Page 8 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

SOPHIA

I stand in my fairy-tale cottage, trying to process the last twelve hours. This morning I was in Chicago, thinking I’d sign some papers and be home by the weekend. Now I’m living in Montana with three cowboys who make my body burn like it hasn’t gotten the memo that I’m doing just fine on my own.

My phone buzzes. A text from my bestie, Meredith.

Signs of life? Do I need to send a search party?

I text her back.

Survived. Long story. Can I call you?

Her response comes in seconds.

About to jump on a Zoom call for work. Will call you once done.

So I unpack quickly, needing something normal and routine to ground me.

Laptop, chargers, the silk pajamas that are wildly inappropriate for ranch life but that I packed anyway.

Once everything is in its place, I feel marginally more human.

Though I’ll seriously need more clothes and toiletries if I’m actually going to live here for three months.

Maybe I can make a quick trip home? If someone’s willing to lend me a car. That wouldn’t break the contract… right?

I start wandering around the guesthouse, and it’s not what I expected.

From the outside, it’s a charming little wooden cabin with whitewashed panels and flowers along the front yard, like it belongs on a greeting card.

Inside, it’s cozy in that lived-in, well-loved way.

Not overly modern, but not a time capsule either.

The kind of place where someone once cared about the details.

The entry opens into a small lounge with a plaid couch, a rug with horses galloping across it, and a little brick fireplace.

To the left is a kitchenette with cheerful yellow cabinets and an honest-to-God mint-green fridge that hums like it’s survived five generations and a few heat waves.

Down the short hallway, I find a snug bedroom with soft linens and a quilt folded neatly at the end of the bed.

The bathroom is clean and bright, smelling faintly of lavender soap.

I pause at the back door and peer through the window.

A tiny brown bunny is hopping lazily through a vegetable patch just beyond the porch, pausing to sniff the air.

Its nose twitches like it’s caught me watching, and in a blink, it darts away under the fence, white tail flashing like a retreating puffball.

I press a smile to my lips. Cute. Unexpected.

And maybe a small sign that this place isn’t out to chew me up and spit me out after all.

Then I find the last room and… it steals my breath.

A miniature library.

The walls are lined with shelves, some crammed full, others half stacked with books lying sideways or tucked in at odd angles.

Light filters in through a wide window, and nestled in the corner is the coziest reading nook I’ve ever seen.

A hanging bamboo chair curled like a crescent moon, with a plush mauve cushion practically purring my name.

Okay, universe. I get it.

I backtrack to the kitchen, find a cold lemonade soda waiting in the fridge like some small miracle, and then hurry to grab my laptop, phone, and charger from the bedroom.

My arms are full, wires tangled, soda tucked awkwardly under my chin as I half stumble, half slide into the library nook.

There’s a power outlet behind the seat, and I quickly plug in my laptop.

The suspended chair wobbles dramatically, swinging just enough to make me yelp, but somehow I manage to settle in cross-legged, tech gear piled around me like I’m preparing for battle.

The chair sways slightly, but it’s comfortable. Absurdly so. The cushion cocoons me in just the right way, and for the first time since I landed in this dusty town, something inside me eases.

I pull out my laptop, open it with a soft chime, and fire up my blog. The familiar interface blooms to life in the way only something truly mine can. My little corner of the internet. This, at least, hasn’t changed.

I lean back into the cushion, legs tucked beneath me. Then my fingers find the keys as I read and reply to a few people from my last post.

I started this blog two years ago as a total shot in the dark, keeping it a secret from Nolan, my then Alpha.

Just me, no name shared, and a whole lot of frustration.

I was tired of being told what I could and couldn’t do.

Where I should go. Who I should be. What I should feel.

And the worst part? Most of those opinions didn’t even come from other Omegas.

Just people telling us how we ought to behave for our own good.

So I did something a little rebellious that no one knew about, except my bestie.

I made a space for Omegas. For anyone who needed it, really.

I wanted to share my life as it happened—the awkward parts, the messy bits, the painful ones too.

And in return, others started sharing their stories.

Omegas from all over. Some scared. Some furious.

Some who just wanted to feel like they weren’t the only ones questioning the old rules.

We’re not a huge demographic, but we’ve got experiences worth telling.

And apparently, a lot of people want to listen.

The blog has just under fifty thousand followers now, which still blows my mind. Most are Omegas, sure, but some have outed themselves in the comments as Betas. Even a few brave Alphas. Surprisingly respectful too. No unsolicited scent matches or mating proposals. Yet.

There’s something kind of magical about that. This odd little patch of internet land where everyone is just… decent. Curious. Supportive. Sometimes snarky. Sometimes sad. Always real.

Leaning back, I breathe easy and start typing, unsure of exactly what I want to say.

C onfessions of a City Omega

In Which Our Heroine Discovers Cowboys Are Real and Very Distracting

Dearest Diary,

Remember how I always said I’d never leave Chicago? Well, surprise! Your girl is currently sitting in what can only be described as a Pinterest board come to life, in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere, Montana.

Why, you ask? Inheritance drama. Long story. The short version is I now own a ranch. Yes, you read that correctly. Me. Owner of actual land with actual animals.

But let’s talk about the REAL issue here. Cowboys. Not the Halloween costume kind. Real ones. With the hats and the boots and the way they say “ma’am” like it’s stitched into their DNA—it’s honestly unfair to the rest of us.

