Chapter 13
Rhett
Afew hours earlier
Sleep is a lost cause.
My mind is a knot of tangled thoughts, frayed at the ends by the events of the last few days.
The ranch, the will, the woman in the main house who looks at me like I’m a squatter in her own home.
And the smell. That damn scent of hers that clings to the inside of my nose no matter how many times I wash my face.
I throw the covers off and sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. The floorboards are cold under my feet. I walk to the small desk in the corner, cluttered with bills and receipts. On top sits the file box.
Saramaria asked for the documents. She demanded them. And for days, we’ve refused. A collective act of defiance orchestrated by Boone, fueled by Knox’s stubbornness, and executed by me. But lying here in the dark, listening to the wind howl against the logs, the weight of it feels wrong.
I left my last pack because of secrets. Because of the way truths were withheld to manipulate and control. I hated that. I swore I wouldn’t be part of that dynamic again.
Whatever is happening with Meadowlark, whatever Anthony’s plan was, hiding the paperwork isn’t protecting the ranch.
It’s just prolonging the inevitable. She owns the land.
She has a right to see the mess Anthony left behind.
If she wants to sell, let her see exactly what she’s selling.
Let her see the obligations, the leases, the debts.
Maybe then she’ll understand why we can’t just pack up and leave.
With a frustrated growl I lay back down and wait for dawn. I lie awake watching the gray light seep through the curtains.
By the time the sun is up, I’ve had enough of staring at walls. I need to work. I need noise. I grab my keys and head out. I need to pick up a load of feed for the horses before the weather turns. The forecast is calling for snow by the end of the week.
I decide to pass by and hand her the documents but she is nowhere to be found. None of the other guys know where she went to. I try not to laugh as I watch Knox struggle to tame Diablo while having a nauseatingly bad hangover.
After breakfast, we disperse. I’m just about to leave when I see her coming back.
I hand her the documents. I want to ask if her hand is feeling better or if she’s sore, but she smells particularly fantastic this morning. So instead, like the coward I have now turned into, I run.
I drive into town, the truck rattling over the potholes in the main road. Muddy Creek is just waking up. The windows of Sweetbuns are glowing yellow, and I can see a few early risers lined up outside.
I pull into the gravel lot of Clara Mae’s Feed. It’s an old, wooden structure that smells of molasses, grain, and earth. Clara Mae herself is behind the counter when I walk in. She’s a sturdy woman with iron-gray hair and a no-nonsense demeanor that has kept this place running for thirty years.
But the atmosphere inside is off. Tense. Usually, the feed store is a place of easy camaraderie, farmers talking about crops and prices.
I’m walking toward the counter to place my order when I hear the shouting.
“This is a joke! A complete witch hunt!”
The voice is loud, aggressive. It comes from the aisle near the stacking equipment. I turn.
An Alpha I don’t recognize is standing over Clara Mae. He’s younger than me, maybe mid-twenties, dressed in expensive rodeo gear that looks like it’s never seen a day of work. He’s red-faced, his hands slamming onto the counter.
“He was the head of the RRC!” the guy yells, spit flying from his lips. “Jack Dalton built this circuit. And you expect me to believe he threw it all away for some piece of—”
“Watch your mouth,” Clara Mae says, sounding dangerous. She doesn’t back down an inch. She stands her ground behind the high counter, her eyes flashing.
“It’s the truth!” the guy shouts. “Everyone knows it. She was in heat. They were alone. What did he think was going to happen? You can’t dangle meat in front of a lion and then shoot it for eating.”
I freeze. The casual cruelty of his words makes my blood boil. It’s the same garbage I’ve been hearing whispers of, but hearing it shouted in Clara Mae’s face makes it real. It makes it vile.
“Get out,” Clara Mae says, pointing a finger at the door. “I don’t serve trash. Get off my property.”
“Or what?” The guy laughs, a harsh, ugly sound. He leans over the counter, invading her space. “You’ll call the sheriff? Please. Half the town agrees with me. She knew what she was doing. She probably wanted it. Omegas always—”
I move before I think. I don’t plan it. I don’t weigh the consequences. I just see red.
I cross the space between us in three long strides. I grab the guy by the shoulder of his expensive jacket and spin him around.
“Hey!” he sputters, eyes wide with shock.
My fist connects with his jaw. The impact is solid, a sickening crunch that vibrates all the way up my arm to my shoulder.
