Page 21 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

“Ah, yes, Alpha two, Sagebrush Pack.” She nodded.

“Alpha… two?”

“Yes, yes. Five in total. Correct? We need to finish a few bits of paperwork and then we can gather our samples. We’ll try to not take up much of your day. I’m sure,” she looked around again, her nostrils flaring perceptibly, “it takes a lot of time to upkeep a place like this.” She sniffed lightly, eyes moving back to me. “So many animals.”

I felt Tater’s body tense. I reached down and stroked his back, where the hair now stood on end.

“Look, Lady, I don’t know why the hell you’re here, but you can just pack up and leave before I?—”

“Can’t possibly leave. You’ve already paid. Balls already rolling.” She thrummed her fingers against her briefcase.

“Don’t know what fucking ball you’re talking about, Lady, but I didn’t touch it.” My hands tried to ball into fists again, but the constraints of the pants only allowed me to curve fingers and dig nails into the thin pocket lining.

“Well, I’m sure everything will become crystal clear momentarily.” She gave me a pert nod of assurance.

“Welcome to Sagebrush Ranch!” A voice, yelling at the top of its lungs, beat me to saying something very unfriendly. My mouth dropped when I found Cooper standing on our front stoop, this time in a shirt, jeans, and no shoes, waving like a maniac at us. When he saw we were both looking, he pointed at the house and gave a double thumbs up. The dogs relaxed at the sound of Coop’s cheerfulness. To my annoyance, they loped away from me and towards the house, no longer on alert.

The suited Beta glanced over at her associates and clicked her fingers, before pointing towards the rambler. She began walking, struggling across the uneven ground once more. I glared at Cooper, who looked a little too proud of himself, and I began stalking towards the rambler.

What the hell was going on?

5

COOPER HART

Eleven months ago... Pinedale, Wyoming

Shit.

I surveyed the kitchen, frowning.

Looks like a herd of feral hogs had a fucking pancake-eating contest in here.

Moments like this—the aftermath of the frenzied eating by my less-than-cultured pack mates—made me understand Wyatt’s early solo hours outside. I didn’t have time to ignore the situation.

The text had come in seconds after I’d jogged back into the house from teasing Wyatt.

ETA 20 min, ahead of schedule.

Ahead of schedule was a damn understatement. They were supposed to arrive in the afternoon, two at the earliest. I’d wanted to do this whole awesome thing beforehand—have the guys sit down for an early lunch, give them the whole layout of what I’d done. Figured I’d butter them up with fresh sourdough and homemade jam. Life didn’t like to cooperate though. Well,guess I couldn’t bitch about life too much, considering the ‘randomness of life’ had saved Sagebrush.

Still pinched myself sometimes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Zero idea why Great Aunt Tootsie would leave me a literal fortune. Maybe because she was my dad’s Aunt. Maybe because it was a badly kept family secret that Dad used to beat the shit out of me. Maybe it was guilt money. I didn’t care. I’d long gotten over the broken noses and bruised ribs. I’d found shelter at Sagebrush with the Nelsons as a kid; they’d taken me in and made me family. They’d done the same for Levi. I owed this ranch a lot, so even if the piles of cash were blood money, that didn’t matter if it saved the place I cared most about in the world.

And if it let me buy all the random shit I wanted.

And if it let me get the ball rolling on the monumental surprise I’d planned for my pack.

The surprise I was just about to spring on them.

I darted between the round dining table and the counter to relocate the soiled dishes, then I used my entire right arm to swipe crumbs off the scratched oak table. The floor was filthy, but I didn’t have time to make everything spotless. Like a madman, I raced back to the sink and slammed on the tap. I didn’t bother to wait for warm water or for the mineralized brown to clear from the well, I just started rinsing things in one side of the split sink and settling everything in a neat pile on the other side. When that was done, I began shoving dirty cookware inside my oven, mentally apologizing to the Viking which deserved better treatment. Its stovetop wasn’t terrible, a bit of bacon splatter and crusted pancake mix.

As I quickly wiped away some of the filth from the gas burners, I found myself wishing we were already in the new pack house. Unfortunately, the foundation wasn’t even poured yet. Damn contractors moving like molasses. So, for now, Icould only daydream—about a farm sink, giant curving island, and large capacity dishwasher. Someone could whisper ‘second fridge’ in my ear, and I’d instantly get hard. I’d hit pause on buying things for the new kitchen…mostly. Wyatt recently had a hissy fit about our closets being at capacity. I was equal parts dreading and excited to see his face when the giant professional espresso machine arrived. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned renting the storage container, seeing as he’d immediately shot it down. It was always better to do first and ask for forgiveness later.

When the top of the Viking was passably clean, I grabbed wet wipes and started swiping off the counters, further dirtying the floor. Maybe I could open the back door and call the dogs inside? Tripp and Tater would make quick work of licking the floor clean. They were usually dozing in the pasture in the morning, always guarding the livestock. One sharp whistle would bring them racing here. The blue heeler would outrun the Anatolian shepherd, as always, but what he lacked in speed, Tater made up for in sheer size and muscle. That dog had saved our herd more than once.

As I was heading to do just that, Boone’s deep voice hollered through the house. “Someone’s coming up the drive!”

I was out of time. Had it really already been twenty minutes of frantic cleaning?