13. Small Town Gossip
Small Town Gossip
~WILLA~
H ank's Hardware squats on the corner like a testament to the last century, all worn brick and hand-painted signs that promise "If We Don't Have It, You Don't Need It."
"Well, well!" A man emerges from behind a display of power tools, wiping his hands on an apron that might have been white in a previous decade. "Cole Montgomery gracing us with his presence. And you brought friends!"
Hank— because this can only be Hank —is built like a scarecrow that's been left out in too many storms. All angles and enthusiasm, with eyes that light up like he's just won the lottery at the sight of customers.
His gaze skips between us with the calculating speed of a small-town merchant who knows gossip is currency.
"Hank." Cole's greeting is economical, but not unfriendly. "Needed to show the ladies around town. This is Willa James, William's granddaughter. And Wendolyn Murphy from the bookshop."
"The new ranch owner!" Hank practically vibrates with excitement, pumping my hand with enough enthusiasm to rattle my teeth. "Your grandpa was a good man. Best customer I ever had—always paid cash, never haggled, knew exactly what he needed."
Before I can respond, he's already pivoting, dragging us toward a display that dominates the front window. "You ladies have to see this! The new fire station project—going to revolutionize emergency response in Sweetwater Falls."
The poster is professionally done, all gleaming architectural renders and statistics about response times.
A donation box sits prominently below, already half-full of bills and checks.
The enthusiasm is infectious, even if the execution feels like someone's civic studies project escaped into the wild.
"You should introduce yourself to the crew when they're up and running," Hank says, focusing on Wendolyn with the intensity of a matchmaker who's spotted opportunity. "Pretty Omega like you, they'd love to have you involved with fundraising or organizing community events."
Wendolyn's smile tightens just a fraction. "Actually, I have experience with fire departments. I was a firefighter in Denver before I moved here."
The words land like a stone in still water. Hank's mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You were a... but you're an..."
"An Omega, yes." Wendolyn's chin lifts slightly, a defensive gesture I recognize from my own arsenal. "Five years with Denver Fire, certified in structural and wildland suppression."
The silence stretches until I can hear the fluorescent lights humming. Then, like sharks scenting blood, other customers begin drifting closer. The store's not large—sound carries, and nothing travels faster in a small town than surprising news.
"An Omega firefighter?" The voice belongs to a woman in her sixties, hair teased to impressive heights and secured with enough hairspray to damage the ozone. "Well, that's... unusual."
"Very progressive of Denver," another woman adds, in a tone that suggests 'progressive' is synonymous with 'foolish.' "Though I suppose they have different standards in the big city."
Wendolyn's shoulders inch higher. "The standards are actually identical statewide. Physical requirements, training hours, certification process?—"
"Still," the first woman interrupts, "it's so rare to see an Omega in such a hands-on, manly profession. Must have been challenging, keeping up with all those Alphas."
My teeth clench hard enough to ache. I know this dance, these words wrapped in false concern. The way they diminish achievement by focusing on designation rather than capability. Beside me, Cole shifts slightly, and I feel rather than see his attention sharpen.
"I kept up just fine," Wendolyn says quietly, but I catch the tremor underneath. "Graduated third in my academy class."
"How wonderful." The woman's smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Though I imagine it's nice to have a more... appropriate career now. Running a bookshop is so much better suited to an Omega's strengths."
The words hit me like a match to gasoline. Every memory of being told to be smaller, quieter, less ambitious roars to life. Every time Blake told me my ideas were "cute" but impractical. Every job interview where they looked at my designation before my qualifications.
"That's prejudiced," I say, the words coming out sharper than intended. "And wrong."
The store goes silent except for the hum of electricity and the distant sound of traffic. Every eye turns to me, the stranger making waves in their ordered world.
"Excuse me?" The woman's carefully penciled eyebrows climb toward her hairline.
"I said it's prejudiced." I step forward, putting myself slightly in front of Wendolyn. "To assume Omegas can't do the same jobs as Alphas. Wendolyn saved lives in Denver. She ran into burning buildings while people like you sat safe at home making assumptions about what's 'appropriate.'"
"Well, I never—" The woman's face flushes red beneath her foundation. "I was simply making conversation. No need to be aggressive about it."