Current survival status:

Found good coffee (critical)

Located bakery with life-changing Portuguese tarts (extra critical)

Survived an attempted murder on me by livestock (barely)

May have accidentally inherited three Alpha cowboys along with the ranch (help)

The guesthouse they’ve put me up in looks like something out of a fairy tale. I’m literally sitting in a hanging chair in a reading nook, surrounded by books and definitely not thinking about the cowboys. Nope. Not thinking about them at all.

Send wine. Send chocolate. Send a guide on How to Not Develop Feelings for Cowboys Who Technically Work for You but Also Kind of Don’t.

Will report back tomorrow if I survive.

City Omega out. (From the country. The irony isn’t lost on me.)

I post it, and within minutes, it gets likes and comments from my regular readers. The familiar ritual of engagement soothes something in me. At least this part of my life hasn’t changed.

My phone suddenly rings. Meredith.

I answer immediately.

“Hey, I’m back,” she says. “Zoom call from hell is over, I’ve got wine in hand, and I just reread your blog post. So I’m double caffeinated, slightly tipsy, and triple needy for details. Spill. How’s the trip?”

I let out a long breath. “Well, remember how this was supposed to be a quick one? Sign some papers, come home?”

“Yeah?”

“Plot twist. I have to live here for three months, or I lose the inheritance.”

Dead silence. Then: “WHAT?”

“Right? And there are three Alpha cowboys who basically already live here and thought they were buying the place. So now I’m the evil city witch squatting in their home.”

“Okay, okay, slow down. Three Alpha cowboys? Sophia Marie Hollis, why would you bury the lead like this?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Tell me what they’re like. Scale of gas-station calendar to Marvel movie.”

I groan into my hand. “Marvel movie. Possibly the director’s cut with bonus footage. Very high-definition.”

“SOPHIA.”

“I know. And one of them I’m certain already dislikes me. Another one may dislike my scent. I’m living in a fairy-tale cottage, and I found the world’s best Portuguese tarts, so maybe I’ll just stress-eat myself into a coma and hope the problem solves itself. ”

“Breathe. This is spiral thinking. What did your therapist say?”

I inhale through my nose and count to four. “You’re right. I’m okay. This is manageable. Completely fine.”

“Important question. Are any of them single?”

“Mer!”

“What? It’s a practical question. You’re stuck there for three months with three hot cowboys. The universe is writing you a romance novel, and you’re ignoring the plot.”

“The universe needs an editor. These guys think I’m stealing their legacy. Romance isn’t even in the prologue.”

“Mm-hmm. What do they smell like?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“You can’t smell them through the phone. That’s the one upside to long distance. Just tell Auntie Mer.”

I sigh. “Sage and coffee. Cedar and cinnamon. Honey and fresh bread.”

“O. M. G. You’re living in a damn bakery. And they’re all single?”

“I don’t know! I’ve only known them for less than twelve hours!”

“Enough hours of smelling like a Williams Sonoma catalog. Girl, your ovaries must be writing poetry.”

“My ovaries are drafting their resignation letter. One more whiff and they’ll unionize.”

I shift in the hanging chair, trying not to smile, but it’s impossible with Meredith. “How’s your mom? ”

“Doing better. Hip surgery went great. She’s already bossing around the nurses, so clearly she’s on the mend.”

“Good. Tell her I said hi.”

Another pause. Then her voice softens. “You sure you’re okay? This is a lot. Way more than the plan.”

“I don’t really have a choice. I need the money, Mer. Nolan’s accounts are basically dry, and it’s not like he let me have a job. I only started my freelancing gig after he passed. I’m surprised he even left me the ranch inheritance. So I’ve got to make this work.”

“You could ask your parents for help.”

“Right. Let me just call them up and say, ‘Hey, remember how I didn’t try hard enough to make Nolan happy? And then after he died, you sent me all those guilt texts? Well, now I need a loan.’?”

“They don’t really believe you didn’t try.” Her voice dips low.

“They never said it, not directly. But they didn’t have to. Dad barely looks at me when I go over, and Mom only calls when he’s out of the house. She checks in, but she’s too scared to cross him. And honestly? I think they were just relieved when Nolan died. Now they don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Meredith sighs. “They’re wrong. And you’re doing your best.”

“Yeah, well, my best is currently avoiding eye contact with guys who could break the internet with one smolder. ”

“Again, you say this like it’s a bad thing.”

I glance out the window where the last of the sunlight casts long shadows across the ranch. The guesthouse feels quieter now, the kind of quiet that dares you to unpack your thoughts.

“I should probably go,” I say, my voice softer now. “Spotted some yogurt and fruit in the fridge and I’m planning to raid the pantry like a raccoon in silk pajamas.”

Mer snorts. “Sexy.”

“You know it.”

“Well, I’ll let you hide for the rest of the night, then. But if you need help clearing out your place back home or packing more of your things, just say the word. I’ve got a duffel bag, two working arms, and an unhealthy love for bubble wrap.”

“Thanks.” My throat tightens, but I smile. “You’re the best.”

“Damn right I am. Now go eat your raccoon dinner, and try not to fall in love with any more emotionally unavailable cowboys.”

“No promises.”

“Love you, Soph.”

“Love you more.”

I hang up and let the silence settle. For a moment, it’s just me, the soft hum of the fridge, and the slow sway of the hanging chair.

And maybe, just maybe, things will start to make sense tomorrow.