Page 8 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Willa."

"Well, Willa, I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help notice you've got that classic 'small town just kicked me in the teeth' look about you." She pulls a tissue from her purse—of course she carries tissues—and offers it to me. "Let me guess. The hotel?"

I take the tissue, mostly because refusing feels like more effort than accepting.

"How did you know?"

"Because Harold Pritchard is a walking advertisement for why some Alphas shouldn't be allowed in public." She says it so cheerfully, like she's commenting on the weather. "Man's got the personality of a brick and about half the charm. Turned you away for being unmated, didn't he?"

"Said I was a 'disruption.'"

The word tastes bitter coming back out.

"The only disruption in that place is his cologne. Smells like he bathes in it." She wrinkles her nose. "Probably trying to cover up the stench of his personality."

That startles an actual laugh out of me—short and raspy, but real.

"You always this honest about the locals?"

"Only the ones who deserve it." She turns to face me more fully, and I notice how her dress has little pearl buttons all down the front, each one perfectly aligned. This is a woman who pays attention to details. "I own the bookstore-cafe combo just down the street. Wildflower & Wren? Been here about a year now, and let me tell you, the first time Harold tried to Alpha-posture at me, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. He's been pissy about it ever since."

The way she says it—casual, unafraid, like standing up to Alphas is just another Tuesday—that makes me really look at her. Not just the vintage perfection or the warm smile, but the steel underneath.

This is an Omega who's chosen to live alone in a small town, unmarked and unmated, with hair that screams 'look at me' when convention says we should be invisible.

"Your hair," I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the curb. "I mean?—"

"Oh, this?" She touches one of the victory rolls, grinning. "I know, I know. Redheaded Omegas are already considered trouble, and here I am making it worse with the whole vintage thing. You should see the church ladies clutch their pearls when I walk by."

"Doesn't it make things...harder?" I gesture vaguely at the town around us. "Being so visible?"

"Honey, they're going to judge us no matter what." She adjusts her belt, and I notice her nails are painted the exact sameshade of red as her lips and shoes. "Might as well give them something interesting to look at while they do it."

It's such a different approach to survival than mine—where I tried to blend in, minimize, make myself acceptable, she's chosen to lean into being unacceptable.

And somehow, she's sitting here on a curb with me, unmarked and unclaimed but seemingly unbothered by it.

"Plus," she continues, pulling a compact from her purse to check her lipstick, "the nice thing about being visibly rebellious is that the other rebels find you faster. We troublemakers have to stick together, you know?"

There's an invitation in those words, carefully offered without pressure.

This woman with her victory rolls and cherry-print dress and casual defiance of everything an Omega should be is extending something I'm not sure I'm brave enough to take.

"I don't know if I'm much of a rebel," I admit. "I just...exist wrong, apparently."

"Oh sweetie." Her voice softens, losing none of its warmth but gaining something deeper. "Existing as ourselves in a world that wants us to be something else? That's the biggest rebellion there is."

The sun has nearly set now, painting her red hair in shades of copper fire.

She looks like she stepped out of a different era, when women wore their strength in victory rolls and red lipstick instead of trying to hide it under submission. In a town this small, this traditional, she must stand out like a flame in the darkness.

Maybe that's the point.

Wendolyn lets out a laugh that's bright as her hair, throwing her head back like she's just heard the world's best joke.

"You know what kills me about Alphas? They strut around like they invented confidence, but the second you don't simper at them, they fall apart like wet tissue paper."

"Harold definitely seemed offended I didn't bare my neck on command," I say, surprised to find the anger cooling into something almost like amusement.

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