Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Nash
Tucker arrives on Storm ten minutes after Annie and her friend leave the barn. I’ve already finished with Jane, and I go and give him a hand, putting his horse to bed and checking up on the rest before we lock up the barn for the evening.
“You met Annie’s friend yet?” I ask him as we bolt the door.
“Nope. Saw her briefly in the truck as Clay was driving past.”
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the side of my cheek. “Funny thing.”
“Funny thing?” Tucker says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Funny thing. Clay never mentioned how pretty she was.”
Tucker lifts an eyebrow in my direction. He happens to think I fall in love far too easily. He says I’m walking around willing my heart to be broken at every opportunity. He says I read too much romance. He probably doesn’t believe me about the omega.
“Seriously,” I say. “Seriously pretty.”
“And she’s an omega,” Tucker says.
“We knew that already,” I tell him.
“A pretty omega,” Tucker says, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Sounds like the perfect gift for Christmas to me.”
“She’s Annie’s best friend,” I remind him. “Off limits.”
“Says who?”
“It’s code. Family code,” I tell him.
“Fuck, Nash,” he says. “A hundred years ago you could marry a cousin. I don’t think there’s any problem with rolling around in the hay with your sister’s best friend, especially if she’s looking for some fun.”
“The girl just lost her mom.”
“So she needs cheering up,” he says, that half-smile growing.
“Tucker,” I warn him.
“Lighten up, Nash,” he responds, plunging his hands inside his pockets as we stroll up to the big house.
“Why’d you think Clay never told us?” I ask my friend.
“That she was pretty? Maybe he doesn’t find her pretty, Nash.” I snort. He’d have to be blind not to find that girl pretty. “Or maybe she’s just not his type.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. That’s more likely. If I’m considered the packmate who falls in love too easily, then Clay is the exact opposite. He hardly ever falls. No one ever seems to meet up to his high expectations and towering standards.
We head into the kitchen. Mrs. J has left some tall glasses of water out for us along with Mr. J’s latest baking outputs.
I pick up two of the cookies and down the water.
Tucker does the same, peering his head round the kitchen door, clearly on the lookout for the Christmas visitor.
He doesn’t spot her, though he comes back into the kitchen, sniffing at the air.
“Oh man, do you smell that?”
I nod. Her scent suits her. It’s hard to describe why, but I reckon if I’d smelled her first and closed my eyes and imagined a picture of her in my mind, I would have conjured up an image of the girl I met just now, out in the barn.
Small, curvy, pretty, big blue eyes and rosy pink lips.
I don’t care what Tucker says – that I fall in love with everyone – Hollie is most definitely my type.
“Want to hang around?” Tucker says.
“No,” I say. “I want to get cleaned up and then I want a drink.”
Tucker nods, shoving a whole cookie into his mouth and then saying around it with his mouth full, “Sounds like a plan, my man.”
It takes us fifteen minutes of walking through the snow to reach the cabin. We could have chosen to put the horses to bed in the barn by our cabin, but the one by the big house is warmer and more comfortable, and call us cold-hearted alphas, but we’re big softies for those damn horses.
Clay’s already In the cabin. It’s glowing from the inside, and when we open the door we’re met by the heat of the roaring fire he’s started in the hearth.
“Hey,” he says. He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, his heels resting on the seat of another chair. “How were the fences?” he says. Now we’re in the depths of December, the weather has turned for the worst and the cattle seem even more determined to break through any weaknesses in the fencing.
Tucker tells him and I describe the work I did mending the fences out on the lower northern pastures.
“How was your day?” Tucker says, dropping down into a chair and leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, a big grin on his face.
“Just fine,” Clay says, not quite meeting our packmate’s eyes.
“Had fun at the airport?”
Clay shrugs.
Tucker examines him for a moment, then leans right back on his chair and rests his hands in his lap. “Nash thinks she’s pretty.”
“Nash thinks every woman on the planet is pretty.”
“I do not,” I protest. “But I do happen to think Hollie is pretty.”
“What do you think, Clay?” Tucker asks.
“I think that’s a judgement you should make for yourself, Tucker,” he says.
“I haven’t met her yet,” Tucker bounces his leg on the spot, “but I’m definitely interested to meet her after catching her scent in the house. Man,” he groans, “that – that omega smells like –”
“Be more respectful,” Clay snaps.
Tucker erupts into a peal of laughter.
“I’m serious,” Clay says. “She’s my sister’s best friend.”
“That’s what I said,” I tell him. “She’s not some toy you can mess around with.”
Tucker groans like he’s just been told by the teacher that, indeed, he can’t play with the toy he’s been eyeing and had better put it the hell away. “How many omegas are there in Silver Creek?” he asks us.
“Three,” I answer.
“Exactly, three,” Tucker repeats. “And how many of those are actually single?”
“Zero,” I state.
“Zero,” he repeats again. “Zero available omegas.”
“There are hundreds, thousands of omegas in Colorado,” Clay tells him. “Plenty for you to fuck around with.”
“Yeah, but I’m working – working hard, Clay.
Damn hard.” Which is true. Tucker may be a bit of a joker, a bit of a ladies’ man.
He may have a reputation as a playboy, but he’s one of the hardest working men I know.
It’s why the three of us get on so well.
It’s why we bonded. It’s why we work so well as a pack.
We’re all dedicated to the job, to the work.
We all want to see this ranch last for another one hundred and fifty years.
We want our children to inherit it from us, and then our grandchildren, and their children, and their children after that.
“Where do I get the chance to meet omegas?” Tucker continues. “And now there’s one here, landed right in our laps–”
“She’s not landing in anyone’s laps,” Clay snaps.
“Figure of speech,” Tucker says with one of his charming smiles. The kind of smile that has a lot of ladies dropping their panties.
“Fuck around with Hollie Bright,” Clay tells Tucker, “and I will beat your ass.”
“And what if she wants to fuck around with me?” he says.
“Unlikely,” Clay tells him. “Hollie Bright’s not interested in alphas.”
“She’s an omega,” I state. “Of course she’s interested in alphas.”
Clay shakes his head. “She’s not. She dates betas.”
Tucker says nothing – for a moment he’s speechless, which for our talkative, chatty friend is almost unheard of. “An omega who doesn’t like alphas,” he says, whistling. “That is strange.”
“Yeah,” Clay says. “Well, the girl is strange. The first time I met her, she sneezed right in my face. And the second time, she literally threw a vibrator at me.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t trying to flirt?” Tucker asks. “You’re really bad at knowing when women are trying to flirt with you, Clay.”
“I am not,” he says.
“Oh, come on, man,” Tucker teases. “You are – remember that girl at the bar, the one who stroked your arm and asked you questions about breeding Herefords?”
“I remember,” I say. “Clay thought she was genuinely interested in starting her own farm.”
Tucker laughs again. “Talking of bars,” he says. “Are we going tonight?”
Clay kicks his feet off the chair and nods his head. “Yeah,” he says. “I could do with a drink.”