Chapter Two #2
It would have to be. I sped up my walking to go to the ribbon section and bought a roll—no, two rolls.
One with little ten-gallon hats on them and the other with apples.
The latter was probably meant for educators, but it didn’t say ‘teacher appreciation’ and the Pink Lady Ranch had a small apple orchard. So I’d bought it.
My steps were quick to the car, and I settled everything into the passenger seat.
I had to be quick in making it. I tore off tags, colored over prices I couldn’t rip off, and arranged everything in the basket.
Then I got to work on the ribbons, wrapping them around the handle and then making them into bows.
It was maybe a little too much with the bows? I would think about it on the way over.
Driving away from the department store, my hands began to sweat on the wheel. I had nearly an hour of a drive, and my nerves were somehow rising with each mile I passed.
I’d lived in the city my whole life. The only time I truly ever left the area was when I was working, following up with a pack.
Even then, it was the outskirts of the city, still close enough that you could step outside and see the high rises.
About halfway into the trip, the buildings of the city were gone. It was weird.
Pink Lady Ranch wasn’t full agricultural or farming land.
According to the website, it had a small apple orchard where people could come and pick the fruit during the season, as well as horseback riding, a small boarding facility for dogs, a romantic bed and breakfast on the property, and it even sold some feed for small animals.
It had a lot going on. They also had seasonal events like chicken eggs for sale, training sessions in the spring for starting a small at-home farm, classes in the winter about caring for your animals and gardens, and I was pretty sure I saw a section accepting volunteers and interns to work with the animals.
I wasn’t going to be employed by the ranch, but the owners.
A pack that lived on the edge of the property.
I knew two of the males’ names—Everett Wilder, since he was the one that handled the application and called me, and Franklyn Oaks who I’d be meeting with.
I repeated the names out loud, so I didn’t mess them up.
They weren’t really cowboy names, although I doubted they were named into a profession.
Another ten minutes of driving and the road turned from a paved street, two lanes on either side with median space, into a two-way road, the lines sun bleached and hard to see. A sign on the side of the road boasted that the Pink Lady Ranch was nearing.
Out here, the road wasn’t very smooth. Despite the high speed limit, I found myself slowing down, careful of potholes and dips.
Turning off the radio, which had already been low so I could focus on the impending dread of my interview, I focused on not popping a tire.
It wasn’t a bad road, just not necessarily as smooth as inside the city.
Until five minutes later when the road itself seemed to just disappear and all that was left was dirt.
The flattened path was obviously well-driven over, so I knew I was going the right way.
Still, I slowed down even more. Weren’t you supposed to go slow over dirt so you didn’t blind anyone behind you in dust?
I didn’t have anyone following me, but rules were rules.
I was also pretty sure I was supposed to change the air venting in my car, only I refused to look down at all the buttons to change it.
So I inhaled dirt? No big deal. It was dirt.
Another sign pointed in the direction of Pink Lady Ranch and I ignored it, following the directions that should lead me to their private home, not the visitor’s center.
The house finally came into view, along with a wooden fence announcing private property. Several signs indicated that this was not part of Pink Lady Ranch and told people to turn around.
I must have been so enamored with taking in the house that I stopped paying attention to the dirt road. The car dipped sideways, the front right wheel obviously falling into some sort of hole, and then the car stopped moving.
My heart slammed against my chest at the abrupt stop as if the organ didn’t know the difference between a wheel getting stuck and my life being in immediate danger.
I blamed part of that on the fact that I’d been distracted with the house.
I tried to gently press on the gas, seeing if I could drive myself out of the hole.
I felt how crooked my car was because of it, so I’d doubted it. And I was right. I didn’t move.
Just in case, I tried backing up. That didn’t work, either. Not a surprise, really.
The car roared—or made whatever demanding sound it was that cars made—in disapproval.
