Chapter Two #2
“Sit down,” I said, gesturing with my chin.
He obeyed, sinking into the chair opposite with the anxious grace of someone waiting for a punch that might never land. Up close, the kid was even skinnier than I’d realized. His wrists looked like they’d snap under the weight of a hearty handshake.
I started in the old SEAL way—direct, monotone, no excess. “Who else is here?”
“No one,” he said. “I promise. You can check. I—” He flinched, then caught himself. “I know you don’t trust me, but I’m really alone.”
The flinch told me everything. He’d been roughed up before, probably more than once. Not my problem, but I clocked it for later.
“Finish what you were making,” I said. “Then show me the rest of the house.”
He nodded, got up so quickly his chair nearly fell over, then set about ladling whatever was in the pot into two mismatched bowls.
The aroma hit me again—herbs, wild onion, bone stock.
My stomach growled, and I hated that Jojo’s eyes flicked to my belly, assessing the threat level the way a stray dog would.
He carried the bowls over with both hands, careful not to spill. Set one in front of me, one at the empty place opposite. I raised an eyebrow.
“I always make extra,” he said, voice thin.
I didn’t thank him. Instead, I spooned up a bite—surprisingly good, with a kick of pepper and something smoky underneath. He watched, hunched, waiting for me to pass judgment.
“You cook for yourself?”
He nodded. “And I clean up after. I’m not a slob. I thought maybe the owners would come back eventually and—” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”
I kept eating, never taking my eyes off him. Every few seconds, he flicked a glance at the door or the windows, classic escape-artist behavior. I finished the stew in three minutes, wiped the bowl with a hunk of sourdough, then stood.
“Show me the rest.”
He moved ahead of me, leading with that anxious, shuffling gait.
I followed close, scanning every doorway and shadow.
The place was cleaner than it had any right to be after a decade of neglect.
Not just swept, but detailed—baseboards scrubbed, glass polished, wood oiled. Jojo was a one-omega cleaning service.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were stripped of personal effects, but ready for guests.
Fresh sheets on the beds, windows propped open to air out the must. Jojo’s own “room” was the smallest, off the back stairwell—a simple bed, a heap of threadbare blankets, and a stack of seed catalogs as a makeshift nightstand.
“Where do you get food?” I asked, motioning to the seed catalogs.
He hesitated. “I forage, sometimes, and fish in the river. And I keep a small garden. There’s wild stuff in the forest. I only go to town when I have to.”
“Where?”
“Harmon’s General. Sometimes the bakery, for day-olds.”
“Anyone see you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
I opened the closet—just a battered coat, too big for him, and a pair of scuffed sneakers. Nothing else.
We did the same routine through the rest of the house. Every closet, every drawer. Jojo never protested, never tried to cover his tracks. When we finished, I believed him—he really was alone.
Back in the kitchen, I asked, “How’d you get in?”
He pointed to the mudroom. “One of the windows was busted. I fixed it. You can check.”
I did. The glass was new, held in with fresh putty, not professional but solid. I looked at him with new eyes. “You do that yourself?”
He nodded. “I watched a video. It’s not that hard.”
I let out a breath. “So what, you just planned to live here forever?”
The question seemed to stump him. He sat, elbows tight to his chest. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I just—I needed somewhere safe. And this place…” He trailed off, looking at his feet.
I sat down again, weighed my options. Jojo’s scent was more manageable now, but every so often, a spike of fear or hope would cut through, sharp as lightning, and it was all I could do not to react.
The alpha in me wanted to push him, to see how fast he’d break. My rational side wanted to tell him to get the hell out before he ended up with more scars.
I decided to split the difference. “I’m not gonna turn you in. But if you’re here tomorrow, you’ll work for your keep. Understood?”
His face lit up. Not relief, but something close. “Yes. I’ll do whatever you need. I know how to clean, and fix stuff, and—”
“And cook,” I said.
He flushed pink, nodding. “That, too.”
I let the silence stretch again, using it as a test. He didn’t fidget or ask questions; he just sat there, waiting for permission to breathe. I liked that.
I got up, paced the room, checked every window and lock. Old SEAL habit. When I came back, he hadn’t moved.
“Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
I almost said something comforting, but it wasn’t my style. Instead, I just gestured at the bowl of bread, then headed out to check on the horses, leaving the door open behind me.
