Page 22 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

“You could say that,” I reply with a grin that makes her blush, then she heads off.

“So, about those new horses coming in next week,” Walker starts .

“Nope,” I interrupt. “We’re not done talking about your afternoon adventure. I want to know everything about you breaking your word. What was she wearing under that little sundress? How loud did she get? I need to be able to picture it in my head like a movie.”

Ridge leans forward, interested despite himself. “Go on, I’m invested now. Don’t leave us hanging.”

Walker glances around to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in closer.

“She was wearing this little white lace thing that barely covered anything. And when I got my mouth on her…” He closes his eyes for a second.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Like vanilla and rain and something that was just purely her. ”

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Just then, our beers arrive, and we all fall silent while the waitress is there. “Food’ll be out real soon,” she says cheerfully. “Y’all need anything else right now?”

“We’re good,” I tell her, already reaching for my beer as she leaves. The cold liquid hits my throat like salvation, helping to cool some of the heat that Walker’s story has stirred up.

Then he leans in again. “And she got so loud I had to press two fingers into her mouth. Same ones I’d just been using inside her.”

He lets that sink in, his grin slow and wicked. “Swear to God, it was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever experienced. The way she moaned around them? Like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or keep suckin’—”

I choke on my beer.

My hand jerks under the table, adjusting myself before I embarrass us all. Because that image? It detonates in my head like a wildfire.

Sophia, mouth open and gasping, her legs trembling, dress hiked to her waist while I drop to my knees between them. Her taste on my tongue. Her fists in my hair. Her slick heat coating my fingers while she makes those sounds for me. Just for me.

Fuck!

I press my palm hard against my thigh like it’ll ground me. It doesn’t. The overhead fan is rattling too loudly, and the damn lights feel like spotlights aimed right at my guilty conscience.

This is a public diner. There are grandmas eating cobbler a couple of tables over. And here I am, two seconds from unzipping and making a damn fool of myself because I pushed Walker to share.

I blow out a breath and force my focus back to my beer, swallowing a curse. If he keeps talking like that, I’m gonna lose it.

Or worse?—

I’m gonna stand up and walk across this diner, pull Sophia into the goddamn bathroom, and make her scream loud enough that everyone in this place will know exactly who she belongs to.

Small blessings as our food arrives faster than usual, probably because they know we tip well.

The waitress sets down three plates that would make a lumberjack weep with joy.

Ridge’s steak hangs off both sides of his plate.

Walker’s porterhouse is even bigger, accompanied by a baked potato the size of a softball.

My meatloaf is smothered in brown gravy, with a side of mashed potatoes that could feed a small army and biscuits so buttery they’re practically glowing.

“Half the cow’s on my plate,” Ridge declares with a grin, already cutting into his steak.

“Look at that beautiful piece of beef,” Walker adds, admiring his porterhouse. “Almost too pretty to eat.”

“Almost,” I agree, digging into my meatloaf. “But not quite.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, but I keep glancing over at Sophia’s table. She hasn’t looked our way once. For the best, perhaps.

That’s when I spot the waitress heading to their table with a tray of drinks. She points across the room toward the bar, and I follow her gesture to see two men raising their glasses in the girls’ direction.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, my grip tightening on my fork.

Walker follows my gaze, and his whole body goes rigid. “Fucking hell.”

Ridge squints across the room, then his face darkens. “Is that Ronan?”

I focus on the tallest of a small group of men, and recognition comes at me like a sucker punch. “Yeah, it’s that piece of shit.”

Ronan Blackwood. Rose’s worthless grandson who showed up at the ranch every few months with his hand out, looking for money he hadn’t earned.

The bastard who once told Rose to her face that he was just waiting for her to die so he could claim what was rightfully his .

The ass who dressed like a cowboy but had never done an honest day’s work in his life.

“What’s he doing here?” Walker sneers, his voice tight with anger.

“Nothing damn good,” I reply, watching as Ronan stands up from his barstool.

He’s dressed to impress tonight, designer jeans that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent, a shirt that’s been pressed within an inch of its life, and boots so shiny they could blind a pilot.

His black hair is slicked back with enough product to waterproof a roof, and there’s something sickening in the way he’s staring at Sophia.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Ridge hisses, his whole body tensing.

I’m on the edge of my seat as Ronan strolls toward the girls’ table with the kind of swagger that comes from too much money and not enough sense. But before he can reach them, Walker is on his feet, moving through the crowd with deadly purpose.