Well, I didn’t have the time to fix the issue. I was only ten minutes early to my interview. That wasn’t enough time to call out a tow truck, even if I did schedule for them to come out in an hour or two. I’d just have to do that afterward.
Turning on my hazards, I then turned off the car.
Usually, I would’ve popped the trunk to ensure someone driving by didn’t mistake my car for having a driver but opening a door while this far into a desert seemed like an open invitation for bugs and little animals to make their way inside.
I could handle a lot—a raging alpha, a scared omega, a pack in the midst of jealousy. Not bugs.
Grabbing my basket, I took my time walking up to the gate, unlatching it to let myself through, and then up toward the main house.
It was all one story, but it wasn’t what anyone would’ve called small.
Made of stone and wood, it was a testament to strength.
A large, covered porch wrapped around the whole house, with a few rocking chairs spread out, a small outdoor table along the end, and even a swinging chair dangling from the wooden awning.
A few hummingbird feeders were out as well.
The house looked comfy, like the type of place where people spent a lot of time rather than a place created for visitors.
While most of the home was built in large dark grey stones, the other features were made from a dark wood, like the front door, the windows, and even the porch.
Old style lanterns were set against the stones, the melted wax inside showing that they were used with real flames, and frequently.
I did my best to not look through the windows since the blinds were already opened, showing off the house’s innards.
My slight heels thumped against the wooden floorboards, the sound loud in the quiet of this area despite being outside.
The house sat on a clearing with a fence quite a distance away, protecting the private property from wanderers.
It was all dirt, at least on this side of the house.
An old truck was outside, hinting that someone was home.
Did I knock? My phone said I had eight minutes until my interview was to be expected. It would be rude to be too early.
Holding the basket in front of me, I simply waited, enjoying being under the shade of the porch.
It was a hot day, making me wish I’d waited the extra few minutes in my car, with the air conditioning on.
Carefully, I took off my overcoat, draping it over my forearm.
I didn’t want to be sweating for the interview or I’d have to do another spritz of the descenter.
A few minutes later, I looked at my phone again.
Five minutes until the interview. I would give it another minute or two so that I was early without being interruptive of their time.
Just as I made the mental decision, my heart started to pound harder, the doubts creeping in.
Maybe a basket was too weird. It’s something I would have done for an omega I was visiting when working with the OC, but this was a bonded omega.
Was that inappropriate? Alphas didn’t tend to be jealous of betas, so I hadn’t considered how this might have appeared like a courting gift.
It wasn’t. Omegas loved gifts. Heck, even I would’ve liked to receive it.
Still, maybe I should take it back to the car?
I didn’t get the time. The door opened with a dramatic flair, a male, probably close to six feet tall glaring as he looked around before his gaze landed on me.
His black hair had obviously had his fingers run through it quite a lot, the dark curls plastered in rivulets on his head where his fingers had created little valleys.
His naturally brown skin had obviously seen time in the sun, showing off the redness of his cheeks and the darker tone around his fingers as he braced on the doorframe, half leaning out of his home.
When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled on the sides, making him look years younger. And kinder.
“Well, is that for me, pet?” The twang in his voice was obviously played up.
I had no idea how to answer that. If this was a private home, then he was most likely part of Everett Wilder’s pack. Although I couldn’t be sure of that. I did know that this wasn’t Everett Wilder.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, sorry. Um, I’m here for an interview with Franklyn Oaks?”
“Is that a question?”
“No. I am here. I just hope I’m at the right spot. I didn’t check-in at the visitor’s center since I figured the position wasn’t for the ranch.”
“You’re in the right spot. You’re Ms. Tellus.”
“Eve, preferably. Yes. This is for your pack omega.”
Surprisingly, his smile shrank. He looked over the basket, as if deciding whether or not it was a courting gift.
“Sorry, this is probably inappropriate. Honestly, it’s something I used to do in my old job, and I didn’t truly think it through about stepping over boundaries or not. I can absolutely go put this in my car really quick, no hard feelings—”