Page 50 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Well, well!" A man emerges from behind a display of power tools, wiping his hands on an apron that might have been white in a previous decade. "Cole Montgomery gracing us with his presence. And you brought friends!"

Hank—because this can only be Hank—is built like a scarecrow that's been left out in too many storms. All angles and enthusiasm, with eyes that light up like he's just won the lottery at the sight of customers. His gaze skips between us with the calculating speed of a small-town merchant who knows gossip is currency.

"Hank." Cole's greeting is economical, but not unfriendly. "Needed to show the ladies around town. This is Willa James,William's granddaughter. And Wendolyn Murphy from the bookshop."

"The new ranch owner!" Hank practically vibrates with excitement, pumping my hand with enough enthusiasm to rattle my teeth. "Your grandpa was a good man. Best customer I ever had—always paid cash, never haggled, knew exactly what he needed."

Before I can respond, he's already pivoting, dragging us toward a display that dominates the front window. "You ladies have to see this! The new fire station project—going to revolutionize emergency response in Sweetwater Falls."

The poster is professionally done, all gleaming architectural renders and statistics about response times. A donation box sits prominently below, already half-full of bills and checks. The enthusiasm is infectious, even if the execution feels like someone's civic studies project escaped into the wild.

"You should introduce yourself to the crew when they're up and running," Hank says, focusing on Wendolyn with the intensity of a matchmaker who's spotted opportunity. "Pretty Omega like you, they'd love to have you involved with fundraising or organizing community events."

Wendolyn's smile tightens just a fraction. "Actually, I have experience with fire departments. I was a firefighter in Denver before I moved here."

The words land like a stone in still water. Hank's mouth opens, closes, opens again. "You were a... but you're an..."

"An Omega, yes." Wendolyn's chin lifts slightly, a defensive gesture I recognize from my own arsenal. "Five years with Denver Fire, certified in structural and wildland suppression."

The silence stretches until I can hear the fluorescent lights humming. Then, like sharks scenting blood, other customers begin drifting closer. The store's not large—sound carries, and nothing travels faster in a small town than surprising news.

"An Omega firefighter?" The voice belongs to a woman in her sixties, hair teased to impressive heights and secured with enough hairspray to damage the ozone. "Well, that's... unusual."

"Very progressive of Denver," another woman adds, in a tone that suggests 'progressive' is synonymous with 'foolish.' "Though I suppose they have different standards in the big city."

Wendolyn's shoulders inch higher. "The standards are actually identical statewide. Physical requirements, training hours, certification process?—"

"Still," the first woman interrupts, "it's so rare to see an Omega in such a hands-on, manly profession. Must have been challenging, keeping up with all those Alphas."

My teeth clench hard enough to ache. I know this dance, these words wrapped in false concern. The way they diminish achievement by focusing on designation rather than capability. Beside me, Cole shifts slightly, and I feel rather than see his attention sharpen.

"I kept up just fine," Wendolyn says quietly, but I catch the tremor underneath. "Graduated third in my academy class."

"How wonderful." The woman's smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Though I imagine it's nice to have a more... appropriate career now. Running a bookshop is so much better suited to an Omega's strengths."

The words hit me like a match to gasoline. Every memory of being told to be smaller, quieter, less ambitious roars to life. Every time Blake told me my ideas were "cute" but impractical. Every job interview where they looked at my designation before my qualifications.

"That's prejudiced," I say, the words coming out sharper than intended. "And wrong."

The store goes silent except for the hum of electricity and the distant sound of traffic. Every eye turns to me, the stranger making waves in their ordered world.

"Excuse me?" The woman's carefully penciled eyebrows climb toward her hairline.

"I said it's prejudiced." I step forward, putting myself slightly in front of Wendolyn. "To assume Omegas can't do the same jobs as Alphas. Wendolyn saved lives in Denver. She ran into burning buildings while people like you sat safe at home making assumptions about what's 'appropriate.'"

"Well, I never—" The woman's face flushes red beneath her foundation. "I was simply making conversation. No need to be aggressive about it."

Aggressive. Another word weaponized against Omegas who don't perform submission correctly. My temper, already frayed from days of upheaval, snaps its last thread.

"You know what else is unusual?" I hear myself say, voice carrying the kind of authority I forgot I possessed. "Omegas owning ranches. Running cattle operations. Making business decisions without Alpha oversight."

The woman blinks, clearly trying to follow the shift. "I don't see what that has to do with?—"

"I own Cactus Rose Ranch," I continue, letting the words ring through the store. "Inherited it from my grandfather, and I'm running it with a crew that includes Wendolyn. Because I value competence over conventional thinking."

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel Cole behind me, his presence solid and somehow approving. Wendolyn stands straighter, and there's something like hope flickering in her green eyes.

"What's all this commotion?"

---