Page 42 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
We’d go into town, have a few beers, maybe play some pool.
If companionship presented itself, I was going to take full advantage. There was no reason to be falling apart insideandcelibate. A man could only handle so much.
Whiskey and meaningless women would have to keep me going.
It always had before.
But… shit. Why did it still feel wrong now?
11
WADE
Nine months ago... Pinedale, Wyoming
Steam billowed around me as I cranked the shower knob to its hottest setting, letting the scalding water pound away the day's work. Dirt from repairing fence, sweat from running down a stubborn calf that escaped the property line, and the lingering scent of hay and horses spiraled down the drain. I needed this—this brief, private moment to wash away more than just the physical evidence of ranch work. I needed to rinse off the restlessness, the anticipation, the gnawing emptiness that had been growing inside me since we'd submitted our samples to Eros. Two months of silence had a way of making a man feel hollow, so empty that a million books didn’t have enough words to fill the hole.
I stood under the spray until my skin turned pink and my muscles relaxed, only shutting off the stream when it began to run cold. Wyatt would raise hell. Two showers in the house, but only one hot water heater and slow well pipes. His dust-off probably proved Arctic while I was enjoying the volcanic assault.
The mirror had fogged completely. I swiped my palm across it, only buying seconds of a clear view before it steamed again. I needed a fresh cut. The mullet was losing its pizzazz. I toweled off roughly, the thick cotton scraping against my sun-weathered skin and hitting a few scabs, scrapes, and blisters.
After drying off, I splashed on cologne—it was close to my natural scent, but not a perfect match. It helped cut through the ranch scent permanently embedded in my skin, enhancing my underlying God-granted musk. Sharp notes of leather, whiskey, and smoke filled the small bathroom, momentarily overwhelming my senses. The whole pack used the same fragrance. We’d tried individual scents, but it messed with the way our group meshed. Too many different odors colliding, instead of combining seamlessly.
Being Alphas was weird as hell sometimes, because so much in our lives hinged on the output of our glands. Attraction. Repulsion. Lifetime bonds. Lifetime grudges. Who we bonded with, and how they fit into our daily machinations. Of course, being Alpha also meant that we had an easier time moving through the world. Opportunities were everywhere, priority service was given, and soft legs spread with little effort.
An evening trip into Pinedale with Wyatt always went the same way, like a sitcom re-run.
We’d stride through Shorty’s, voices greeting us from every corner of the building. Shorty would pour the first shots on the house. We’d drink enough to feel buzzed but hopefully avoid a barfight. Then we’d find our targets. We’d run through the town’s Omegas years ago, but there were still willing, single Betas. We never brought them home. We always got cheap rooms in town. It was a degrading, vapid string of events that left us hungover—not from the liquor, but from the lack of authenticity.
Casual sex only took the barest hint of sting away, only quieted the buzz of need and anger for mere moments.
I padded back to my bedroom, droplets of water still clinging to my shoulders as I rummaged through my dresser for something presentable. The soaked hair running down my back slipped forward as I leaned, dripping onto my dry clothing. After momentary annoyance, I grabbed my cleanest jeans off the ‘passable’ pile on the floor. In the closet, I yanked down the shirt Cooper got me last Christmas, a deep forest green that he claimed brought out my eyes. Guy was always flirting, even with Wyatt who’d made his feelings on the mattervery clear. That was our pack though—a push and pull of personalities, Wyatt at the head of the table, and the rest of us just doing our best to make him, and Sagebrush, proud. And that dumbass didn’t know how important he was. How he could never be a failure in our eyes. Nobody could convince him he wasn’t a royal fuck-up who nearly bankrupt his grandparent’s legacy.
I pushed my arms through the shirt, leaving it open to grab deodorant off the dresser top and slap it on with devil-may-care precision. I caught my image in the mounted mirror, frowning. The green looked fine, but I didn’t see anything special about the way the color brought out my eyes. I slicked my fingers through my damp hair, tracing over the skull and back towards my shoulders. It would dry fine, curling in back. I’d almost shaved off my mullet last month out of frustration. But it was my damn signature and helped me stand apart from Wyatt’s cleaner hairstyle.
I had to tear my gaze from the reflective surface. All the sudden, the only thing I could see was the eyebrow scar, the front gap in my teeth, the hick hair that I clung to like a security blanket. If I stared too long, I’d refuse to go into town. I’d wallow at home.
My most comfortable boots stood by the bedroom door, worn in all the right places. I didn’t care how world-weary they looked. I pushed my feet into them and then grabbed my belt off the hook nearby. I pushed it through the jean’s loops, quickly realizing two of them were torn at the waist. Didn’t matter. There were enough of them left to hold the belt.
The buckle was ostentatious—gold, engraved with a bison—I’d grabbed it the same night we’d all gotten our matching pack tattoos. Always felt a little ridiculous wearing it, not sure what made me put it on tonight. I considered taking it back off, going for a simple brass buckle, but I talked myself into committing. I’d be bold for once, maybe stand out next to Wyatt. I grabbed my hat last, not bothering to knock off the day’s dirt. Flashy belt buckle aside, I was still a rancher. Nothing changed that.
I stepped out of my room, gaze landing on Wyatt's closed door across the hall. I could hear him moving around, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Despite being my twin, my identical twin no less, Wyatt somehow always seemed more put together than me. More confident. More everything. It didn’t use to bother me so much. Now, I found myself constantly comparing us and always coming up wanting. I was the shadow, his back-up when needed. Our roles had been established long ago—Wyatt out front, me supporting from behind. The loud twin and the quiet one. The leader and the steady hand.
I’d been the one to say I didn’t want to take charge of Sagebrush.
It was shit of me to resent Wyatt.
But dammit, he filled rooms with his presence, commanding attention without even trying. When he laughed, others laughed with him. When he spoke, they leaned forward to listen. He was larger than life, full of sugar for the ladies and venom for anyone that crossed him. He was the embodiment of Alpha confidence, weaponizing it in a way I never quite managed. Even though Ihad the same scent! The same status! The same blood running through my veins!
My inferiority complex was why I had my nose in a book half the time. If I couldn’t be him, I’d be smart. I’d constantly learn, and better myself.
Fuck, cut it out.I slapped my palm against the side of my head, as if I could dislodge what I was thinking. Shake out the jealousy. Pluck out the green monster that had been growing like a weed.
Didn’t work.
I stalked my way to the living room, feeling small.
The small mirror mounted near the front door caught me as I entered the space. I had to look at it. I had to see myself. I ran my tongue across the gap between my front teeth—another difference between us, though subtle. Wyatt had perfect teeth, straight and white. Mine had shifted slightly over the years. Crooked. Gaped. Character, but no charm. The scar fucking up my right eyebrow seemed to blink at me. It was a memento from a childhood fall from the hayloft. Wyatt had dared me into climbing and walking the beam. I’d climbed, because of him. I’d fallen, because of him. So, my face was scarred, and his wasn’t.
