Chapter 3
Rhett
The truck kicks up a cloud of dust as I turn onto the main ranch road. The sun is high, beating down on the cab, the air conditioning doing little to fight the Wyoming heat. The cattle are tagged, vaccinated, and moved to the south pasture.
It’s a good day’s work, the kind of physical labor that clears my head better than anything else. I left the pack life behind for a reason, and days like this remind me why. No drama, no politics, just the land and the animals and the satisfaction of a job well done.
As I approach the cluster of cabins, I see Boone leaning against the porch railing of his place, arms crossed over his chest. He’s watching something down by Knox’s cabin.
I pull up beside him, cutting the engine.
“What’s got you so captivated?” I ask, jumping down from the truck.
Boone doesn’t look at me, his focus still down the path. “Heard a commotion a bit ago. Thought you were back.”
“Nah, just finished with the cattle.” I follow his gaze. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” he says, though his tone suggests otherwise. “Just about done here. Thought we could head to The Salt Lick, grab a cold beer.”
“Sounds good.” I nod toward his stallion, Midnight, who’s tied to the post, nibbling at some grass. “He’s looking good.”
Boone pushes off the railing and walks over to the horse, his hand stroking the animal’s glossy black neck. Midnight nudges him, and Boone scratches behind his ears. “He’s a good boy. We need to get the herd moved to the upper pasture next week, let the lower fields recover.”
“I’ll take the south fence line tomorrow, check for any breaks after that storm last night,” I offer, falling into step beside him as we walk toward the ranch.
We’re about fifty yards away when we see it. A red SUV, rental plates, parked haphazardly near the main house. It’s dusty and out of place.
“Well, well,” I say, a grin spreading across my face. “Looks like Knox brought company. I almost thought the guy was turning into a monk.”
Boone doesn’t laugh. His pace quickens, his body tensing.
We walk faster, the easy camaraderie from moments ago gone, replaced by a sense of unease. Boone whistles, and his dog, a border collie named Blue, comes trotting from behind the cabin. Boone gives a command, and Blue herds the last few stragglers from the cattle drive into the paddock.
We’re downwind now, the scent of pine and earth filling the air. Boone cups his hands around his mouth, his voice carrying across the distance. “Knox! Get your ass out here!”
The door to Knox’s cabin opens, and he steps out, fully dressed now, his arms folded across his chest. And behind him... her.
I’ve only seen pictures of her, tucked away in an old photo album Mr. Cruz used to keep. A little girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. A teenager with a rebellious glint in her eye. The woman standing there now is a stranger, yet I know her instantly.
Her hair is brown, strands escaping from what was once a neat bun.
She’s wearing a gray skirt suit that’s completely wrong for this place, the fabric streaked with dirt.
Her heels are sinking into the soft ground, making her look unsteady.
But it’s her face that holds my attention.
Her jaw is set, her green eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and defiance.
Boone stops dead, his entire body going still. “Saramaria,” he says, his voice tight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Knox gestures toward his face, which is still red and blotchy. “She pepper sprayed me.”
“I thought he was an intruder,” she says, her voice professional. She doesn’t look at Knox, her eyes fixed on Boone. “Hi, Boone.”
My gaze shifts between them, the unspoken history hanging in the air. This is personal.
“Why’d you miss the funeral?” Boone asks, and the question hangs in the air, heavy with accusation.
The woman, Saramaria, stiffens. She reaches up, smoothing down her blazer, a small, precise gesture that seems out of place in the raw emotion of the moment. “I was busy.”
Busy. The word is a shield, a wall she’s throwing up between them. I can see the hurt flash in Boone’s eyes before he masks it.
She turns to me then, as if just noticing I’m there. She walks toward me and extends her hand. Her grip is firm when I take it.
“Saramaria Cruz,” she says, her tone all business. “You must be Rhett.”
“I am,” I reply, my eyes narrowing slightly.
“Knox has told me all about you,” she continues, her gaze sweeping over me, assessing. “When you have a minute, we should talk.”
“About what?” Boone asks, his voice like gravel.
Knox sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s here to sell the property.”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Boone says, the words exploding from him. He takes a step forward, his body coiled with tension.
Saramaria doesn’t flinch. She turns to face him, her chin raised. “I’m here to evaluate it first.”
