Chapter 11
Boone
The Salt Lick Saloon is a shitshow.
The air inside is thick with the smell of spilled beer, cheap whiskey, and the distinctive aroma of fried pickles. It clings to the dark wood-paneled walls and the worn-out felt of the pool tables.
Every few seconds, a burst of loud, drunken laughter cuts through the generic country music blaring from the speakers, followed by the satisfying crack of a cue ball breaking a triangle of colored balls.
This was Knox’s idea. Or, more accurately, his agent’s idea, passed down through Gary like a holy decree: “Look normal. Show your face. Don’t let the scandal keep you hidden.”
So here we are. Looking normal. And it’s a fucking disaster.
Judging by the number of inebriated ranch hands and local yokels who have taken this opportunity to sidle up to our table, the plan to get Knox’s mind off things has backfired spectacularly.
Everyone wants to talk about it. About Jack Dalton.
About Willa James. They whisper his name like it’s a curse and hers like it’s a prayer, their voices a mix of morbid curiosity and feigned sympathy.
“Damn shame, what happened,” a portly Beta in a dusty John Deere cap slurs, leaning way too far into our personal space. “Jack always seemed like such a good ol’ boy.”
Knox’s knuckles are white where he grips his beer bottle.
He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long, hard swallow, his jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack.
He’s on his third, maybe fourth beer, and the angry flush on his cheeks isn’t from the alcohol.
It’s from being trapped in a glass cage with a bunch of gossiping voyeurs.
“Bet the APbrA comes down on him like a ton of bricks,” another one adds, this one a lanky Alpha with a weaselly face who keeps looking over his shoulder like he expects Jack Dalton to appear and challenge him to a duel. “Can’t have that kind of press. Bad for the brand.”
Rhett, who’s nursing a single beer, shoots me a look across the table.
It’s a look that says, This was a terrible idea.
I nod in agreement. I’ve been nursing bourbon, and I’m on my second.
I’m not drunk, but I’m wishing I was. Wishing I could just shut off my brain and not hear the speculations, not see the pity in their eyes when they glance at Knox.
“Another round?” the weaselly Alpha asks, already waving at the bartender.
“No,” I say, my voice flat and hard. It cuts through the noise, and the two interlopers flinch. “We’re leaving.”
I stand up, tossing a few bills onto the table to cover our tab. “Knox. Rhett. Let’s go.”
Knox looks like he wants to argue, but he knows it’s a lost cause. He drains the last of his beer and slams the bottle down on the table, the sound making a few nearby patrons jump. Rhett is already on his feet, his expression one of profound relief.
As we turn to leave, the bartender, a big, burly Alpha named Gus with a beard that reaches his chest, calls out. “Hey, Boone! You boys taking off?”
“Yeah,” I say, walking over to the bar. “This place is a fucking zoo tonight.”
Gus just shrugs, wiping down the bar with a rag that’s seen better decades. “News travels fast in a small town. Can’t say I’m sad to see that Dalton prick get what’s coming to him. Always had a shifty look in his eye.”
“Yeah, well, Willa James is the one who has to live with it.” I sound angry even to my own ears.
Gus nods, his expression sobering. “True enough. Hey, you want a bottle to go? On the house. Looks like you boys could use it.”
I don’t argue. “Thanks, Gus.”
He disappears under the bar and comes back up with a bottle of their top-shelf bourbon.
I take it, the cool glass a solid, real weight in my hand.
The three of us push our way through the crowd, a wave of nods and muttered greetings following us.
We escape into the cool night air, and the silence is a blessing.
The parking lot is mostly empty, the vast, star-dusted sky of Wyoming stretching out above us, infinite and indifferent.
I drive. Knox is too wound up, and Rhett, while more sober than Knox, is definitely feeling the buzz of his single beer and the oppressive atmosphere of the saloon. He slides into the passenger seat, and Knox sprawls out in the back, his long legs taking up the whole space.
The engine of my truck turns over with a low, powerful rumble. I pull onto the main highway, the headlights cutting a swath through the darkness. For the first few miles, no one speaks. The only sounds are the hum of the tires on the asphalt and the soft hiss of the air conditioning.
