Page 21 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

CASH

R idge and I climb out of my truck in the parking area behind Maggie’s Diner, our boots crunching on the gravel scattered between the painted lines.

The lot is about half full with a mix of dusty pickups, a few sedans that probably belong to the townspeople, and one shiny red Mustang that’s got to be some tourist’s ride.

A handful of motorcycles are lined up near the back fence, chrome gleaming under the security lights that are just starting to flicker on.

The sun hangs low, painting everything in shades of amber and crimson.

September is settling in with that crisp bite to the air that promises winter is not far behind.

A couple of ravens are pecking at something near the dumpster, and the smell of fried food and barbecue smoke drifts out from the kitchen vents.

Walker is leaning against his truck, arms crossed over his chest. “About damn time,” he growls as we approach. “I was starting to think you two got lost between here and the ranch.”

“Had to make a pit stop,” I reply, adjusting my button-down. It’s one of my nicer ones, a deep blue that brings out my eyes, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pick it hoping Sophia might notice. “Ridge here insisted on buying half the gas station’s inventory of jerky.”

“Man’s got to fill up his supply back home,” Ridge states with a smirk, settling his hat more firmly on his head. He’s wearing his good jeans tonight, the ones without holes in the knees, and a burgundy flannel that makes his auburn hair look like fire in the dying light.

But Walker isn’t laughing. There’s something wound tight about him, like a spring ready to snap. And now that I’m close enough, I can smell why.

That scent clinging to him makes every Alpha instinct I’ve got sit up and roar.

It’s sweet and spicy and feminine, and it’s definitely not his usual masculine one.

Without thinking, I step right into his personal space, close enough that our chests are almost touching, and take a deep breath, filling my lungs.

Walker shoves me back, but there’s more surprise than real aggression in it. “What the fuck, Cash?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” I rebut, grinning because now I know exactly what happened this afternoon. “You smell like Omega pussy. You’ve been rolling around with our pretty little Omega, haven’t you?”

“Goddamn it, so fucking what?” Walker mutters, but his cheeks are flushing.

Ridge’s head whips toward us so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “This is so fucked up,” he groans. “If I miss one thing about losing my sense of smell, it’s that sweet scent of pussy.”

Walker and I both stare at him. It’s the first time he’s actually admitted what losing his scent abilities has cost him beyond the day-to-day stuff. But I’m too wound up to process that right now.

“Well, our boy Walker here,” I say, still grinning, “has been sampling the merchandise.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he protests, but he’s not denying it either.

“You pushed us to keep it in our pants and go slow with her, and now, I can smell her on you. Faint, but hell, man, I can only imagine how good she would have been.”

Walker chuckles, running a hand through his dark hair. “Funny story…”

“Real funny,” I state flatly.

Ridge crosses his arms, waiting.

Walker gives us the quick rundown about helping Sophia buy clothes and then somehow ending up in the changing room with her, on his knees, between her legs. The bastard is trying to play it casual, but I can see the satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“Oh, you just fell into that position, right?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, did you trip over your own feet and accidentally land face-first in paradise?”

Even Ridge cracks up at that. “Yeah, Walker, that’s some real graceful navigation there. Next you’ll tell us you were just helping her tie her shoes.”

Walker’s cheeks actually flush a little. “Look, she’s my scent match. Ours, most likely.” He glances at Ridge meaningfully. “I think yours too, but that’s a different battle. When you get near her… fuck me, but I couldn’t resist. I’ve never experienced anything like this.”

I cross my arms and lean back against his truck. “Spill it. And I want details. Because I’ve been wondering if she’s a natural redhead since the day she walked onto the ranch.”

Walker’s face goes even redder. “Jesus, Cash.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question.” I drum my fingers against my crossed arms. “Come on, don’t leave us hanging. What’s she taste like? Sweet as she smells?”

“You’re both sick,” Ridge says, but he’s listening intently.

Walker runs a hand through his hair, making it even messier. “Look, it just happened, okay? And yeah, Cash, she’s a natural redhead. The softest damn hair I’ve ever felt against my face.”

The mental image that creates makes my jeans uncomfortably tight. “Fuck me sideways. ”

He shakes his head. “I’ve never lost control like that. Never wanted anything as much as I wanted to make her come apart under my tongue.”

