Chapter 14 Cooper
COOPER
Two weeks ago...
[Almost present day]
Sagebrush Ranch, Wyoming
To keep from losing my shit and throwing the expensive stand mixer against a wall, I moved to the kitchen window. I slid one finger up the splattered, sweetened egg whites on my chest and shoved that same finger into my mouth.
Would have been a damn good meringue.
Staring out at the sprawling Wyoming landscape, I felt my chest tighten.
I grew up here, playing with Wyatt, Wade, and Levi.
We four had made a vow as young teens to preserve the seventy acres, and the Nelson Legacy.
Me and Levi didn’t come from a loving family.
He and I bonded over beatings and cigarette burns.
The Nelson family took us in; they’d showed us what a loving house could be like.
They’re the reason I could become how I was—a carefree pain in the ass with too many quirks to count.
This place was more important to me than any new gadget in the world.
More important than double ovens, espresso machines, and the pile of money I now had.
That’s what I kept trying to make my brothers understand.
Money didn’t mean shit if I couldn’t share it.
Damn though, I’d shared it badly this time.
My hands balled into fists, nails shoving into my palm.
If only Eros would give us some real news.
Blinking back tears, I lingered at the window. Tater was chasing a rat across the space between the stables and greenhouses. He wasn’t fast enough; Tripp would have overtaken the pest in seconds.
The rodent disappeared under the rain collection barrel.
I watched as the giant, raggedy dog lowered against the ground, rooting beneath the vessel.
He’d probably knock it off the cinderblocks, but I didn’t care enough to intervene.
We’d finally planted both hothouses, testing out fifteen different sugar beet strains.
Some were bred for drought resistance, others touted to have less than a five percent occurrence of curly top, others just varied in pulp nitrate and conductivity.
If we could find the best, balanced grower for our land, we could cultivate a new revenue source.
We had a lot of unused acres. Cattle made good money but had a variety of cons these days.
On the condition we stopped talking about shutting down cattle operations completely, Wyatt had finally given into the whole eco-agriculture thing.
A smile tugged my mouth as Tater, as predicted, knocked over the rain barrel, yanking down a length of pipe in the process.
Boone was now jogging toward the showdown between dog and rat. Tripp was on his heels, ready to join the fray. They’d handle it just fine.
Though the greenhouses were important to me, I felt apathetic recently. Just tired. My insides even felt sluggish. Found myself sort of wishing my auto-response to our current situation was energy and anger, instead of sheer damn exhaustion.
Damn, Wyatt had been revved up this morning. Full of piss and vinegar.
All my pack brothers were pissed; Wyatt just wore it on his sleeve.
I couldn’t blame them. All the money I’d spent, and still no Omega.
Though, we kept getting the infuriating client baskets from Eros with letters that amounted to ‘hang in there!’, ‘our database is growing every day!’, ‘we are confident we’ll have your match any day now!
’ Bullshit to keep us from shouting breach of contract.
The whole thing was beginning to feel like someone was playing a joke on us.
Eleven fucking months.
That's how long we'd been waiting since the Eros team rolled onto Sagebrush Ranch with their sleek mobile lab, full of promises and scientific certainty.
Eleven months of checking my email a dozen times daily, of jumping whenever my phone buzzed, of reassuring my pack brothers that ‘yes, this would be worth it’, and ‘no, we hadn't just flushed a small fortune down the drain’.
Hell, I'd started believing my own lies less with each passing week. Usually, I was an expert at denial, even when the truth was punching me in the face.
Now, standing in our sun-drenched kitchen with meringue spattered across my bare chest, I wondered if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. Because of the choice I’d made—solo, like so many other choices that went tits up for our pack—we’d stopped exploring any other avenues, we’d put all our eggs into the Eros basket, and it was looking like we were royally screwed.
The stand mixer whirred to a stop as I flipped the switch.
Surveying the damage, I released a slow, heavy sigh.
The exhalation felt like it started in the soles of my feet, pushing up through the length of my body to finally escape my mouth.
Regret. Worry. Self-reflection. Those feelings had invaded every part of me lately.
Egg whites dripped from the ceiling in slow, sticky stalactites. The countertops, backsplash, and even our nearby hanging mugs had all been hit.
"Hell," I muttered, grabbing a dish towel and swiping it across my chest, only managing to smear the mess further across my skin. Normally, something like this would have me skipping into Levi’s office. Bit of flirting, little prodding, and I’d be licked clean in no time.
Things were just different right now. Boone, Levi and I just hadn’t had the energy or desire to be intimate.
Sure, we piled together on one bed now and again to sleep…
until my snoring or Levi’s cover-hogging ways sent Boone looking for sanctuary in the living room.
But it was more like we were holding each other together against the pain, just trying to keep each other from fracturing into pieces.
We weren’t enjoying each other purely out of love.
The lemon meringue pies were supposed to be a peace offering, a sweet distraction from the tension that had been building in our home.
My pack brothers would come in, tired and dusty from the day’s work, and they’d find perfect golden-topped pies waiting.
I had another motive though—lemon meringue was Boone’s favorite.
Maybe he'd smile that rare, full smile that made his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. Maybe he’d go back to teasing me about payback, instead of staying so quiet, burying down his hurt, disappearing for days without warning.
Instead of my good intentions, I'd created chaos. Fitting, really.
Fucking on brand for me.
I trudged to the sink, running the water hot over my hands, then soaking the end of the kitchen rag to wipe my chest properly.
Absentmindedly, I cleaned myself, then also grabbed a fresh rag and bucket from under the sink.
After adding some vinegar, I filled the bucket halfway with water, swirled it around with one hand, and started erasing the rest of my mistake.
If only it was so easy to make other fuckups vanish.
Fill a bucket.
Wet a cloth.
A little elbow grease to make everything better again.
The sour smell of apple cider vinegar filled the kitchen as I diligently worked.
I lost myself in the domestic task, trying to give myself a break from the constant self-deprecation.
I think I understood Wyatt better now. He’d struggled while the ranch struggled.
He celebrated when the ranch succeeded. He valued himself alongside this place’s value.
Every decision that could make or break Sagebrush rested mostly on his broad shoulders.
I think the rest of us took that for granted.
I wouldn’t in the future though, not after this Eros thing.
Not after signing us all up, giving us all hope, and then watching over these many months as we slowly fell apart.
My only wish was that Eros pulled through.
Even if it took a bit of luck, in the same way Sagebrush’s problems were solved.
I didn’t have another great aunt ready to kick the bucket though. Even if I did, throwing more money at finding a mate was useless.
Detaching the mixer’s bowl, I dumped it into the sink and filled it with soapy water. Maybe I’d just go into town and pick something up from the bakery. A couple dozen bear claws might do the trick.
Tossing both rags into the bucket, I walked out of the kitchen. I loved cooking, but I was no professional. Long time ago, I figured out that if cooking wasn’t cooperating on any given day, I needed to just call it quits. That’s why I kept premade casseroles in the freezer as backup.
After tossing on a shirt and boots, I walked slowly to the living room, grabbed the truck keys, and pushed outside. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going; we were all so buried in our own brains lately that I’d be back before my absence was noticed anyways.
Come on, Eros. Live up to your damn name. Live up to your damn promises.
Don’t make my choice the earthquake that tears my pack apart.
When I was inside the older of our trucks, I cranked it up and settled against the springy bench seat. The Ford vibrated heavily, bad engine mounts we couldn’t be bothered with because it had too many other issues at its age. I shifted into gear and headed out.
I’d really seen the Institute’s name as a sign. Eros, God of Love. Cupid. Amor.
Couldn’t go wrong with branding like that, right?
Joke was on me.