just give me something. Anything.
Billy strained against the wrist bindings, feeling the hemp fibers dig deeper into his raw skin. He was begging now, pleading with the inanimate fibers as if they could hear him, as if they cared.
I'll do anything. Just let me get one hand free. Please.
The arm ropes seemed to mock him, holding him tighter than ever. He twisted his biceps, trying to work the coils down his arms, and found himself whispering through the gag.
Why won't you let me go? What did I do?
He was talking to the rope like it was alive, like it had made a conscious choice to hold him prisoner. His voice was muffled, pathetic, but he couldn't stop.
The hemp fibers scratched against his skin with every movement, unforgiving and relentless. Billy felt tears building behind the blindfold.
Please don't leave me here. Please.
He wasn't even sure if he was talking to the rope or to whoever had tied him up. The distinction was starting to blur. All he knew was the desperate need to make something—anything—listen to him.
I just want to go home.
But the ropes held firm, silent and merciless, as Billy's mind began to fracture under the weight of his helplessness.
Chapter 4: Endurance
Stop. Just stop talking to the rope. You're losing it.
Billy forced himself to be still, to breathe through his nose in slow, measured breaths. The panic was eating him alive, but he had to fight it. Had to find some way to endure this.
Think about something else. Anything else.
He tried to picture the rodeo. The crowd cheering. The smell of funnel cake and hay. His brothers would be there by now, wondering where he was. His father would be looking for him, asking around...
They'll find me. They have to find me.
But even as he thought it, doubt crept in. How long had he been here? Hours? A whole day? The barn was isolated—he could tell from the silence. No traffic sounds. No voices. Just the occasional creak of old wood and the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Focus on the rope. Work the rope. That's all that matters.
Billy tested his wrists again, slower this time. Methodical. If he could just find the right angle, the right pressure point...
There. Right there.
For a moment, he thought he felt something—a tiny shift in the hemp around his left wrist. He worked at it, twisting carefully, trying not to make it tighter.
Come on. Work with me.
But the sensation was gone. Had he imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks on him?
No. Focus. Stay focused.
He moved to his arms, testing each coil of rope around his biceps. The frapping was so tight it felt like his arms were being strangled. But rope was rope. It had to have limits.
I can do this. I can figure this out.
Billy tried to make a deal with himself. If he could just stay calm for ten minutes—really calm, not panicking—then maybe the ropes would loosen. Maybe whoever did this would come back. Maybe his family would find him.
Ten minutes. Just ten minutes of staying in control.
He counted his breaths. One... two... three... But his mind kept wandering to the darkness behind the blindfold, to the taste of cotton in his mouth, to the way the rope cut into his skin with every small movement.
Focus. Count. One... two...
His wrists throbbed. His arms burned. His chest felt crushed under the weight of the rope harness. And still, no sound from outside. No footsteps. No voices.
How long? How long have I been here?
The question broke his concentration. The panic started rising again, clawing at his chest like a living thing.
No. No, don't think about that. Think about the rope. Just the rope.
But Billy's voice was cracking now, even in his thoughts. The careful control he'd fought so hard to maintain was slipping away, one breath at a time.
Please. Just give me a sign. Any sign.
He was talking to the rope again, begging it to show him mercy. But the hemp remained silent, unyielding, as Billy's endurance began to crumble.
Chapter 5: Collapse
I can't. I can't do this anymore.
Billy's body convulsed against the ropes, every muscle screaming in protest. His wrists were on fire, the hemp having worn through skin to raw flesh beneath. Blood made the rope slippery, but somehow the bonds only seemed tighter.
Water. Oh God, I need water.
His tongue felt like sandpaper against the cotton bandanna. How long since he'd had anything to drink? The taste of his own dried saliva mixed with the musty fabric was making him gag. His throat felt like it was closing up.
Please, rope. Please. I'm dying here.
The words came out as desperate, muffled sobs through the gag. Billy didn't care anymore how pathetic he sounded. He was past caring about anything except the crushing weight of the hemp around his body.
I'll give you anything. Money. Whatever you want.
He was pleading with the ropes like they were his captors, like they could negotiate. His mind couldn't separate the fiber from the person who had tied them. The rope was his enemy now, his torturer, his judge.
Why are you doing this to me? What did I do?
