Page 74 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
The glass cracked outward from the point of impact, a spiderweb fracturing until my face was interrupted by dozensof irregular lines. My features didn't quite fit together anymore. Suddenly, I was Frankenstein's fucking monster, my outsides matching my insides.
Blood dripped from my knuckles into the sink, diluting as it mixed with the water I'd left running. I watched the crimson-turned-pink swirl down the drain. Bits of me going down the drain.
Wade always thought he was the lesser one. He worried about his visible imperfections—the scar through his eyebrow, the gap in his front teeth, that ridiculous mullet he insisted on keeping. But Wade didn't understand that his imperfections were honest, worn on the outside where everyone could see them.
Mine were buried deep, festering under a carefully maintained exterior of confidence and charm. The perfect Alpha. The natural leader. The one who never broke.
Except I was breaking. I’d been breaking for months, splintering with each passing day that Eros failed to find us a match. Each night I spent in rooms like this one, trying to fill the void, only brought me closer to complete destruction.
I brutally slammed off the tap before grabbing a thin, scratchy towel. I wrapped it around my wound, not bothering to pick out the small shards of glass embedded in my skin. The pain felt clarifying, something real to focus on instead of the constant, gnawing emptiness.
Back in the bedroom, I yanked on my beer-stained shirt and shoved my feet into my boots. My wallet was still in my back pocket, truck keys too. I practically fled from the motel room, slamming its door behind me.
Pinedale was active this time of day, folks strolling with dogs and catching up in front of the hardware store. Straightening my posture, I plastered on what I hoped was a pleasant expression, and I tried to regain a bit of my goddamn dignity.
One thing I knew for certain: shit couldn't continue this way. Hopelessly waiting for an Omega, while losing our damn minds, ended today.
Boone.
I ripped another cluster of Larkspur from the pasture ground using such force that I stumbled backwards, nearly falling on my ass. I tossed it into the open trash bag beside me, the third one. I’d already filled two. Later, I’d have to ride back to the barn and grab the UTV to haul them all to the bio dumpster. Once that was at capacity, the hazardous waste company would pick it up, give us a new one, and take the invasive plant to county for safe disposal. A while back, they’d just let folks put Larkspur in with the regular trash, if it was properly bagged. Once the dumping grounds started sprouting the poisonous shit everywhere, they’d changed protocol.
The pretty purple flowers of the deadly plant could trick anyone into thinking there was no harm in picking them, in smelling them, in letting them exist around a herd. Every part of Larkspur was toxic. To animals. To people. You want tremors, neuromuscular paralysis, potential death? It’s just the ticket. Couldn’t even burn the shit out because you’d inhale the smoke. Though, that wasn’t effective anyway. Had to get the complete plant, every inch of root base, or the damn stuff would grow back overnight. So here I was, gloved up to my elbows, working my ass off.
Sweat dripped down my spine despite the cool, early Wyoming morning. I wanted to finish this job before the sun got higher. Summer days heated up fast, though the nights could still plummet to forty. I unleashed a string of curses as the next bit of Larkspur snapped at the base, roots firmly underground. The plants were winning, and my patience was losing.
"Goddamn purple devils," I growled, reaching for the shovel. A nearby calf startled at my outburst, skittering back to join its mother at the far end of the pasture. Good, they needed to stay away from this shit. A couple times, we’d tried to temporarily fence off Larkspur infestations. The cows kept knocking the barriers down. We debated sinking posts and giving the block-offs more permeance, but that would mean a lot of install and break down work. The easiest, quickest thing to do, was get out here as soon as we spotted the purple blooms and tear them the hell out.
I slammed the shovel’s tip repeatedly into the soil, making a square around the snapped stems, and then I sunk the blade deeper, standing on it before rocking back for leverage. The Earth gave way, lifting the stubborn roots into view.
For the next two hours straight, I filled trash bags.
When there wasn’t a lick of the devil plant remaining, I straightened up and moved to lean against the nearby fence. My back was screaming after the nonstop stooping and digging. I leaned from side to side, trying to work out kinks, then I just took a beat to stare at Sagebrush. The south pasture dotted with cows stretched before me, a stunning fraction of our Wyoming paradise. Couldn’t believe the Larkspur had attacked this area again. We'd cleared this patch four times, which made no damn sense because I never left a root behind. The plant was as stubborn as Cooper when he got an idea in his head. I sighed heavily at that thought. Cooper and his ideas… I think I’d had enough of them for a lifetime. I’d die for the man, but if he ever pulled something like Eros again, I might kill him myself.
In a moment of frustration, I savagely kicked the nearest fence post. The damn thing tilted at an angle, the barbed wire sagging between it and the next support. Perfect. Another thing to fix.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered.
I yanked off the gloves, stuffing them into the metal loop of my utility belt, and ran a hand over my head and down the braid, pulling it over my shoulder. It was still securely plaited. The only thing about me that stayed consistently put-together.
The truth was, I wasn't just angry at the Larkspur. I was angry at everything, especially the restlessness that had been building in the pack over the past months. It translated differently for each of us—into dogged work ethic, brutal self-deprecation, empty sexual pursuits, nonstop baking and burning food, and… leaving everything behind to escape.
Behaichi, my horse, nickered softly on the other side of the fence. Couldn’t let him over on the Larkspur side. He’d tried eating a flower last time. I never tethered him; he wasn’t the kind to wander. His dark eyes watched me warily, sensing my mood. Sometimes, I thought the gentle giant knew me better than I knew myself.
Hopping the barrier, I grabbed the manual post-driver from one of my saddlebags and moved back to the damage I’d caused. Sliding the hollow tip onto the angled support, I lifted and slammed back down. The resulting thunk was satisfying, vibrating up my arms.
Again. And again. And again.
I lifted and slammed down.
Each impact drove the post deeper into the resistant earth.
It felt good to fix something.
Once finished, I stepped back to inspect my work. Wasn’t pretty. The post was a little crooked still, but it would hold. I adjusted the barbed wire, careful not to catch my skin on the sharp points. The newer scar on my leg reminded me that fighting with fences rarely ended well.
I strolled back to Behaichi and returned the driver to the saddlebag. His ears perked up as I checked the straps before mounting. I lightly tugged the reins, and we started moseyingforward. I glanced over at the dozen filled trash bags as we passed, dreading coming back on the Polaris to haul the shit over to the dumpster. That was a problem for twenty minutes from now. Until then, I’d soak in the sun, the Wyoming air, the feel of Behaichi’s heartbeat, and I’d try to forget that this stunning place we called home wasn’t what it could be. Wasn’t finished.
Even if we moved into the new house…
