Page 15 of Knotting the Cowboys

No interrogation, no demands, no subtle suggestions about what I might owe her later.

Just kindness, served with vintage dress flair and hairball stories.

My hands shake as I pull off my boots, and I realize it's not from exhaustion anymore. It's from the effort of holding myself together when someone is being gentle with me. Gentleness is harder to defend against than cruelty.

Cruelty confirms what I already know about the world—that it's sharp-edged and unforgiving, especially for unmated Omegas.

But kindness? Kindness suggests maybe I've been wrong, and that's terrifying in its own way.

I unzip my duffel, pulling out the few clothes that represent my entire wardrobe now.

Each piece carries memories I'd rather forget—the sweater I wore the night everything fell apart, jeans that still smell faintly of smoke despite multiple washings, a dress I can't bear to throw away because it's from before, when I still believed in happy endings.Pathetic.Twenty-eight years old and everything I own fits in one bag, just like Wendolyn said about herself a year ago.

But she rebuilt.

Bought a bookstore, created a home, made friends who save chairs for cats with opinions.

Maybe...

No…I can't think like that.

Can't let hope creep in through the cracks Wendolyn's kindness has created.

Hope is dangerous for people like me. Makes you vulnerable, trust and believe that this time will be different.

And then when it inevitably isn't, when the kindness reveals its price tag or the safety proves temporary, you're left worse than before because you let yourself want something you should've known better than to reach for.

Brett taught me that lesson thoroughly.

Started with kindness too—bringing me coffee at work, offering to walk me to my car after late nights, defending me in meetings when other Alphas got too pushy. I'd been so grateful, so stupidly relieved that someone saw me as worth protecting. Classic Omega response, my therapist would probably say if I could afford therapy anymore.

Mistaking basic decency for something special because the bar was set so low.

My phone buzzes, battery down to two percent.

Three missed calls from an unknown number.

Probably the mechanic the tow truck driver mentioned, though what's the point? I already know what they'll say. The Honda's been dying for months, held together with duct tape and desperate prayers. Now it's finally given up, and I'm stranded in a town that's made it clear unmated Omegas aren't welcome.

Except Wendolyn welcomed me. And the couple with the dog didn't seem hostile, just curious. Maybe Harold and his hotel don't represent everyone here…

The phone dies mid-thought, screen going black with finality.

Perfect. No car, no phone, no money to fix either.

The weight of it all crashes down at once, and I have to press my palms against my eyes to keep the tears at bay.

What am I doing? Running to my grandfather’s ranch, when I haven't seen it in fifteen years? Believing that inheriting some broken-down ranch will somehow fix everything that's wrong with my life?

The panic starts in my chest, familiar as breathing. Heart racing, lungs tight—though that might be the smoke damage making itself known.I'm trapped. Truly trapped. Not just in Sweetwater Falls, but in this situation I've created by running.

No backup plan, no safety net, no pack or family to call for help even if my phone worked.

I force myself to breathe slowly, counting like the therapist taught me back when I could afford to learn coping mechanisms.In for four, hold for four, out for four.The technique still works, even if everything else in my life doesn't.

The panic recedes to manageable levels, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Okay. Facts, not feelings.

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