On the porch, the wind was colder, sharp with the promise of rain. I stood there, listening to the house behind me—quiet, but not empty anymore.
For the first time in a long while, I had a reason to keep watch.
The horses were calm, which meant I could finally let the adrenaline leach out of my system.
The dusk cooled into darkness, and the ranch looked less like a threat and more like what Grandpa probably saw in his mind’s eye when he wrote me that letter.
The fields glowed silver in the moonlight; the wind rattled the aspen leaves like someone flipping through a hundred tiny pages.
I stood out there until my fingers went numb and my leg started to stiffen up.
I thought about lighting a cigarette—old habit from the sandbox—but figured Jojo would smell it through the window and panic.
He was probably still inside, hovering at the table, trying to figure out if he’d made things better or worse.
When I stepped back in, the house was warm, almost too warm, with a blanket of heat from the kitchen that made the air shimmer.
Jojo was right where I left him. He’d pulled his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, staring into the middle distance like he expected the table to swallow him whole.
I moved past him, set my keys and wallet on the counter, then leaned against it, arms folded. “You sleep?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
I kept my tone neutral. “You said you got fired from the bakery.”
He nodded. “Yeah. The owner caught me sleeping in the storeroom, and said it was a bad look for customers. I wasn’t stealing anything. I just—I didn’t have anywhere else.”
I tried to picture it. A scrawny omega kid, sleeping on flour sacks. It pissed me off in a way that was totally irrational, but I didn’t let it show.
“Why not ask the sheriff for help?”
He shrugged, hair falling over his face. “You ever been to Black Butte? They don’t like… people like me.”
I grunted. He had a point. Montana wasn’t exactly a rainbow flag kind of place, especially outside the city limits. “So you found this place.”
“I used to walk by as a kid,” Jojo said, voice low. “My mom worked cleaning houses. She used to say, if I wanted to be safe, find a big house with lots of locks and a fence. I figured, no one lived here, and it was far enough from town that no one would check.”
“You ever run into anyone?”
Jojo shook his head. “A couple of delivery trucks, but I never talked to them. I was careful.” He laced his fingers together, squeezing so hard his knuckles blanched. “I didn’t touch anything I couldn’t fix. I tried to clean up as much as possible.”
“Yeah, I saw.” I looked around. “You do all the repairs yourself?”
His lips pressed together, and he nodded. “Most of it. I watched tutorials. Sometimes I got stuff from the hardware store on credit. I was planning to pay it back if I got another job.”
The kid’s voice was so earnest, so painfully sincere, I almost felt bad for grilling him. Almost.
“So, what’s with the bread?” I asked, nodding at the counter.
He brightened a little. “I made a new starter a few weeks ago. It’s finally good. I figured, if someone ever showed up, I could… I don’t know, offer it. To prove I wasn’t trying to rob the place.”
He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
He got up, fidgeted at the counter, then brought over a loaf the color of sunrise, dusted with flour and scored down the middle. He set it on the table with reverence, then stepped back like it might explode.
I tore off a chunk. The crust crunched, the inside was still warm, almost creamy. I bit into it, and my mouth filled with the taste of malt, salt, tang, and something bright. I chewed, then caught Jojo watching me, eyes wide.
“Not bad,” I said.
His shoulders loosened. “Thank you.”
I chewed another piece. “You know, you could make a lot of friends in town with this. Sell it at the market.”
He blushed, which was apparently a thing he did a lot. “I tried once. No one bought it.”
I thought about the Saturday market in Black Butte—old men selling jerky, bored teenagers selling lemonade. Yeah, I could see how they’d give Jojo the cold shoulder.
“You ever run a farm before?” I asked.
“No, but I worked a few. Seasonal jobs. I know how to plant and irrigate. And I can take care of animals. I looked after the neighbor’s goats for a year.”
I grunted approval. “You know what this place is worth?”
He looked panicked. “I wasn’t trying to steal it, I swear—”
“I didn’t say you were. But if you’re gonna stay, you’ll need to help run it.”
Jojo’s head snapped up. “Stay?”
I shrugged. “You’ve kept the place from falling apart. That’s more than any of my family ever did. You work, you stay. You don’t, you go. Fair?”
He stared at me, something like hope fighting with disbelief in his eyes. “I’ll work. Anything you need.”
I nodded. “Fine.”
He smiled then, a small, real thing that looked like it might crack if he stretched it any wider.