“Something strong,” I say, the words coming out before I think about them. “Something resilient. Sunflowers, maybe. And something soft, too. For comfort.”
She nods, her expression understanding. “I know just the thing.”
I order five massive bouquets, a riot of yellow sunflowers, soft blue delphinium, and fragrant eucalyptus. I write a simple note on a small card.Thinking of you. —Knox W.It’s not much. It’s not enough. But it’s the least I can do.
Back in the truck, the flowers ordered, a small measure of the tension in my shoulders eases. I can’t fix the APBRA. I can’t erase what happened to Willa. But I sent flowers. It’s a small, tangible act of care in a world that feels like it’s spinning out of control.
I pull back onto the highway, heading toward the ranch. Toward the mess waiting for me there. Toward a stubborn Omega in a fluffy white robe and a fight I’m not sure I can win.
It feels like I’ve done something, but it also feels like I’ve done nothing at all.
As I turn onto the dirt road that leads to the cabins, I see them. Boone and Jasper. They’re in the small corral near the barn, and Boone is holding one of the younger ranch horses, a nervous-looking bay with a skittish energy. Jasper, a tall, inked Alpha I’ve only known for a couple of years, is on the ground, one of the horse’s hooves propped between his knees.
The metallic scent of the farrier’s torch hangs in the air, mixed with the smell of singed hoof and horse sweat. Jasper is focused, his movements precise and economical as he trims the hoof. He’s good at his job. Quiet. Efficient. A man of few words, which I appreciate.
I kill the engine, the sudden silence feeling heavy after the roar of the highway. I get out, slamming the door of my truck a little harder than I mean to. The sound makes the horse jump, but Boone’s hand on its lead rope is a calming, steady weight.
“How’d the meeting go?” Boone asks, his eyes on the horse, not on me. He can probably smell the city on me, the stress and the bullshit.
“Not well,” I say, my voice tight. “But we’ll talk about it later.” I don’t want to get into it here, not in front of Jasper. I want my best friend to help me process the anger coursing through my business. This is pack business.
Boone nods, his gaze finally meeting mine. There’s a concern in his eyes that I appreciate, but I don’t have the energy toaddress it right now. I give him a subtle shake of my head, a silent “I’m okay” that we both know is a lie.
“Damn,” Jasper mutters, standing up and stretching his back. “Need my nippers. Left ’em in the truck.”
He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and walks toward his battered pickup, giving us the space he seems to instinctively know we need.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Boone’s whole posture changes. The confident ranch hand who can calm a nervous horse with a single touch is gone, replaced by a man who looks utterly lost.
“I fucked up,” he says, his voice so low I almost don’t hear it.
“What did you do?” I ask, my mind immediately jumping to the worst-case scenario. Did he confront her again? Did the stonewalling escalate into something more?
He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of frustration I’ve seen a hundred times. “I’m not even sure.” He looks toward the main house, his expression conflicted. “She hurt herself. Fell out by the old culvert.”
“Is she okay?” I ask, my body already turning, my feet ready to move toward the house. The anger and frustration from my meeting evaporate, replaced by a protective instinct that takes me by surprise.
I don’t like her. She’s trying to sell our home. But she’s an Omega, alone on this ranch, and she’s hurt.
“She’s fine,” Boone says, putting a hand on my arm to stop me. “Wait. I... I took care of it. Got her back to the house. Her wrist is sprained, not broken. I think.”
I relax, just a fraction, but the concern doesn’t fade. “You took care of it?”
He nods, his gaze distant. “Yeah.” He’s quiet for a long moment, the only sound the horse’s soft snorts and the distant clang of Jasper’s tools in his truck. Then he looks at me, and hiseyes are full of a question I wasn’t expecting. “Do you think we’re being too hard on her?”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Her,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the house. “We’ve been giving her the cold shoulder. Blocking her at every turn. And I get it, I do. This is our home. But... we haven’t even had a real conversation. Not about Anthony. Not about why she left.” He swallows, his throat working. “There’s a reason she took off, right? And I just... I want to know.”
I watch him, seeing the conflict etched on his face. The history between them is a minefield I have no desire to cross. “Man, I can’t tell you what to do or how to think,” I say, my voice softer now. “Because I’m not sure what the hell is going on between you two. All I know is she wants to sell the land, and we can’t let that happen.”
“Nothing,” he says, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking back at the house, his expression a complicated mix of anger, regret, and something else I can’t name.
Just then, Rhett’s truck pulls in, kicking up a cloud of dust that hangs in the still afternoon air. He gets out, his face grim, and I know immediately that something is wrong. He doesn’t even wait to get to us before he shouts, his voice cutting through the quiet.
“Have you guys heard about Jack Dalton?”
My stomach drops. The fragile bubble of our small-world problems pops, and the much larger, much uglier reality of the outside world comes crashing in.
