“She said she’d rather lose a weekend’s profits than lose her soul,” Tessa says. “She’s getting some part-timer to run the place for a few days. Someone from out of town, maybe. She just said she couldn’t deal with it. She didn’t want to hear it.”
“Good for her,” I say firmly. “Good for both of you.”
“It’s a mess,” Tessa agrees, glancing at the line of cars forming at the drive-thru. “But maybe it’s a mess that needed to happen. Maybe people need to see exactly how ugly this mindset is.”
She pushes off the counter. “I have to get back to work. You take care of yourself, Saramaria. And don’t let those cowboys on your ranch get you down. I heard they’re being particularly stubborn.”
“You have no idea,” I mutter.
She gives me a sympathetic smile before turning back to the espresso machine. I pick up my coffee and whistle for Wellsy. We leave the patio, the buzz of conversation and the hiss of the steam wand fading behind us.
I don’t get back in the truck right away. The anger sparked by Tessa’s story is thrumming through my veins, making it impossible to sit still. I need to move. I need to burn off this energy before I drive back to the ranch and inevitably have to deal with Boone, Knox, or Rhett.
I clip the makeshift rope leash onto Wellsy’s collar—we really need to get him proper things—and we start walking toward Main Street.
Muddy Creek is quiet, but the silence feels brittle. The main street is lined with brick buildings that house boutiques, gearshops, and the occasional office. Wind whips down the avenue, carrying dry leaves that skitter across the sidewalk like nervous crabs.
I pass The Salt Lick. The neon signs are dark. The “Closed” sign hangs in the window, looking lonely against the glass. The usual crowd of motorcycles and trucks is gone from the lot. It feels like a ghost town. I wonder if Baby is inside, scrubbing tables just to have something to do, or if she’s at home, fuming in the safety of her own space.
Farther down, I see the Iron Spur Inn. The lights are on in the lobby, illuminating the wide porch. An older Omega is sitting in one of the rocking chairs outside, knitting. She watches me as I walk by, her eyes assessing. I offer a small nod, but she just keeps knitting, her needles clicking together in a pattern that echoes in the quiet street.
I walk past the park. The swings are swaying in the wind. There’s a group of teenagers near the fountain, but they aren’t laughing or shouting. They’re standing in a tight circle, their heads bent together. Even they feel the tension. The scandal touches everyone. Willa is well-liked. She’s the vet who saved their horses, the quiet girl who always had a kind word. Seeing her dragged through the mud by the town’s rumor mill is an open wound that won’t heal.
Wellsy stops to sniff a lamppost, and I wait, pulling my jacket tighter around myself. The sky is a heavy gray slate, pressing down on the valley. It feels like snow.
I think about Tessa’s customer.“If an Omega is in heat... you can’t blame a man.”That’s a terrifying logic. It implies that Alphas are animals, incapable of reason or restraint. And if they’re animals, then Omegas are just prey. It strips us of our humanity.
I think about my grandfather. He never said those exact words, but he lived by that code. He believed in roles.Alphas lead. Omegas follow. Betas support. He believed that my designation made me weak, incapable of running a ranch, incapable of making hard decisions. He looked at me and saw a liability, not an asset.
That’s why he tried to sell me off to the Hendersons. That’s why he never taught me the business side of the ranch. He thought I belonged in a house, making babies and dinner.
I kick at a loose piece of pavement, sending it skittering into the gutter. I am so tired of being underestimated. I’m tired of a world that thinks my biology dictates my destiny.
By the time I loop back to the Feed and Seed parking lot, my coffee is cold and my hands are numb. The anger hasn’t gone away, but it has settled into a hard, cold knot in my chest. Resolve.
I get back in the truck. Wellsy jumps into the passenger seat, settling in with a happy sigh. He has no idea what’s going on. He just knows he got a walk and a stick. I envy him sometimes.
The drive back to the ranch is quiet. The landscape turns from town streets to open road, flanked by the golden expanse of the plains. The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks hidden by clouds.
When I turn onto the dirt road that leads to Meadowlark, I expect to see the usual scene. Boone working on a fence, Knox riding, or just the empty stillness of the land.
But as I pull up to the main house, I see a truck parked near the porch. It’s Rhett’s.
Standing by the tailgate with his back to me, he looks massive against the peeling paint of the house. His heavy canvas jacket and mud-dusted boots only add to the imposing silhouette.
I cut the engine and grab my coffee cup, stepping out into the crisp air. Wellsy bounds out, barking at a butterfly.
Rhett turns at the sound. He doesn’t smile. He rarely does. His face is a mask of stoicism, his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat.
“Saramaria.” It’s a greeting, but it lacks warmth.
“Rhett,” I reply, walking toward him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He reaches into the bed of the truck and pulls out a heavy, expandable file box. It’s bulging with papers. “I came by earlier to drop this off. You weren’t here.”
I stare at the box. “What is it?”
“The ranch documents,” he says. “Financial records, tax returns, lease agreements, operational logs. Everything you asked for.”
