Doesn't ask too many questions. That was more valuable than gold.
"Thanks." I meant it, and I let a sliver of that gratitude show in my voice. Information like that could mean the difference between another month of scraping by and another bus ticket to nowhere. She nodded, something like understanding passing across her weathered face, and moved on to the next table, leaving me to finish my soup and think.
Eight miles. I could walk it. I'd walked farther on less sleep and less food. And if this Hank was hiring, if he really didn't ask questions... maybe I could stay for a while. A few weeks. A month. Long enough to save up some money before the next disaster hit.
I mopped up the last of the soup with my bread roll, left the exact amount plus a dollar tip I couldn't really afford, and headed for the door.
The sun was starting its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Pretty, if I'd had the energy to appreciate it. I hiked my backpack higher on my shoulder and started walking.
Eight miles is a long way when you're running on empty.
By mile three, my feet were aching in my worn-out boots. By mile five, my legs felt like lead. But I kept moving, one foot in front of the other, because that's what I did. That's what I'd always done. Stop moving, and the world catches up with you. Stop moving, and you're dead.
The county road was mostly empty—a truck passed me once, slowing down like the driver might offer a ride, but I kept my eyes forward and my pace steady, and eventually they moved on. I didn't take rides from strangers. I didn't take anything from anyone if I could help it.
The sun sank lower, and the shadows stretched longer, and I started to wonder if I'd missed a turn somewhere. Then I crested a small hill and saw it.
The gate was exactly like the waitress described—black iron, weathered by years of sun and wind, with a longhorn skull mounted at the apex. Beyond it, a dirt road wound through rolling grassland toward a cluster of buildings in the distance. Barns and outbuildings, a large farmhouse, what looked like a bunkhouse. Cattle dotted the fields, dark shapes against the golden grass.
Longhorn Ranch.
I stood at the gate for a long moment, catching my breath, trying to quiet the voice in my head that said this was a mistake. They always were. Every job, every town, every attempt to put down roots—it always ended the same way. With me on a bus to somewhere else, burning another bridge I'd never meant to build.
But I was tired. So fucking tired, and I was running out of options.
I pushed open the gate—it swung smoothly, well-maintained—and started down the dirt road.
The closer I got, the more details emerged. The farmhouse was old but solid, white paint starting to peel, wide porch wrapped around the front. The barns were sturdy, practical, the kind of buildings that had been standing for generations and would stand for generations more. Everything had that lived-in look, that sense of being used and cared for.
Then the scent hit me.
Alpha.
I stopped dead, my whole body going rigid. The smell was everywhere—soaked into the land, the buildings, the very air I was breathing. Not one Alpha. Multiple. Strong, healthy,dominant. My hindbrain started screaming, every instinct I had telling me to run, to hide, to get the hell out of here before?—
Stop.
I forced myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The scent was strong but not aggressive. No threat pheromones, no challenge. Just... presence. Alphas lived here, worked here,belongedhere. That was all.
I could handle that. I'd handled worse. I made myself start walking again, even though every step felt like fighting through quicksand. My own scent was barely there—stress and malnutrition had faded it to almost nothing years ago—so maybe they wouldn't even notice me. Maybe I could slip in, do my work, slip out.
"Can I help you?" The voice came from my left, and I spun toward it, a growl building in my chest before I could stop it. The man standing by the fence was Beta, thank god. Middle-aged, maybe early fifties, with a weathered face lined by decades of sun and wind, and iron-gray hair cropped close to his skull. He had the kind of build that came from a lifetime of hard work—broad shoulders, thick forearms, hands that looked like they could crush rock. Work gloves were tucked into his belt, and he was watching me with sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.
"I'm looking for work." I forced the growl down, forced my shoulders to relax, forced my voice into something resembling normal. "Someone in town said you might be hiring. Told me to ask for Hank."
"That's me." He looked me over—not in a threatening way, just assessing. Taking in my worn clothes, my too-thin frame, my backpack with its fraying straps. His expression gave nothing away, but I could see him cataloging, filing, forming opinions. After a long moment, he scratched at the gray stubble on his jaw. "You got experience with ranch work?"
"I've done farm labor. I'm a hard worker. I don't cause trouble." The same speech I'd given a hundred times before, the words worn smooth from repetition. "I just need a job."
"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced, but he didn't sound dismissive either. Just... weighing. Measuring. "You know how to muck a stall? Handle a pitchfork? Get up before dawn without complaining about it?"
"Yes." I met his gaze steadily, refusing to look away even though part of me wanted to. "I can do whatever needs doing. I learn fast."
Hank studied me for another long moment, those sharp blue eyes taking my measure in a way that felt more thorough than any job interview I'd ever had. I stood still and let him look, keeping my shoulders back and my chin up even though exhaustion was making my legs shake.
"We've got bunks in the workers' quarters," he said finally, and something in my chest loosened just a fraction. "Room and board plus wages. Work starts at dawn—and I mean dawn, not whenever you feel like rolling out of bed. You cause trouble, you're gone. You work hard, you stay as long as you want." He paused, his weathered face unreadable. "Sound fair?"
It sounded too good to be true. It sounded like a trap. I was tired, and hungry, and out of options.
