Chapter 3
UNEXPECTED ALLIES
~WENDOLYN~
The gravel road to Cactus Rose Ranch crunches beneath my truck's tires, each bump jostling the six apple pies secured in the passenger seat like precious cargo.
The morning air carries the scent of hay and distant rain, that particular Montana mixture that speaks of wide spaces and untold stories. My windows are down despite the October chill, needing the fresh air to clear the lingering confusion from this morning's encounter with Calder.
Still taste him on my lips. Still feel his hands...
I shake my head, forcing attention back to the winding road.
The ranch spreads before me as I crest the hill—endless fencing, grazing cattle, and the kind of pastoral beauty that belongs on postcards sold to tourists who think the West is all romance and sunsets.
They never mention the predawn feedings, the backbreaking fence repairs, or the way isolation can settle into your bones like arthritis.
The joys of ranch life.
The main house sits proud against the horizon, all weathered wood and stubborn endurance.
Willa's touch along the range is everywhere in the small details—window boxes overflowing with late-season wildflowers, fresh paint on the shutters, a swing on the porch that speaks of evenings spent watching the world slow down.
Hard to believe this place nearly died before she returned, before her pack of cowboys breathed life back into soil that had been waiting for the right hands.
I park near the barn, already hearing the low murmur of voices and the shuffle of hooves.
Ranch work starts before the sun and never truly ends—just pauses occasionally for meals and sleep.
The pies are still warm, their cinnamon-sugar scent mixing with the earthy perfume of the ranch in a combination that feels like home, even though home is a concept I've been running from for months.
"That you, Wendy?"
Cole's voice carries from inside the barn, followed by his emergence into sunlight. The man moves like the earth itself—steady, deliberate, with the kind of presence that makes horses calm and storms think twice. His weathered face breaks into a genuine smile when he spots the pie boxes.
"Morning, Cole," I call back, grabbing two boxes while leaving the rest for a second trip. "Where should I set these up?"
"Main house kitchen would be—" He stops mid-sentence, his expression shifting to alertness as he looks past me toward the road. "Were you expecting company?"
I turn to follow his gaze, spotting the police cruiser kicking up dust as it approaches. My stomach drops, immediate panic flooding my system because law enforcement vehicles at your location rarely bring good news.
The car parks beside my truck with practiced precision, and the door opens to reveal—
An Omega.
The realization leaves me feeling a tad intrigued more than anything.
The woman stepping out carries herself with the kind of authority that doesn't ask permission, her uniform crisp despite the dust, her presence somehow filling more space than her 5'7" frame should allow.
Dark hair pulled back in a regulation bun, sharp eyes that miss nothing, and a scent that makes me straighten instinctively—vanilla and gunpowder, sweet danger wrapped in a badge.
"Chief Martinez?" Cole says, surprise coloring his tone. "Everything alright?"
"Morning, Cole." Her voice carries the hint of a accent, syllables shaped by somewhere far from Montana. "Just need a word with Ms. Murphy, if that's acceptable."
The way she says my name—deliberate, weighted—tells me this isn't a social call. Cole looks between us, clearly sensing the tension, but he's too polite to pry.
"I'll take those pies inside," he offers, reaching for the boxes in my arms. "Give you ladies some privacy."
"Appreciate it," Chief Martinez says, waiting until he's out of earshot before turning those assessing eyes on me. "Ms. Murphy—or should I say Chief Murphy? I understand titles matter in our line of work."
"Wendy's fine," I manage, trying to read her expression. "Though I'm curious how you know about my former position."
She smiles—sharp and knowing, the kind of expression that probably makes suspects confess just to make it stop.
"Former is a flexible term. Mind if we talk privately? Your case requires some delicate discussion."
My case.
The words hit harder than expected.
Somehow having it official, having someone with a badge acknowledge what happened, makes it real in a way that smoke inhalation and nightmares hadn't quite managed.
"There's a spot behind the barn," I offer, leading her away from potential eavesdroppers.
The morning sun casts long shadows as we walk, our footsteps falling into an unconscious rhythm that speaks of shared training, shared understanding of how to move through the world when you're always assessing threats.