Billy's chest heaved against the rope harness, each breath a struggle. The frapping around his biceps had cut off circulation hours ago—he could no longer feel his fingers. His legs had gone numb from the tight ropes around his thighs.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. For anything.
He was apologizing to the rope, to the chair, to the musty air of the barn. His voice was raw from the muffled screaming, reduced to broken whimpers.
Please don't let me die like this. Please.
The blindfold was soaked with tears and sweat. His body shook with exhaustion and dehydration. Every rope burn felt like it was on fire, but he couldn't stop testing the bonds, couldn't stop the desperate, futile struggle.
I want my dad. I want to go home.
Billy's thoughts were fragmenting, becoming the desperate pleas of a child. The eighteen-year-old who'd rolled up his sleeves to impress girls was gone, replaced by something broken and begging.
Help me. Somebody help me.
But there was no one to hear him except the silent ropes, wrapping him tighter in their hemp embrace as Billy's mind finally shattered under the weight of his terror.
The barn remained silent except for the sound of his muffled sobs echoing off the empty walls.
Chapter 6: Rescue
Billy barely heard the voices at first. His mind had retreated so far into itself that the sound of footsteps on the barn floor seemed like another hallucination. But then he heard his name.
"Billy! Jesus Christ, Billy!"
Dad?
The voice was real. Billy's head jerked up, sending fresh pain through his cramped neck. More voices now—his brothers. Jake and Tom and little Marcus. They were here. They were actually here.
"Oh God, son. What did they do to you?"
Hands were working at the ropes around his head, fumbling with the knots. Billy tried to speak through the gag, tried to tell them he was okay, but only broken sounds came out.
"Get the blindfold off first," Jake's voice. "Then the gag."
Light flooded Billy's vision when the blindfold came off. Even the dim light of the barn was blinding after so long in darkness. He blinked, tears streaming down his face, and saw his father's weathered face inches from his own.
"It's okay, son. We're here. We're gonna get you out."
The gag came off next, and Billy gasped, trying to work his jaw. His voice came out as a croak. "Dad... how... how did you find me?"
His father's face went pale. He looked away, unable to meet Billy's eyes. "We'll talk about that later. Let's just get you free."
His brothers were working on the arm ropes now, their faces grim as they saw the deep rope burns on Billy's biceps. The frapping had cut so deep into his flesh that the hemp was stained with blood.
"Who did this?" Tom demanded, his voice shaking with rage. "Who the hell did this to you?"
Billy looked at his father, expecting him to be just as angry, just as confused. But his dad's face was filled with something else entirely. Guilt. Shame. Fear.
"Dad?" Billy's voice was barely a whisper. "Dad, what's going on?"
His father finally met his eyes, and Billy saw tears there. "I'm sorry, son. I'm so goddamn sorry."
"For what? You didn't do anything wrong."
"Yes, I did." His father's voice broke. "I did something terrible. A long time ago. Before you were born. And someone... someone wanted me to pay for it."
Billy's wrists came free, and he collapsed forward, his brothers catching him. His whole body was shaking, but it wasn't from the cold anymore. It was from the look in his father's eyes.
"What did you do?" Billy whispered.
"I killed someone's son," his father said, the words coming out in a rush. "In a robbery. Twenty years ago. I thought I'd gotten away with it. But they found me. They found us. And they wanted their money back, and they wanted me to suffer like they did."
Billy stared at his father, unable to process what he was hearing. "You... you killed someone?"
"The police are coming for me, son. I'm going to prison. But first I had to get you back. I had to make sure you were safe."
Billy's legs gave out completely as his brothers finished untying him. He slumped against Jake, his mind reeling. Thirty-six hours of torture, of begging the ropes to let him go, of wondering who had done this to him and why.
And now he knew. His own father's sins had put him in that chair.
"I'm sorry," his father whispered again, reaching out to touch Billy's face. "I'm so sorry you had to pay for what I did."
Billy pulled away from his father's touch, his body still shaking. The rescue he'd dreamed of for thirty-six hours had finally come.
But it felt nothing like salvation.
Chapter 7: Aftermath
The kitchen table at the Benson ranch had seen plenty of family meetings over the years, but nothing like this. Jake sat with his head in his hands. Tom stared out the window at nothing. Marcus, barely sixteen, kept asking questions nobody wanted to answer. Derek had driven straight from college the moment he heard, still wearing his university sweatshirt.
