Page 66 of Knotting the Cowboys

The venom in it only made me crave more. I craved it the way I always craved a challenge, the way some Omegas craved lullabies or a strong arm slung over their shoulder.

Every time he acknowledged me in front of the others—tossing me a dry “good catch” when I flagged a risky supplier, or a “your numbers check out” when I forecasted profit curves better than their fancy consultants—it was like getting a gold star from a teacher I’d always wanted to impress.

Sometimes, when the rest of the house was asleep, I’d catch him out on the porch, quietly rolling a cigarette or just leaning against the banister, eyes on the distant ridgeline. He never invited conversation, but he also never sent me away. I’d stand beside him, both of us silent, our breath fogging in the mountain cold, and if he said anything at all it was always something that sliced to the core—“You’re working too hard,” or “You bleed for these people more than they’d ever bleed for you.”

It should have hurt.

Instead it felt like permission, like a dare to keep proving him wrong.Or right.I’m still not sure which I wanted more.

The next morning after my first successful audit, he’d left a mug of black coffee on my desk, no note, but the message clear:You earned this.

When I’d shown up to the breakfast table, Jude and Hayden were already ribbing Blake about “outsmarting the whole damn county” by signing me, and Hayden, never one to miss a chance for theatrics, had actually stood and tried to start a slow clap. I’d wanted to disappear. Liam just raised an eyebrow, and I knew the performance was for me as much as for anyone else. I’d belonged, at least for the morning.

Over the months, Liam’s mentorship turned from sharp-edged to something almost fatherly, in a feral, pack-specific way.

He’d critique my strategies with the intensity of a chess master, always pushing me to anticipate the next three moves, always reminding me that the wolves outside were hungrier than the ones at home. “Don’t think because you’re ours, you’re safe,”he said once, late in my first year. “Everyone’s waiting for you to slip up. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

I never did slip, not when they were watching.

Instead, I became exactly what they needed, and sometimes—alone in the dark with my own thoughts—I wondered if I’d ever stop needing to be needed.

Hayden was the one who first decided I should be paraded. At the time, it felt almost like an inside joke between just the two of us—how he'd catch my eye across a crowded pack-hall, waggle his brows, and then announce with theatrical flourish that "the brains behind Iron Ridge has arrived." But as months wore on, he seemed to enjoy the escalation, each public display a little bolder, a little more performative, until I became something of a legend in the insular, petty circles of regional pack society. At every quarterly council or livestock co-op negotiation, Hayden would arrive with a hand at the small of my back, making sure everyone saw it: I was not just his packmate, not just an Omega, but the one who saved them all from oblivion.

He told everyone I was their secret weapon. Sometimes he’d use that exact phrase, sometimes he’d riff on it—“our insurance policy,” “our walking bailout,” “the best thing to happen to Iron Ridge since indoor plumbing.” There was pride in it, of course, but also a layer of possessiveness that sometimes made my skin crawl. To him, it was a friendly boast. To others, I started to feel like a novelty, a sort of rare breed only Iron Ridge could have produced. Once, at a summit in Bozeman, he’d tipped back a shot of bourbon and declared, “Willa James: the only Omega I know who can bankrupt you with a spreadsheet and bury you under the paperwork.” The whole table laughed, and I forced a smile, even as my cheeks burned.

When I tried to brush him off, to point out I was only doing what any competent adult—or decently-trained finance grad—would have done, Hayden would just shake his head and repeathis favorite refrain: “Not just a pretty face,” he’d say, as if I were a show dog who’d learned to do arithmetic, “Our Willa’s got a brain that could rival any Alpha’s. Fixed our finances in three months flat.” Sometimes I caught him looking at me sideways, as if he expected me to be insulted by the compliment, but mostly I just let it wash over. In his way, Hayden meant it as the highest form of praise: to be the secret weapon was to be indispensable. In the world we inherited, that was as good as indestructible.

For Hayden, being seen was everything. He lived for pack-wide poker nights, bonfire parties, county fairs where he could wear his best boots and get recognized by people in three counties. He’d pull me up on makeshift stages to help call raffle numbers or hand out blue ribbons, always leaning in close enough to let the rumors start themselves. “Just giving the people what they want,” he’d joke to me, though he never quite said what, precisely, he thought that was. I think a part of him liked the idea of being the first to find value in me, as if my success was in some way a testament to his own good instincts. Like an Alpha in all but the title, collecting broken things and making them shine.

