Page 59 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

Instead of going to the house, I directed my slow approach to the stables. The large wooden structure stood solid and familiar, offering shade and solitude. At this time of day, even Wyatt wouldn't be out here yet. He usually came at dawn to muck thestalls and talk to the horses, finding his own form of therapy in the manual labor and quiet companionship.

Cooler shadows enveloped me as I stepped inside the stables, and I instantly relaxed at the familiar scent of horses and hay. I walked the central aisle slowly, gazing into each stall, seeing which horses were taking an afternoon breather from prancing in the pastures.

Duck’s stall was empty, so was Bowser’s. No Behaichi, Puck, or Samos either.

I moved deeper into the stables and found the one creature taking advantage of the shadows—the striking Arabian that belonged to our nonexistent Omega. The rear gate of the mare’s stall was swung wide, giving her access to the connected paddock. Her creamy coat and white mane seemed to catch the sunlight, becoming mother-of-pearl. She was stunning, well trained now, but she had no official name, no rider. How long had we had her now? Almost ten months now?

When she’d first arrived, the mare had lit a fire in us all. She was just the first new member of our Sagebrush family, a second would be here soon. Time both froze and rushed forward simultaneously back then. We became stuck in the reality of ‘now’ and ‘tomorrow’.

And then tomorrow began to fade.

The fire grew cooler.

We know knew Eros’s confidence in their process was just a convincing sales pitch. The matching process wasn't going to be quick or easy. Now, we worried the process would never end, never produce a final product.

Product…

That was one thing I couldn’t digest, that term Eros used in the paperwork. No living creature was an item. No living creature could truly be owned. I sure as hell hoped the institutelived up to that female Beta’s words—that Omegas in their database were valued and respected, treated with care.

"Hey, Ghost," I murmured, my voice rough from days of disuse. It was just a temporary nickname. It fit not only her appearance, but the fact that she was purchased for someone who didn’t exist, and maybe never would.

Ghost watched me with liquid brown eyes as I approached. She padded forward, stretching her neck over the half-door of her stall. She’d really settled in at Sagebrush and didn't shy away from my scent or my mood. I reached out, tracing a hand down her velvety nose. Her skin twitched beneath my touch, but she leaned into it, wanting more. Something in my chest loosened a fraction.

When I turned to move on, she whinnied, stopping me in my tracks. I looked back to find her watching me expectantly.

"Demanding, aren't you?" I said, the corner of my mouth lifting in what felt like the first genuine smile in months. “I knew you’d get spoiled. All of us giving you treats every day.”

I went over to the airtight container and snagged a sugar cube. I held it out to her on my palm, and she delicately made it disappear, her whiskers tickling my skin.

As if he had a sixth sense about food, just like his owner, Puck clomped into his stall and stuck his head over the gate. He stared at me, daring me not to share the wealth. People say dogs start resembling their owners, but horses were just as bad. Puck and Cooper were peas in a pod. Silly, playful, and always focused on eating. I got a second sugar cube, satisfied the greedy horse, and swiped my now slobbery hand down my dirty pants. Puck, unlike Ghost, was not an elegant eater.

I drifted toward the back of the stable where an empty stall waited. The hay inside needed changing; its scent was sharper, more fermented than fresh cut. I was too bent on avoiding the house to care. I stepped inside, suddenly becoming aware ofthe bone-deep exhaustion flooding through me. Seven days of sleeping on hard ground had taken its toll, not to mention a couple of those nights were spent with one eye open. I might respect the bear, and enjoy its company, but I didn’t trust it enough to rest soundly beside it.

Sliding down the curved log wall, my ass hit the musty hay. The wood pressing into my body was solid and grounding. I let my head tilt back with a soft thud, then closed my eyes.

I stretched one leg out flat, bending the other at the knee to prop my arm on it. The position pulled at the fresh wound on my leg, but I welcomed the sting, made me feel alive. Besides, I’d had far worse injuries. This was just the result of a brief fight with a barbed wire fence. Damage wasn’t too deep, thankfully, but deep enough to need attention. My pack would raise hell about, once again trying to convince me to stop the solo camping trips. Their worry always fell on deaf ears. I could handle myself.

I’d cleansed it best I could from a stream and packed it with the dried fungus powder stashed in my hip bag. The puffball mushrooms had been a lucky find a few months back. Most people just saw them as something to kick, watching them explode in a cloud of spores. But my grandmother had taught me better. They were food when young and firm, medicine when mature and powdery. Drying them and crushing them had taken me back to my childhood and given me a treatment that was not only antibacterial and anti-inflammatory but also worked better than any store-bought styptic powder. Once the bleeding stopped, I'd applied on the adhesive suture bandage, tugging the sides of the damage together, and kept going. It was no big deal.

Sounds washed over me—horses shifting their weight, the occasional soft nicker, the sounds of an engine cranking up outside. Not a vehicle. Plow maybe. The hay beneath me crackled as I shifted my weight, reaching down to pull out a stick beneath my right ass cheek.That was better.Quiet scurryingsounds above my head, told me deer mice had gotten up into the stable’s beams again. I’d sort that later.

So. Damn. Tired.

I’d felt drained for the last eleven months. Plagued by the kind of exhaustion that made you wonder if it was worth getting up in the morning.

Ever since Eros. The paperwork. The needles.

Nearly a year of waiting for an Omega match, of watching my pack brothers struggle against the same primal urges that clawed my insides. Nearly a year of feeling the wildness in my blood grow stronger and harder to control.

I wasn't built for waiting. None of us were. But what choice did we have?

I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling the sparse stubble that had accumulated during my time away. Cooper used to give me grief about the way my facial hair came in, like a teen boy entering puberty. I didn’t have a lot of body hair either. Cooper didn’t make fun of that though. He’d discovered early on in our relationship the ease of cleaning up a glossy, hairless chest after dripping hot wax on it. I found myself smiling with my eyes closed, Cooper’s face illuminated by candlelight formed in my mind.

I was grateful for little memories like that, ones that chased away the emptiness and anger.

My father taught me to keep the storm inside where it couldn't hurt anyone but myself."A man who can't control his anger isn't a man at all,"he'd told me once, after I'd gotten into a fight on the reservation."He's just an animal wearing human skin."

When the animal came to the surface, I did everything to push it back down. I retreated into nature. I stripped my clothing, ran until my legs gave out, and shouted into the wind. Ibegged to be relieved of the burden that was becoming too heavy to bear.