Page 76 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
Maybe I'd go see the interior progress. The contractors kept pussyfooting around a timeline, right up until the point I’d pulled out our contracts and referenced that delays due to mismanagement, not force majeure, gave our pack the right todemand a ten percent compensation for inconvenience. Now things were moving like magic.
The soles of my bare feet ached by the time I walked into the two-story. A maze of ladders, plastic sheeting, and five-gallon paint buckets made it hard to navigate, but there was no hiding how magnificent this place would be when finished. Spacious, open, with huge windows to capture the stunning Wyoming views. We’d all branded the place already.
Cooper’s professional kitchen boasting the French Blue fridge I’d fought against; the damn thing cost over six grand. He’d reasoned he was saving us money by moving the Viking oven over from the rambler, so I shouldn’t pinch pennies. Sometimes I wondered why fate made him the pack member to fall into a ton of money. Wade's mudroom with dog washing station—Tripp and Tater were going to hate that. Boone's sustainable heating system, which even ran under the hardwoods to combat chilly Wyoming nights, waited to be used. Wyatt's nonnegotiable ask was a wrap-around porch, big enough for six rocking chairs so we never had to fight for the measly two we could fit on the old house’s poured patio.
And then there was my office. Fucking magnificent, with built-in bookshelves galore.
I could have checked out any space in the building.
But I found myself standing in the middle of the enormous master suite.
Big enough for four kings, even if we didn’t push them together to make one gigantic bed. Anytime this room came up in conversation—before the subject of our potential Omega turned painful—we’d all wonder what our scent-match would prefer. Everyone sleeping together? That might be problematic for Wade and Wyatt. Private nights with each of us, taking turns? Would she just want to sleep alone? I fucking hated thatpossibility. Even though Coop and Boone called me a certified cover thief, I hated sleeping solo.
The room seemed to trap me, the bottoms of my naked feet gluing to the floor. Maybe I should just stay here until they finally found our match. Stay here, as if I were participating in some kind of protest where you refused to move until you got what you wanted.
Stay here.
Until our Omega was here.
And if they never came?I’d be content to rot in this very spot, until I was just a bag of bones, still rooted to the pine planks. Without warning, a primal scream exploded through the air. It startled me, almost caused me to lose my footing. I looked around, eyes wild and searching.
I realized, very quickly, that the sound had escaped from my own mouth.
Wade.
The old truck rattled and bounced beneath me as I took the winding driveway of Sagebrush Ranch a little too fast. The speedometer needle trembled just above thirty, which was about twenty miles per hour faster than any sane person would drive down the rutted dirt path. In the truck bed, cardboard boxes filled with egg cartons, along with bundles of old newspapers, shifted with each bump. I winced as a particularly hard jolt sent the entire load flying upward. The paper goods seemed to float midair for a moment before crashing back down. That was warning enough to make my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel loosen and my foot ease off the gas.
It wasn’t that the stuff I’d gathered from town was fragile, just more crap for Cooper and Boone’s third greenhouse. They’d already outgrown the original two we’d built. Felt like we’d beencollecting these materials for weeks—cardboard to layer the bottom of raised beds, egg cartons for seeding, and newspapers for sheet mulching. Another delivery of good soil and fertilizer would come by dump truck next week, but these recycled materials were just as important.
Setting aside the egg cartons, all the boxes and paper put me in mind of moving.
Made me think about how close the new house was to being finished.
Caused me to wonder if someday I’d gather these same items to help our Omega move here, to their new home.
As I drove across the property, past the rambler and towards the greenhouses, my eyes landed on Boone and Behaichi slowly ambling toward the stables. Damn, that man looked good on the back of a horse. Over the years there’d been moments, passing fancies really, when my casual intimacy with him, Coop, and Levi left me craving more. Not that I’d joined their trio lately. Hell, I don’t think even they were managing much outside of quick hugs these days. Not a one of us—aside from Wyatt, who kept trying to feed his urges with trips into town—had much interest in sex, or even sex-adjacent activities. Even the fact I’d admired Boone from a distance was surprising.
I pulled to a stop at the back of the last hothouse, cutting the engine and hopping out. Methodically, I unloaded the truck bed directly into the new greenhouse, piling everything up in a central spot. The elevated planters on either side of the aisle were ready and waiting. I thought it was overboard to test more sugar beet varieties, but this wasn’t my passion project. Only plants I cared about were ones that might directly affect the animals I tended.
Though we were all on board with growing, the third greenhouse addition had given me pause. I wasn’t averse to splitting our operations, but I’d begun to align more with Wyatton cattle ranching. The more Boone and Coop planted, the more they talked about the land now earmarked for fields, the more I found myself realizing that I wouldn’t love this life without the cows. I wouldn’t be myself if I wasn’t daily bottle feeding a calf, checking an expectant momma, or even playing with Tripp and Tater out in the pastures as they guarded the herd.
Sagebrush Ranch was cattle. It was its history. Granddad bled for this land. So did Dad.
But I'd seen Cooper and Boone’s research, and Levi’s projections. Sugar beets to start, maybe move someday into micro-farming heritage wheat. Cash crops and sustainable farming could increase our profits, insulating a sometimes-volatile beef market. Next year would be one to weather. We always kept our eye on Ag Alpha News. Their agriculture economists were talking about rising prices for cull cows. It meant a lot of ranchers were going to thin the herd, even good potential breeders for calves, to make money. Laymen might think that was a good thing. Low numbers of cattle later, steady demand, automatic higher prices. Unfortunately, the U.S. had a habit of meeting consumer demand by trucking shit in from Brazil. Any American rancher who over-culled for cash, would have less ability to compete with the imports. Only thing that might save the situation was the fifty percent beef tariff.
After I’d relocated the last bundle of newspapers, I closed and latched the greenhouse door. I left the truck where it was, keys tossed on the dash, and I strolled towards the house. I wasn’t tired, though I should be after barely sleeping last night, so I’d tackle some cleaning. Bathrooms could use a good scrubbing, baseboards too.
As I rounded the side of the rambler, I spotted Levi's tall figure stalking purposefully toward our new place. Even from this distance, I could sense the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his spine… and the fact he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
Levi wasn’t in a good place. He’d never go outside barefoot. He hated getting dirty like that.
I followed him, just to make sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid.
The scent of plastic and paint hit me as I pushed into our future home. It concealed any note of my Alpha brother’s scent, but I knew somewhere inside, Levi was wandering alone with his thoughts. A person’s thoughts weren’t the best companion when life was going poorly. A person’s thoughts could tear them down quicker than bullets.
When I was in the kitchen area, ladders and drop clothes scattered everywhere, I hesitated. Should I give him space or offer company? With Levi, it was sometimes hard to tell which he needed. Go or stay. Both options felt flawed. I didn’t like that I wasn’t sure. The answer had always been ‘stay together’. That was the meaning of a pack. These days, we orbited around each other like planets out of alignment, all feeling the same gravitational pull toward something missing, but unable to find our proper paths. The sun was gone. Our galaxy lost its star.
Somewhere, deeper in the house, I heard movement. Somewhere, deeper in the house, I heard a soul-shattering scream.