Under Hayden’s influence, I became the kind of person other packs whispered about. There were rumors I’d been imported from the city like some kind of luxury good, that I’d masterminded mergers back East, that my last pack had been driven to ruin by my ambition. Hayden loved these stories and never bothered correcting them. “Let them think you’re a shark,” he’d say with a wink. “Better than them thinking you’re prey.” In public, he played up the myth, but behind closed doors, he’d sometimes break the act—just for a minute—long enough to admit he was glad I’d stuck around. That he liked having someone on his level to talk schemes with, someone who didn’t wilt when he upped the stakes.

It wasn’t always so simple, of course. There were times I caught the disapproval in Hayden’s eyes when I overstepped, when my ideas threatened to eclipse his own. Those moments always passed quickly, replaced by a louder, brasher version of his usual praise, but I could feel the undertow beneath. If Iron Ridge was his kingdom, I was the queen he’d only meant to install as a figurehead—and sometimes, even to my own surprise, I wanted the throne for myself. Hayden seemed to sense it too. Once, after a brutal round of budget cuts, he’d cornered me in the kitchen and said, “Careful, Willa. You’re starting to sound like a real Alpha.” His tone was light, but his eyes were not. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he’d ever really meant to share power at all.

Still, even on the worst days, Hayden never let anyone outside the pack see a crack in our alliance. In front of outsiders, he was my loudest supporter. The only one who came close to matching that intensity was Jude.

Jude, the pack’s enforcer, was supposed to be all muscle and stoicism, a man who resolved conflict with his fists when words failed. For the first month I lived at Iron Ridge, I barely heard him say a full sentence. He watched everything from the periphery, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, a living warning sign hung over every conversation. It took me weeks to realize he was not actually angry, just careful—a man so used to being the last line of defense that he’d forgotten how to stand down.

It was after my first major win—the renegotiation with the feed supplier, where I’d shaved forty percent off our annual costs and stopped the hemorrhaging—that he finally spoke to me directly. The house was quiet, everyone else out celebrating, and I’d stayed behind to double-check the figures. Jude appeared in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, silent for so long I almost startled when he finally cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said. Just that.

I blinked, unsure what to say back. This was a man who’d broken a rival’s nose for less than a perceived slight; I half-expected him to throw me out for daring to touch the books.

But he just nodded slowly, as if coming to terms with something he’d already known. “You didn't just save the ranch,” he continued, voice quieter now, “you saved the pack. Most of us had nowhere else to go.” He looked down at his scarred hands—visible even in the dimness, reminders of every fight he’d won and lost—and then up at me. “We’re not good at saying things, around here. But you—” he hesitated, searching for the right word—“you did good by us, Willa. We won't forget.”

From that moment on, something changed between us. If Hayden was the showman, Jude was the anchor—steadfast, silent, and unshakable in his loyalty. He never tried to claim credit for my ideas, never needed to be seen as the architect behind every success. Instead, he made sure I had the space and time to do what I needed: he’d intercept angry ranch hands before they reached my office, chase off politicians hoping to cut backroom deals, or just stand guard at the bonfire parties, a silent sentinel making sure no one got too rowdy on my watch. More than once, I found a mug of tea waiting for me on late nights at the books, the cup still steaming, a silent gesture from a man who measured affection in action, not words.

Jude’s loyalty was a gift I never expected. In another world, maybe we’d have been friends, or something closer—if I’d been a different kind of Omega, the kind who craved safety over challenge. As it was, I just tried to deserve it, doing my work as quietly and thoroughly as I could, hoping he’d never have to clean up a mess I’d made.

The thing about being a “secret weapon” is that you’re only as valuable as your next victory. The moment you slip, you’re just another liability, another failed investment the pack can’t afford to keep. I lived with that knowledge every day, tucked behind mysmile at meetings and the careful way I rationed my opinions on the ranch. Even at my most confident, a part of me always waited for it to fall apart—the moment when I’d disappoint them all, become too much trouble, and find myself back at zero.

It’s funny, looking back, how desperate I was to keep earning my place. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I made myself essential, maybe I’d finally be safe. Maybe I’d even be loved, not for what I could do, but for who I was underneath it all.

But that’s not how it worked at Iron Ridge.

There, love was always transactional, always contingent on what you brought to the table.

And if you ever stopped delivering, it was only a matter of time before you were replaced by the next shiny new thing.

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