"So Dad's really going to prison?" Marcus's voice cracked. "For murder?"
"Twenty-five to life," Jake said without looking up. "That's what the lawyer said."
Billy leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, the rope burn scars dark against his skin. Three weeks since the rescue, and he was the only one who seemed to have his shit together.
"We'll figure it out," Billy said, his voice steady. "Ranch needs running. Bills need paying. Life goes on."
Tom finally turned from the window. "How are you so calm about this? You're the one who got—"
"Got what? Tied up for a couple days?" Billy shrugged. "I'm still here. Still breathing. Still got two working arms and legs."
The scars on his biceps were healing well, leaving permanent marks where the hemp had cut deepest. Billy wore them like medals. Every morning when he rolled up his sleeves, he felt a surge of pride. He'd survived. He'd endured. He'd come through the other side stronger.
Derek cleared his throat. "I'm not going back to college."
"What?" Jake's head snapped up. "Derek, you can't—"
"I'm not going back," Derek said firmly. "We need to stick together. Be one unit. The ranch needs all of us."
"You're two semesters away from graduating," Tom protested. "You can't throw that away."
"I'm not throwing anything away. I'm choosing my family." Derek looked around the table. "Dad's gone. We're what's left. We do this together or we don't do it at all."
Billy smiled for the first time in weeks. "Derek's right. We're stronger together."
"This is insane," Jake muttered, but there was relief in his voice. "All of us here, trying to run this place..."
"We'll make it work," Billy said. "It's not that complicated. Dad fucked up twenty years ago. Someone wanted payback. They got it. Now we move forward. Together."
His brothers stared at him like he'd grown a second head. They expected him to be broken, traumatized, different. He was different—but not the way they thought.
The kid who'd rolled up his sleeves to impress girls at the rodeo was gone. In his place sat someone who'd stared down absolute helplessness and lived to tell about it. Someone who knew, bone deep, that as long as he could move his arms and legs, as long as he wasn't tied to a chair, he could handle anything.
"You sure you're ready to compete this weekend?" Tom asked. "Nobody would blame you if—"
"I'm ready," Billy said, flexing his arms. The scars pulled tight, reminding him of what he'd survived. "More than ready."
The rodeo crowd was bigger than usual—word had gotten around about Billy Benson. His school mates filled the bleachers, buddies from town, even the girls who used to giggle when he flexed his muscles. They all knew what he'd been through. They all knew what those scars on his arms meant.
Billy sat on the rail with his brothers, sleeves rolled up, watching the other riders. People weren't just staring at his scars now—they were nodding with respect, whispering about the kid who'd survived thirty-six hours tied to a chair and came back stronger.
"You don't have to do this," Derek said. "Proving yourself to a bunch of strangers isn't worth getting hurt."
Billy grinned, looking out at the crowd of familiar faces. "I'm not proving anything to strangers."
His name was called. Billy climbed down from the rail, adjusted his hat, and walked to the chute. The bull was a mean one—Tornado, fifteen hundred pounds of bad attitude. Perfect.
Billy settled onto the bull's back, wrapped the rope around his hand, and nodded to the gate man. The chute opened.
For seven seconds, Billy and Tornado danced. The bull twisted, bucked, spun in circles, trying to throw the rider who dared to challenge him. Billy held on, his scarred arms burning with the effort, his legs clamped tight.
Then Tornado made a move Billy didn't expect. The bull launched sideways, and Billy felt himself coming loose. He hit the arena dirt hard, rolling to avoid the hooves.
The crowd erupted—not in disappointment, but in thunderous cheers. They were cheering for him getting up, for surviving, for being Billy fucking Benson who wouldn't stay down.
But Billy was already pushing himself up, laughing. Dust in his mouth, dirt on his shirt, and he was laughing.
At least I'm not tied up, he thought, spitting out arena sand. I can always get up when I'm not roped to a chair.
He dusted off his hat, looked up at the crowd—his classmates, his friends, his brothers—and raised his hat high in the air, waving it in thanks. The cheering got louder.
Billy Benson had learned something in that barn that no amount of rope could take away: as long as he could choose to get up, he'd never really be down.
He rolled up his sleeves a little higher and walked out of the arena, ready for whatever came next.