The guy staggers back, tripping over his own boots and crashing into a display of salt licks. They tumble to the floor with a series of loud crashes. He hits the ground hard, hand clutching his face. Blood wells between his fingers.
The store goes silent. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams streaming through the high windows.
“Get up,” I spit out.
The guy looks up at me, fear and rage warring in his eyes. He touches his jaw gingerly, wincing. “You broke my jaw!”
“I’ll break more than that if you ever speak to a woman like that again,” I tell him. I stand over him, my hands clenched at my sides. I’m shaking with the effort not to hit him again.
He scrambles backward, crab-walking away from me until his back hits the shelves. He stares at me, his chest heaving. Then a nasty, knowing smirk twists his lips, despite the blood.
“This isn’t about her,” he spits, gesturing vaguely toward the door, toward Willa, toward the town. “This isn’t about some honor code. You’re just being territorial.”
I frown. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he sneers, climbing slowly to his feet. He keeps his distance, his eyes darting around the room looking for an exit. “Everyone knows. You and your buddies. The three of you, squatting up at that old Cruz ranch. You’re not protecting the town. You’re protecting your investment.”
“My investment?” I take a step toward him, and he flinches.
“Yeah,” he says, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. “I heard the rumors. You’re all fucking her. The lawyer. The Omega heiress. That’s why you’re so touchy. That’s why you punched me. Because I threatened your pussy supply.”
The words hang in the air, disgusting and absurd.
“We aren’t—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Save it,” he says, backing toward the door. “Three Alphas, one Omega. It’s a classic arrangement. Just don’t pretend you’re heroes. You’re just a pack of dogs guarding your bone.”
He turns and runs out the door, stumbling slightly as he hits the gravel.
I stand there, breathing hard, my knuckles throbbing. The silence in the store is heavy.
Clara Mae comes out from behind the counter. She walks over to the fallen salt licks and starts picking them up. Her hands are steady.
“You didn’t have to do that, Rhett,” she says, her voice calm.
“Yes, I did,” I say. I look down at my hand. There’s blood on my knuckles. His blood.
“He’s an idiot,” she says, dropping a salt block back onto the shelf with a thud. “But he’s not wrong about the rumors.”
I look at her. “What rumors?”
She stops and looks at me, her expression sympathetic but firm. “People talk. You three move onto the ranch. The owner shows up, a pretty, unmated Omega. You stay. She stays. There’s tension. The town loves a good story. They’ve decided the three of you have formed a pack with her.”
I feel a strange sensation in my chest, a mix of anger and something else. Something hot and uncomfortable. An image flashes in my mind—Saramaria standing in my cabin, looking at me with those green eyes. Saramaria in the truck yesterday, her hand in mine.
We aren’t. We definitely aren’t. But the idea of it... the thought that people see us that way...
It’s ridiculous. I’m done with packs. I’m done with Omegas.
“Let me get your feed,” Clara Mae says, turning back to the counter. “On the house. Consider it a tip for the entertainment.”
I want to argue, but she’s already moving. I stand there, staring at the empty doorway where the guy ran out. Guarding your bone.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. It’s nonsense.
I load the feed bags into the back of my truck. The weight is grounding. I slam the tailgate shut. I need to find Knox. I need to get out of my own head.
I find him at The Salt Lick, or rather, in the parking lot. The bar is still closed, the dark windows staring out like blinded eyes. Knox is leaning against his truck, smoking a cigarette. He looks like hell. His hair is a mess, and there are dark circles under his eyes that rival mine.
“Rough night?” I ask, walking up to him.
He flicks the cigarette onto the asphalt and crushes it under his boot. “You could say that. Gary called me at six this morning. He just got off a conference call with Marshall Lane.”
“Marshall Lane?” The president of the APbrA. That’s never good news.
“They’re thinking about it,” Knox says, his voice tight. “Postponing the whole circuit. Indefinitely.”
“Shit,” I say. “They can’t do that.”
“They can,” Knox says, pushing off the truck and pacing. “And they might. Lane is talking about ‘preserving the integrity of the brand.’ He says with the scandal, the sponsors are getting nervous. They don’t want their logos next to news about sexual assault investigations.”
I lean against the side of my truck, crossing my arms. “That would kill you. You miss a season, you lose momentum. You lose the rankings.”