Page 26 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
I clutch the kitten tighter, using it as armor against the insanity building between us. The poor thing mews in protest at being squeezed. My legs feel unsteady as Iturn away, each step an effort when every cell in my body screams to turn back, to find out what he’s hiding.
The walk back to the guesthouse feels endless. I’m hyperaware of the inadequate slap of my flip-flops against the ground, the whisper of grass against my leggings, the way the kitten’s purr synchronizes with my too-fast heartbeat. But mostly I’m aware of his eyes on me, the weight of his gaze across my body, making me want to put extra sway in my walk just to see if he’d react.
At the porch, I can’t resist looking back. He’s still standing where I left him, a shadow cut from darkness and moonlight and barely leashed want. He touches two fingers to his forehead in a gesture that might be mockery or promise or both, then fades back into the shadows like he was never there at all.
Inside, I set the kitten down with its family. The mother cat barely pauses in grooming the adventurous sibling to sniff at the returned prodigal. Crisis averted, maternal duties resumed, no thanks necessary.
I move to the window, pressing close to the glass, but the angle is wrong and blocks my view. Is he back on his stump with his whiskey? Walking the property like some kind of midnight guardian?
My body thrums with unused energy, skin too sensitive, every nerve ending alive and wanting. I press my forehead to the cool glass and try to make sense of what just happened.
Ridge doesn’t want an Omega here. His words were clear, unambiguous, as final as a slamming door.
So why did he look at me like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in one impossible package?
Why did one barely there touch feel more intimate than any kiss I’ve ever shared?
And why, despite his rejection, despite my own plans to leave, despite every logical reason to keep my distance, do I suddenly need to know everything about him? What broke him? What makes him study stars like they hold answers? What would it take to see him smile, really smile, not just that bitter quirk of lips?
What made him so certain he doesn’t need an Omega? Or is it just this Omega he doesn’t need?
The kitten mews at my feet, probably wondering why its rescue has turned into standing at windows like a Gothic heroine waiting for her brooding hero to return.
“This is your fault,” I tell it. “If you hadn’t needed rescuing, I wouldn’t have just had my world tilted off its axis by a cowboy who smells delicious and looks at stars.”
The mother cat gives me a look that suggests she’s not buying my deflection.
“Fine,” I concede to my feline audience. “Maybe it’s not entirely the kitten’s fault. Maybe I was always going to end up in the darkness with Ridge.”
I think about Orion and his eternal pursuit, about gods who were cruel in their mercy, about cowboyswho study stars and push away with both hands what they might want.
Three months suddenly feels like both forever and no time at all.
The really terrifying part? I’m starting to think Ridge might be worth the heartbreak I can already see coming like storm clouds on the horizon.
But maybe, just maybe, some things are worth chasing across the sky.
Even if you never catch them.
7
RIDGE
I’m in the chute at Cheyenne Frontier Days, the metal rails cold under my gloved hands despite the July heat. Diesel Rage shifts beneath me, two thousand pounds of pure meanness compressed into black hide and muscle. The bull’s breathing matches mine, heavy, controlled, waiting. We both know what’s coming.
“Ridge Colter on Diesel Rage!” The announcer’s voice booms over the packed arena. “This cowboy’s sitting second in the world standings, folks, and a good ride here could move him up to first going into Vegas!”
My hands are steady as I work the bull rope, wrapping it around my right hand. Suicide wrap—that’s what we call it when you wrap it tightly enough that only God or gravity can get it loose. The rosin makes the rope sticky against my glove, insurance against the violence about to come.
I can see Cash and Walker pressed against the arenafence from here, close enough that I can make out Cash’s worried frown and Walker’s encouraging nod. They’ve been at every major ride for the past three years, my unlikely pack brothers who understand that rodeo isn’t just what I do; it’s who I am.
Three rows behind them, Abby waves when she catches my eye. Beta female, sweet as honey, with a laugh that made me stop mid-sentence when I first heard it at that bar in Sheridan. We’d been talking about books. One conversation led to another, which led to her driving four hours to watch me ride today.
“Looking good, Colter,” Jake Chase calls out from the bucking chute over, waiting for his turn. “Heard you drew a spinner.”
“Diesel always goes left,” I confirm, settling deeper into position. “Hard and fast.”
“Just how your girl likes it?” another rider jokes, and laughter ripples through the cowboys hanging on the rails.
