Page 3 of Knotting the Cowboys

The joys of longterm smoke inhalation complications.

The engine block looks like it's been through a war and lost.

Just like everything else in my life lately.

I slam the hood down harder than necessary and grab my duffel bag from the backseat. Everything I own fits in this bag now. The thought should probably depress me more than it does, but there's something almost freeing about traveling light when you're running from the heavy past that doesn’t want to let you go.

The Sweetwater Inn sits at the end of Main Street like a Victorian grandmother, all gingerbread trim and judgment. My boots echo on the wooden porch, and I can already smell the problem before I see it—the lobby reeks of Alpha.Not just one ortwo, but that concentrated territorial marking that says "pack-owned establishment." My stomach clenches.

Great…let’s see if this is going to go “smoothly”.

The desk clerk looks up as I enter, her smile faltering when she catches my scent.

Omega.

Unmated Omega.

In a town this small, I might as well have "trouble" tattooed on my forehead.

"Good afternoon," she says, her voice pitched carefully neutral. "How can I help you?"

"I need a room." The words come out rougher than intended, my damaged lungs making me sound like I've been smoking for decades instead of just breathing smoke once. "Just for tonight. Maybe a few nights."

Her fingers hover over the keyboard.

"Are you... traveling alone?"

Here it comes.

"Yes."

"I see." She doesn't type anything. "Are you meeting someone here? Family perhaps? Or...?" She lets it hang, the universal small-town code for 'please tell me you have an Alpha waiting for you.'

"No. Just me." I set my bag down, trying to look less threatening, though how threatening can an exhausted Omega with fraying jeans and a shirt that's seen better days really look? "Look, I have cash. I can pay up front."

"It's not about payment." Her smile turns apologetic but firm. "It's hotel policy. We don't rent rooms to unmated Omegas traveling alone. For safety reasons, you understand."

Safety.

Right.

Whose safety, exactly?

"That's discrimination," I argue.

"That's small-town precaution."

A male voice comes from the office behind the desk. The Alpha who emerges is everything I've learned to fear—broad shoulders, possessive stance, the kind of casual authority that comes from never being told no.

"We run a family establishment here. Can't have unmated Omegas drawing the wrong kind of attention."

"I'm not looking for attention." My voice cracks on the last word. "I just need a place to sleep."

"Plenty of nice pack houses in town that take in strays," he says, and the word 'strays' hits like a physical blow. "Or maybe you should've thought about accommodations before coming to a respectable town alone."

The rage that floods me is familiar, almost comforting. It's easier than the fear, easier than the exhaustion.

"I didn't exactly plan for my car to break down here."

---