Aggressive. Another word weaponized against Omegas who don't perform submission correctly. My temper, already frayed from days of upheaval, snaps its last thread.
"You know what else is unusual?" I hear myself say, voice carrying the kind of authority I forgot I possessed. "Omegas owning ranches. Running cattle operations. Making business decisions without Alpha oversight."
The woman blinks, clearly trying to follow the shift. "I don't see what that has to do with?—"
"I own Cactus Rose Ranch," I continue, letting the words ring through the store. "Inherited it from my grandfather, and I'm running it with a crew that includes Wendolyn. Because I value competence over conventional thinking."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel Cole behind me, his presence solid and somehow approving. Wendolyn stands straighter, and there's something like hope flickering in her green eyes.
"What's all this commotion?"
The voice creaks from the back of the store, and a man who must be ancient shuffles into view. If Hank is a scarecrow, this is the farmer who built him—weathered and bent but still sharp around the edges.
"Dad," Hank says weakly. "These folks were just discussing the fire station?—"
"Don't care about the fire station," the old man interrupts, squinting at us through glasses thick as bottle bottoms. "Who's making trouble in my store?"
"No trouble," the woman with the hairspray helmet says quickly. "Just a misunderstanding about?—"
"About whether Omegas can be firefighters," I cut in, meeting the old man's gaze steadily. "I was explaining that they can."
He studies me for a long moment, then barks out a laugh that sounds like gravel in a blender. "Course they can. My grandmother was an Omega, and she could outwork any Alpha on the ranch. Delivered all twelve of her babies herself too, including my father during a blizzard."
The woman's mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.
"You the James girl?" the old man asks, pivoting with surprising agility. "William's granddaughter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He nods decisively. "About time that ranch had family on it again. You need anything for the place, you come to me, not him." He jerks a thumb at Hank. "Boy wouldn't know quality if it bit him. Tries to sell people fancy when what they need is functional."
"Dad," Hank protests weakly.
"Retiring anyway," the old man continues, ignoring his son completely. "Soon as I find someone who knows a hammer from their ass to take over. Can't leave it to him—he'd have the place selling scented candles within a month."
Wendolyn is laughing before she can stop herself, and I genuinely smile at his commentary mixed with a sense of humor.
The hairspray woman and her companion have retreated to the fastener aisle, suddenly fascinated by screws.
Wendolyn's shoulders have dropped from around her ears, and there's color back in her cheeks.
"We should go," Cole says, speaking for the first time since we entered. His hand finds its familiar place at my back, warm and steadying. "Still have stops to make."
But as we move toward the door, I catch the look on his face in the security mirror. It's subtle—just a softening around his eyes, a slight curve to his usually stern mouth. Pride, I realize with a jolt. He's proud of me.
The bell chimes our exit with the same aggressive cheer, but it sounds different now. Like victory rather than warning.
On the sidewalk, Wendolyn catches my arm. "Thank you," she says quietly. "I usually just... let it go. Easier than fighting every battle."
"I know," I tell her, because I do. God, how I know. "But you shouldn't have to shrink yourself to make them comfortable."
"Listen to you," she says, a real smile breaking through. "Fierce dominant Omega indeed."
My face heats at the reminder of Cole's words, but before I can respond, his hand presses more firmly against my back. Not pushing, just... claiming space. Claiming me, in view of anyone watching from the hardware store windows.
"Next stop?" he asks, but his voice carries undertones that make my stomach flip.
"Lead the way," I manage, trying not to lean into his touch, failing miserably.
As we walk back to the truck, I catch our reflection in a shop window. Wendolyn is confident again, me standing taller than I have in years, and Cole is watching us both with an expression that makes my heart race.
Maybe this town isn't ready for Omega firefighters and ranch owners. But ready or not, we're forcing them to get out of their old minds that continue to negatively plague us.
Mountain View Grocery & Supplies announces itself with a hand-painted sign that's one strong wind from retirement and windows plastered with ads for everything from cattle feed to wedding dresses.
The building sprawls like it's been absorbing neighboring businesses for decades, which according to Wendolyn's whispered commentary, is exactly what happened.