Page 43 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
We were kids, idiot.
You didn’t have to climb.
Sure, Wyatt had scars, but they weren't visible when he was dressed. The claw marks from the mountain lion on his calf. The jagged reminder of a bar fight along his side. His were stories he could choose to tell or keep hidden, revealed only on his terms, to those he wanted to impress or intimidate.
Mine was there for the world to see, impossible to hide.
I pulled on my hat, adjusting it to shade my eyes. Something felt off tonight, beyond the usual pre-town jitters. This strange, gnawing jealousy toward Wyatt wasn't normal. We'd always been different despite being twins—complementary pieces of thesame whole. I'd never resented his outgoing nature before, had never felt this twist of something dark when comparing myself to him. I’d just accepted I was me, and Wyatt was Wyatt. No competition.
I knew what the something was.
That made the world feel off.
And my emotions skew.
Two months of silence from Eros had us all on edge, all five of us sensing the gap in our pack more acutely with each passing day. The promise of completion, of finding our Omega match, had stirred something primal in us. Had made the emptiness more noticeable, more painful.
Wyatt had suggested tonight because he wanted to get laid. He hoped the temporary release of his body would bandage the wound. I was hoping for the same thing. To feel desired. Powerful. Separate and worthy from Wyatt.
Wyatt… fucking Wyatt. He just had to be better.
Always had to be stronger.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts. This wasn't like me. Wyatt was my twin, my blood, my pack. Any jealousy I felt toward him was misplaced, unworthy of the bond we shared. I swallowed down the feelings and tried to focus on just having a good time tonight. A few beers, maybe a game of pool, possibly a willing Beta if one caught my eye. Nothing complicated. Nothing permanent.
Nothing like the scent match we so desperately needed and wanted.
"You ready to roll?" Wyatt's voice boomed out from the hallway, startling me from my thoughts.
"Yeah," I called back, giving myself one final look in the mirror before turning away. “Already in the living room.”
When Wyatt appeared, I tried not to focus on how great he looked. I’d leave the jealousy here, like a snake shedding oldskin. Tonight, was about blowing off steam, about forgetting the waiting for a few hours. About being brothers, not rivals. At least, that's what I told myself as I followed Wyatt down the stairs and out into the early evening air.
The truck's suspension groaned in protest as we hit another pothole, jostling us in our seats like we were riding bulls instead of driving down a familiar backroad. We were used to the rough journey. I stared out the window, watching endless stretches of prairie grass bending under the evening breeze, silhouettes of distant mountains cutting sharp lines against the darkening sky, and various animals roaming behind fences. Wyatt drove with one hand draped over the steering wheel, unconcerned by the rough terrain that threatened to rattle our teeth loose. As the sun sank closer to the horizon, and dusk gathered, Wyatt flipped on the headlights.
Neither of us spoke. The radio played low—some country song about drowning love in a bottle of bourbon—and Wyatt hummed along occasionally, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. The drive into Pinedale took long enough that, if I wasn’t heading there for necessary supplies, I typically found myself fighting the urge to turn around and head home. There was no turning back this time though. Wyatt’s scent had sharpened with determination, and my own was building in intensity, notes of spice betraying rising desire.
As Pinedale came into view, a handful of lights scattered across the darkness like fallen stars. The town wasn't much, just a collection of low buildings strung along Main Street with a few residential streets branching off like afterthoughts. But it was civilization, a place where people gathered, where we could temporarily forget the waiting and the wanting that had taken residence in our bones. And the people were good people for the most part. Judgmental, but fundamentally decent. Sagebrush had gotten a bit of a reputation. Lot of folks didn’t agree withbiological siblings being in the same pack. Gossip worsened when someone caught wind we were looking for only one Omega. Wyatt and I could clear the air, explain we kept sexual shit separate, but it wouldn’t matter what we claimed. The townsfolk would always prefer salacious lies over boring truth.
Wyatt parked in the lot across from Shorty's Saloon, cutting the engine with a quick flick of his wrist. The music died, and the sudden silence felt heavy. We both hesitated to get out, staring through the windshield at the bar's neon beer signs glowing in the darkness. I wondered what my twin was thinking. I was only waiting because he seemed to need a minute.
Maybe it was the rumor mill.
Maybe he thought coming together tonight to drink and find willing women might add fuel to the incest fire.
Eventually, Wyatt swung open the driver’s door and got out. I followed, neither of us bothering to lock the vehicle. The truck was new—well, new to us—but had already been beaten all to hell with ranch work. Dents in the fenders from close encounters with fence posts, scratches along the side panels from overgrown trails, and a permanent layer of dust and mud that might as well be the actual paint color.
The gravel crunched under our boots as we crossed the parking lot. Music spilled out each time the bar door swung open, along with bursts of laughter and the distinctive clack of pool balls. My steps naturally fell into rhythm with Wyatt's, our bodies unconsciously syncing.
When we walked into the bar, we were greeted by the familiar scents of beer, whiskey, cigarette smoke, and food frying in the back kitchen. We waved at the bartender, Mac, who'd lost his right arm in an industrial accident years ago. He lifted his prosthetic, bar rag tucked into its gripper hook, and his weathered face creased into the rough-around-the-edges,signature half smile. As friendly as he got, but folks who didn’t know him might think he was scowling.
Mac’s other prosthetic arm stood upright on the bar beside the cash register, positioned so its middle finger pointed defiantly toward the ceiling. It was both a conversation piece and a warning; Mac didn't tolerate bullshit from anybody, and he didn’t need two good arms to fight.
"The usual?” he called over the music, his voice gravelly from decades of smoking.
Wyatt nodded, making his way through the crowd toward the bar. I followed in his wake, noting how people unconsciously shifted to give him space—the subtle, instinctive recognition of an Alpha's presence. By the time we reached the polished wooden counter, Mac had already filled two steins to the top, head foaming over the side in a creamy cascade. Beside those, were two shot glasses.
My gaze widened when Wyatt immediately dropped the shot into the beer, hoisted the stein, and began gulping. His throat worked steadily as he drained the vessel without pausing for breath, a trickle of beer escaping from the corner of his mouth to trail down and hang from his chin. The empty glass hit the bar with a solid thud that seemed to punctuate his determination to make tonight a success.