Once we're sufficiently isolated, she pulls out a tablet, fingers dancing across the screen with practiced efficiency.
"Hazel Martinez," she says, extending her hand formally. "Police Chief for Sweetwater Falls and the surrounding county. I've been assigned to your case."
"They assigned an Omega to an Omega assault case?" The surprise escapes before I can censor it. "They normally dismiss anything that involves our designation before the paperwork's even filed."
Her smirk transforms her face, making her look younger, almost mischievous.
"Let's say I took it upon myself to grab this particular file before it could make its way to the 'dismiss' pile. A few bad apples in the department aren't pleased about my interference, but that's what happens when you're dealing with a badass chief who doesn't play by their antiquated rules."
The casual confidence in her voice, the way she owns her authority without apology—it's intoxicating.
How long since I've met another Omega who refuses to shrink herself to fit expectations?
"I didn't work my ass off breaking through every stereotypical barrier just to watch other Omegas suffer from systemic injustice," she continues, scrolling through her tablet.
"Your case particularly interested me. Former LA Fire Chief, decorated service record, suspicious fire that conveniently happens right after you refuse to sign over your pension?
Please. I've seen more subtle frame jobs at kindergarten finger-painting contests. "
A laugh escapes, bitter and surprised in equal measure.
"I really thought they'd get away with it."
"Not on my watch." She taps the screen with finality. "I'll do everything in my power to see Gregory Mason and his pack held accountable. However—" She pauses, and I know that tone, that careful diplomacy that precedes bad news.
"Let me guess," I interrupt, exhaustion creeping into my voice. "It has to do with my no-pack status."
She cringes like she feels the unfairness personally.
"Unfortunately, yes.” Am I surprised? No.
Doesn’t make it a pain in the ass to acknowledge and accept.
“Look, I understand where you're coming from.
I intentionally remain pack-less because my career is vitally important to me.
Can't have Alphas thinking they have say over my decisions just because we share a bed.
But for this case to move forward with any real momentum, you need protection.
Official protection that comes from having a pack, even temporarily. "
"I'm a well-known Fire Chief from LA," I argue, though the words feel hollow even as I speak them. "Targeting me should cause enough trouble to make them think twice."
"Under normal circumstances, absolutely.
" Her expression softens, sympathy mixing with pragmatism.
"But Wendolyn, these men intentionally set fire to a community kitchen…
a public building…while you were inside making pies and casseroles.
They locked you in and walked away laughing.
Do you genuinely believe they're going to disappear quietly?
Especially with an Omega taking the case and refusing to drop it? "
The logic is irrefutable, even as every instinct rebels against it.
She's right. Gregory won't stop.
If anything, having an Omega chief pursuing him will enrage his Alpha pride, make him more dangerous, more desperate to prove his dominance.
"I'll look into it," I concede, the words tasting like surrender. "Make sure I'm not alone, at least until this resolves."
"Temporary arrangement," Hazel emphasizes, understanding flickering in her dark eyes.
"Just long enough to give you legal standing and protection.
With proper pack backing, I can push this through in three months instead of the year-plus the system would normally demand.
Three months of having Alphas formally connected to you, then you're free to return to your independent status. "
"Three months." The timeline feels both endless and impossibly short. "I can handle three months."
I mean what’s the worse that can happen, right?
"I know you can." She closes the tablet, tucking it under her arm with military precision. "Thank you for trusting me with this. I know it's not easy, having another Omega handle something this personal."
"Thank you for giving enough of a damn to take it on," I counter, meaning every word.
She starts to turn away, then pauses, a different kind of smile playing at her lips.
"Speaking of taking things on—if you're truly a fire chief of the caliber I've heard, you might want to consider the position at our new station."
"New station?" The question emerges cautiously, because hope is dangerous and I've had enough danger lately.
"Station Fahrenheit. Opening next month, state-of-the-art facility. The current district chief, Tom Rodriguez, needs to retire soon—health issues, though he's fighting it tooth and nail. Man's stubborn as they come."
Tom Rodriguez.
The one who recognized me at the fire, who called me Chief Murphy when everyone else saw victim.