I’ve seen Walker handle spooked horses and aggressive dogs, but I’ve never seen him look as dangerous as he does right now. Bunched-up shoulders, chin high, hands in fists, and people instinctively move out of his way, all six feet, three inches of intimidating Alpha muscle.

He reaches Ronan just before the bastard gets to Sophia, who has no clue, as she and June are deep in conversation, laughing.

Giving Ronan no chance to react, Walker grabs him by the collar and hauls him toward the back exit like he’s wrangling uncooperative livestock—forceful, fast, and with zero patience.

Chairs scrape back as he shoves past tables, the air thick with tension.

Conversations stutter to a stop. A fork clatters onto a plate.

Most of the locals know Walker. They don’t interfere. Hell, a few even tip their hats or mutter things like “?’Bout time” under their breath. No one tries to stop him. No one asks questions.

Ridge and I are right behind them, leaving our half-finished meals without a second thought.

The parking lot feels different now, darker, more isolated. The security lights cast harsh shadows between the parked cars, and the temperature has dropped enough to make our breath visible.

Walker releases Ronan with a shove that sends him stumbling forward. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You have nothing to do with those girls in there, understand?”

Ronan stumbles and whips back around, that oily smirk never leaving his face.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Sophia has something that belongs to me,” he snaps.

“And no little bitch in a sundress is going to keep what’s mine.

Especially not with you three assholes playing gatekeeper like this town is your personal fucking kingdom. ”

Walker’s entire body coils, muscles straining like a live wire about to snap. Ridge’s jaw flexes, fists at his sides. I feel the burn of rage crawl up my spine, and I take one deliberate step forward.

“Say that again,” I growl. “And I’ll knock the teeth outta that smug face of yours.”

Ronan scoffs, but his hand twitches. He’s nervous. Good. He should be.

He straightens his expensive shirt again. “Wild Hearts Ranch is mine. Always was. Rose had no damn right handing it off to someone else, let alone a stray Omega just ’cause her dead grandson dipped his dick in there. And you three? You’re nothing. Just overgrown mutts sniffing around.”

Walker shifts forward, slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. “Say her name again,” he murmurs, voice flat and as sharp as a knife. “I fucking dare you.”

Ronan snorts, but the sound is thin. He opens his mouth?—

The rear door of the diner bangs open behind us.

Boots hit gravel.

I glance back just as the five men he was at the bar with pour out. Must be Ronan’s crew. One adjusts a ring on his swollen knuckle. Another grins, tongue running along his teeth like he’s already tasting blood.

But I shift my weight, jaw tightening. Five on three. We’ve had worse. I lean just a little closer to Walker and Ridge, sizing up the other men. “We can take those fuckers,” I mutter. “I’ll swing first.”

“No doubt,” Ridge says grimly, cracking his neck. “But we take them here, and it’s gonna bleed inside. Sophia’s in there.”

That’s all it takes.

I turn back to Ronan. “You’re done here. You hear me? Don’t show your face again, or we’ll bury your sorry ass so deep in this town’s dirt, even the worms’ll be scared to touch you.”

Ronan’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t move.

The diner door creaks open behind us. An older couple steps out. The man squints into the dusk, taking in the squared shoulders and the twitchy fingers.

“This ain’t the place for whatever this is,” he commands. “Y’all wanna throw down, take it to the canyon. Not where folks are eatin’ their supper.”

No one moves. Walker is still locked on to Ronan like a loaded gun with no safety.

Ronan lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of causing trouble,” he says, all syrup and smirk. “Just sayin’ hi to some old friends.”

“Then you said it,” I growl. “Now get the fuck outta here. ”

The older couple moves on toward their car.

Ronan eyes me, then Ridge, then Walker. Doesn’t say another word. Just turns and heads for his truck, his little pack of bootlickers trailing after him.

Walker takes a step forward, fury in every inch of him as he clenches his hands into fists.

Ridge grabs his arm. “Not now.”

Ronan chuckles low. “See you boys real soon.”

The engine roars to life, and their truck peels out in a spray of gravel and dust, leaving the air thick with exhaust and threat.

We watch them go.

Silence settles.

I spit to the side, glaring after them. “Next time, we don’t let them leave on their feet.”

Walker nods once. Ridge doesn’t say anything but just stares into the dark, jaw clenched.

We need to tell Sophia.

But not tonight.

Tonight, we let her believe the world is still safe.

For now.

As we head back inside, I catch sight of Sophia. She’s laughing at something June said, completely oblivious to the storm gathering around her. But that’s okay.

We’ll handle the storm. That’s what Alphas do for their Omegas.

Even if this one doesn’t know she’s ours yet.