“We live here,” Knox says, his voice tight. “All three of us. We have leases.”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Those weren’t mentioned in his will.”
“What the fuck?” I say.
She ignores me. “My grandfather may have let you stay here, but he’s dead. I own this land now.”
She looks at each of us in turn, her green eyes burning with a cold fire. “I have some experts coming by. I’m hoping to put this place on the market before the start of next week. I’m hoping that will be sufficient time for you to vacate.”
The words hit us like a physical blow. I can feel my Alpha rising, a protective, territorial instinct that’s been dormant for years. Beside me, I can feel the same from Knox and Boone.
Tension snaps through all three of us, a silent, unified response to the threat. This is our home. Our sanctuary. And this woman, this Omega with her city suit and her sharp words, has just declared war.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Boone says, then turns and walks away.
He doesn’t go far. He stops a few paces away, his back to us but his body angled so he can still see her, his stance rigid. He’s watching, waiting.
He’s clearly furious.
I know that look. It’s the same one he gets when a bull is about to burst from the chute.
I watch Saramaria draw a breath, her shoulders rising and falling in a controlled motion. When she turns back to us, the mask is firmly in place, all traces of the vulnerable Omega from moments ago gone.
“I understand this comes as a shock,” she begins, all business now, “but I have evaluated the situation.” Her gaze sweeps the property, landing on a section of fence where a post has rotted and the wire sags under its own weight.
“That, for instance. The place is dilapidated. The property taxes at the end of the year will be astronomical, more than this land is worth in its current condition.”
My jaw tightens.
She’s spent a couple of minutes here, and she’s already written it off?
She has no idea about the hours I’ve spent mending that exact fence, the sweat and care that’s gone into this land. The insult of it, the casual dismissal of our work, stings more than her threat to sell.
“So ten minutes on the property has given you all the assessment you need?” I ask, my voice laced with a sarcasm I don’t bother to hide.
Her eyes flash as they meet mine. “My ranch,” she corrects.
I scoff. She can have the title on paper, but this land is in our bones. It’s in the calluses on Boone’s hands and the scars on Knox’s body. It’s in the dirt under my fingernails.
Knox, ever the charmer, steps between us, a calming hand raised. “Whoa, okay. This is... a lot. How about we all take the day? Cool down. We can talk tomorrow with clear heads.” He offers her a disarming smile, the one that usually gets him out of trouble with sponsors and fans alike.
Saramaria looks from Knox’s easygoing face to my stony expression, then over to Boone’s rigid back. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue, to push her point but then she seems to deflate, just a little.
“Fine,” she says, her voice tight. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
Then she turns on her heel, her steps sure despite those ridiculous shoes, and walks back to the parked SUV. We watch in silence as she gets in and drives off, leaving a plume of dust in her wake.
The three of us stand there for a long moment after she’s gone, the silence heavy with unspoken words.
Knox lets out a low whistle. “Well. That could have gone worse.”
I snort. “She’s going to sell, Knox. She said it herself.”
“She’s upset,” Knox reasons. “Grieving. People say things they don’t mean when they’re grieving.”
“This felt pretty damn meaningful,” I mutter, my gaze drifting to Boone.
He still hasn’t moved, just stands there staring down the empty road where her truck disappeared. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his whole body vibrating with a tension so thick you could see it from a mile away.
Knox follows my gaze. “Yeah,” he says, his tone sobering. “I think we need to figure out exactly what the hell is going on.”
The Salt Lick is precisely what we need right now. Dark wood, the low hum of conversation, the scent of fried pickles and stale beer. It’s a place where problems can either be drowned or shouted over the din of a live band. Tonight, I’m hoping for a bit of both.
Knox slams three bottles of beer onto the table, the glass thudding against the scarred wood. Foam spills over the sides. Boone just stares into his, like he’s trying to divine the future in the amber liquid. I take a long pull from mine, the cold bitterness a welcome shock to my system.
“Okay,” Knox says, breaking the silence.
He’s the first to recover, the first to shift from stunned anger to strategy.
It’s why he’s a champion on the circuit and a nightmare to play poker against. “Plan. Rhett, you’re the most organized one of us.
You need to get a copy of that will. I’ll get Gary to run it through his people.
Find every loophole, every technicality we can use. ”