Knox is staring out the window, his reflection a pale, angry mask in the glass. Rhett is fiddling with the radio, finally settling on some classic rock station playing at a low volume.
Then, from the back seat, Knox’s voice, slurred and belligerent, breaks the silence. “God, can you imagine Sara in there? She’d probably have a panic attack from the secondhand smoke alone.”
Rhett laughs. “She’d be trying to file a noise complaint against the band or reporting them for smoking indoors.”
“Is it illegal?” I ask.
“We’re in Wyoming. Last I heard there were no laws banning smoking in bars and restaurants. At least not that I’ve heard of.”
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. Prim and proper. That’s what they see. That’s what they all see. The polished, professional woman who came back here in her fancy shoes smelling like city and ambition.
He doesn’t remember. He wasn’t here.
But I was.
I see a flash of her, not as she is now, but as she was then.
Sixteen years old. Her red hair was all curls and had a mind of its own.
It was full of leaves and twigs from whatever adventure she’d just dragged me into.
Her cheeks weren’t perfectly sculpted; they were sunburned and freckled from a day spent by the river, her nose peeling.
She wasn’t wearing some tailored pantsuit; she was in cutoff denim shorts and a faded T-shirt that was two sizes too big, probably stolen from my closet.
She smelled like vanilla and wildflowers, and the faint metallic tang of the creek water she’d been swimming in.
She was fearless. She’d climb the highest fence just to see what was on the other side. She’d challenge me to races she knew she couldn’t win, just for the thrill of it. She’d laugh with her whole body, her head thrown back, her voice echoing through the fields.
She was a force of nature. Untamed. Wild.
Seeing her walk through the ranch again feels like looking at a ghost wearing a familiar face. And it makes something old and fierce rise up in me, a protective instinct so potent it’s almost painful. A longing so deep it feels like a physical ache.
I’ve been trying to keep my distance, trying to maintain the cold, stone-like facade we all agreed on. It’s a matter of respect—for the pack, for the home we’re trying to save, and for the girl she used to be. The girl I let get away.
“What’s with you?”
Knox’s voice cuts through my memories. I glance in the rearview mirror. He’s leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, studying me.
“You’ve been brooding since we left the bar.”
“I’m not brooding,” I snap, the words harsher than I intend.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he shoots back. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be.”
Rhett shifts in his seat, his gaze fixed on the dark road ahead. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. He’s listening. He’s always listening.
And something in me just snaps. The frustration, the guilt, the suffocating weight of it all. The memory of her falling, the look of terror on her face when she thought I was going to hurt her, the feeling of her trembling in my arms as she cried for her friend.
“You want to know what I’m thinking about, Knox?” I snarl. “I’m thinking about her. I’m thinking about the fact that when I helped her up from that culvert, I scented her.”
The cab of the truck goes utterly still. Even the music on the radio seems to fade into the background.
“And it wasn’t just a hint,” I continue, the words pouring out of me now, a torrent I can’t stop.
“It was a fucking tidal wave. Vanilla and something else... something wild. It was the strongest, most intoxicating scent I’ve ever encountered on an Omega.
It was so strong I could barely think straight. ”
I risk a glance at Rhett. His hands are clenched on his knees, his knuckles white. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set like a block of granite.
From the back seat, Knox lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, his voice devoid of its earlier belligerence. It’s raw, honest. “I know. I smelled it too. That first day, when she was at the main house. It’s... I’ve never smelled anything like it.”
There. It’s out. The unspoken thing, the secret we’ve all been trying to ignore, is now hanging in the air between us, thick and suffocating.
We’re two Alphas of a fledgling pack, and we’re both dangerously, inexplicably drawn to the one woman who is actively trying to destroy everything we’ve built. It’s a cosmic fucking joke.
Rhett still doesn’t speak, but his silence is its own confession.
He feels it too. I know he does. He’s the one who held her hand, who drove her to town, who sat with her while she panicked.
He might be newer to the pack, but the pull is there.
It’s in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way he refuses to look at either of us.
The admission hangs there, a raw, open nerve. The truck feels smaller. We’re driving down a dark road, and we’ve just admitted we’re all lost.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to regain control. I’m supposed to be the level-headed one, the one who thinks things through. I can’t let this... this infatuation derail us.