Ridge has gone very still. “Both of you are certain about this scent match thing?”

“As sure as I can be,” Walker says gently. He understands this is hard for Ridge to hear, knowing he might never be able to confirm it himself. “But I think you’ll realize when you’re close to her. There are other signs.”

Ridge just shrugs.

“Listen, man,” Walker continues. “Like the way every instinct you’ve got screams at you to protect her. Like how you can’t think about anything else when she’s around. Like how you want to claim her so badly it makes even your teeth ache.”

“And here I thought I was just developing an unhealthy obsession,” I say.

“Oh, you are,” Walker says with a grin. “We all are.”

“So what happened after?” I ask. “Did you… finish the job?”

“Afterward, she panicked,” Walker explains, his expression sobering. “Ran out of there so fast she practically left skid marks. I think it scared her, how good it was between us.”

“Can’t blame her for that,” I say. “Probably didn’t expect to get her world rocked in a clothing store’s changing room.”

“No, probably not.” Walker pushes off his truck. “But she’s ours, whether she wants to admit it or not. And I’m not letting her run back to Chicago. Can’t leave the animals at the shelter, and I sure as hell can’t leave my Omega. Simple solution to me—she has to stay.”

Ridge adjusts his hat, a sure sign he’s thinking hard about something. “And if she fights us on it?”

“Then we convince her to stay,” I say simply. “However long it takes.”

We start walking toward the back entrance of the diner, our boots echoing off the brick wall. The music and voices from inside grow louder.

“All right, enough talking,” Ridge says as we reach the rear door to Maggie’s Diner. “Let’s go see what our girl is up to.”

We all remove our hats, and the moment we step inside, I’m transported back to the Old West. Maggie’s hasn’t changed since we moved into town and started coming here.

The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, and every inch is decorated with vintage Western gear, old spurs, faded photographs of cattle drives, branding irons, and even a couple of antique rifles mounted above the bar.

The floors are original hardwood, scarred and worn smooth by decades of cowboy boots.

Red checkered tablecloths cover round wooden tables, and mason jar lights hang from the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, amber glow.

A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, unlit now but surrounded by leather chairs that have seen better days.

The bar runs along the back wall, manned by Maggie herself, a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and arms like tree trunks from lifting beer kegs.

She’s got a no-nonsense attitude that keeps even the rowdiest cowboys in line.

The jukebox in the corner is playing something by Garth Brooks, and the whole place hums with conversation and laughter.

It’s Friday night, so the place is packed.

Families occupy the larger tables, couples share intimate corners, and a group of ranch hands from the Morrison ranch has claimed several stools at the bar.

But none of that matters, because I’ve spotted my target.

Sophia and June are tucked into a corner booth near the front windows.

The warm light from a vintage lamp has Sophia’s red hair resembling liquid fire, and she’s wearing a yellow dress and has her back to us.

She leans forward to say something to June, and I get a glimpse of the pale skin of her arm that makes me want to mark her up with my teeth.

I guide my packmates to a table in the back corner, positioning myself so I have a perfect view of her profile. She’s animated tonight, talking with her hands, throwing her head back when she laughs at something June says. Every gesture makes that dress shift and cling in new ways.

“Well, this is pathetic,” Ridge mutters as we settle into our chairs. “Three grown men stalking a woman during her girls’ night out. ”

“We ain’t stalking,” Walker protests. “We’re… observing.”

“That’s the definition of stalking,” Ridge points out.

“Ain’t always clean work wranglin’ what you care about,” I say, which makes both of them look at me sideways. “What? It’s good advice. Sometimes you’ve got to embrace the uncomfortable position to get what you want.”

A waitress appears at our table, a young blonde with pigtails and a smile that says she’s probably working her way through college. “Evening, gentlemen! What can I get started for y’all?”

“Three beers,” I say immediately. “Coldest you’ve got.”

“And food, please,” Ridge adds. “I’ll take the sixteen-ounce rib eye, rare, with loaded mashed potatoes.”

“Make that two steaks,” Walker says. “But I want the porterhouse, same temperature, with the works.”

“Meatloaf special for me,” I finish. “With butter biscuits and extra gravy on the side. And keep those beers coming.”

The waitress scribbles down our order. “Y’all must work up quite an appetite.”