Page 51 of Knotting the Cowboys

The voice creaks from the back of the store, and a man who must be ancient shuffles into view. If Hank is a scarecrow, this is the farmer who built him—weathered and bent but still sharp around the edges.

"Dad," Hank says weakly. "These folks were just discussing the fire station?—"

"Don't care about the fire station," the old man interrupts, squinting at us through glasses thick as bottle bottoms. "Who's making trouble in my store?"

"No trouble," the woman with the hairspray helmet says quickly. "Just a misunderstanding about?—"

"About whether Omegas can be firefighters," I cut in, meeting the old man's gaze steadily. "I was explaining that they can."

He studies me for a long moment, then barks out a laugh that sounds like gravel in a blender. "Course they can. My grandmother was an Omega, and she could outwork any Alpha on the ranch. Delivered all twelve of her babies herself too, including my father during a blizzard."

The woman's mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"You the James girl?" the old man asks, pivoting with surprising agility. "William's granddaughter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He nods decisively. "About time that ranch had family on it again. You need anything for the place, you come to me, not him." He jerks a thumb at Hank. "Boy wouldn't know quality if it bit him. Tries to sell people fancy when what they need is functional."

"Dad," Hank protests weakly.

"Retiring anyway," the old man continues, ignoring his son completely. "Soon as I find someone who knows a hammer from their ass to take over. Can't leave it to him—he'd have the place selling scented candles within a month."

Wendolyn is laughing before she can stop herself, and I genuinely smile at his commentary mixed with a sense of humor.

The hairspray woman and her companion have retreated to the fastener aisle, suddenly fascinated by screws.

Wendolyn's shoulders have dropped from around her ears, and there's color back in her cheeks.

"We should go," Cole says, speaking for the first time since we entered. His hand finds its familiar place at my back, warm and steadying. "Still have stops to make."

But as we move toward the door, I catch the look on his face in the security mirror. It's subtle—just a softening around his eyes, a slight curve to his usually stern mouth. Pride, I realize with a jolt. He's proud of me.

The bell chimes our exit with the same aggressive cheer, but it sounds different now. Like victory rather than warning.

On the sidewalk, Wendolyn catches my arm. "Thank you," she says quietly. "I usually just... let it go. Easier than fighting every battle."

"I know," I tell her, because I do. God, how I know. "But you shouldn't have to shrink yourself to make them comfortable."

"Listen to you," she says, a real smile breaking through. "Fierce dominant Omega indeed."

My face heats at the reminder of Cole's words, but before I can respond, his hand presses more firmly against my back. Not pushing, just... claiming space. Claiming me, in view of anyone watching from the hardware store windows.

"Next stop?" he asks, but his voice carries undertones that make my stomach flip.

"Lead the way," I manage, trying not to lean into his touch, failing miserably.

As we walk back to the truck, I catch our reflection in a shop window. Wendolyn is confident again, me standing taller than I have in years, and Cole is watching us both with an expression that makes my heart race.

Maybe this town isn't ready for Omega firefighters and ranch owners. But ready or not, we're forcing them to get out of their old minds that continue to negatively plague us.

Mountain View Grocery & Supplies announces itself with a hand-painted sign that's one strong wind from retirement and windows plastered with ads for everything from cattle feed to wedding dresses.

The building sprawls like it's been absorbing neighboring businesses for decades, which according to Wendolyn's whispered commentary, is exactly what happened.

"Pearl Chen-Morrison's family started with just the grocery," she explains as Cole holds the door. "Then they bought the hardware store next door when it failed. Then the feed supply. Now it's this beautiful mongrel of a store where you can buy birthday candles and brake fluid in the same aisle."

The inside is organized chaos—or maybe chaotic organization. Aisles stretch in directions that defy euclidean geometry, stocked with an impossible array of goods. The smell hits me in layers: produce and motor oil, fresh bread and leather goods, cleaning supplies and what might be incense from a display of "Local Artisan Crafts."

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