Gus just shrugs, wiping down the bar with a rag that’s seen better decades. “News travels fast in a small town. Can’t say I’m sad to see that Dalton prick get what’s coming to him. Always had a shifty look in his eye.”
“Yeah, well, Willa James is the one who has to live with it.” I sound angry even to my own ears.
Gus nods, his expression sobering. “True enough. Hey, you want a bottle to go? On the house. Looks like you boys could use it.”
I don’t argue. “Thanks, Gus.”
He disappears under the bar and comes back up with a bottle of their top-shelf bourbon. I take it, the cool glass a solid, real weight in my hand. The three of us push our way through the crowd, a wave of nods and muttered greetings following us. We escape into the cool night air, and the silence is a blessing. The parking lot is mostly empty, the vast, star-dusted sky of Wyoming stretching out above us, infinite and indifferent.
I drive. Knox is too wound up, and Rhett, while more sober than Knox, is definitely feeling the buzz of his single beer and the oppressive atmosphere of the saloon. He slides into the passenger seat, and Knox sprawls out in the back, his long legs taking up the whole space.
The engine of my truck turns over with a low, powerful rumble. I pull onto the main highway, the headlights cutting a swath through the darkness. For the first few miles, no one speaks. The only sounds are the hum of the tires on the asphalt and the soft hiss of the air conditioning.
Knox is staring out the window, his reflection a pale, angry mask in the glass. Rhett is fiddling with the radio, finally settling on some classic rock station playing at a low volume.
Then, from the back seat, Knox’s voice, slurred and belligerent, breaks the silence. “God, can you imagine Sara in there? She’d probably have a panic attack from the secondhand smoke alone.”
Rhett laughs. “She’d be trying to file a noise complaint against the band or reporting them for smoking indoors.”
“Is it illegal?” I ask.
“We’re in Wyoming. Last I heard there were no laws banning smoking in bars and restaurants. At least not that I’ve heard of.”
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white.Prim and proper.That’s what they see. That’s what they all see. The polished, professional woman who came back here in her fancy shoes smelling like city and ambition.
He doesn’t remember. He wasn’t here.
But I was.
I see a flash of her, not as she is now, but as she was then. Sixteen years old. Her red hair was all curls and had a mind of its own. It was full of leaves and twigs from whatever adventure she’d just dragged me into. Her cheeks weren’t perfectly sculpted; they were sunburned and freckled from a day spent by the river, her nose peeling. She wasn’t wearing some tailored pantsuit; she was in cutoff denim shorts and a faded T-shirt that was two sizes too big, probably stolen from my closet. She smelled like vanilla and wildflowers, and the faint metallic tang of the creek water she’d been swimming in.
She was fearless. She’d climb the highest fence just to see what was on the other side. She’d challenge me to races she knew she couldn’t win, just for the thrill of it. She’d laugh with her whole body, her head thrown back, her voice echoing through the fields.
She was a force of nature. Untamed. Wild.
Seeing her walk through the ranch again feels like looking at a ghost wearing a familiar face. And it makes something old andfierce rise up in me, a protective instinct so potent it’s almost painful. A longing so deep it feels like a physical ache.
I’ve been trying to keep my distance, trying to maintain the cold, stone-like façade we all agreed on. It’s a matter of respect—for the pack, for the home we’re trying to save, and for the girl she used to be. The girl I let get away.
“What’s with you?”
Knox’s voice cuts through my memories. I glance in the rearview mirror. He’s leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, studying me.
“You’ve been brooding since we left the bar.”
“I’m not brooding,” I snap, the words harsher than I intend.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he shoots back. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be.”
Rhett shifts in his seat, his gaze fixed on the dark road ahead. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. He’s listening. He’s always listening.
And something in me just snaps. The frustration, the guilt, the suffocating weight of it all. The memory of her falling, the look of terror on her face when she thought I was going to hurt her, the feeling of her trembling in my arms as she cried for her friend.
“You want to know what I’m thinking about, Knox?” I snarl. “I’m thinking about her. I’m thinking about the fact that when I helped her up from that culvert, I scented her.”
The cab of the truck goes utterly still. Even the music on the radio seems to fade into the background.
“And it wasn’t just a hint,” I continue, the words pouring out of me now, a torrent I can’t stop. “It was a fucking tidal wave. Vanilla and something else... something wild. It was the strongest, most intoxicating scent I’ve ever encountered on an Omega. It was so strong I could barely think straight.”
