Page 16 of Omega’s Fold

It’s the best morning I’ve had in a week.

I throw myself at my to-do list. By midmorning I’ve taken off my flannel shirt and hung it on the fence, and I’m down to my undershirt, and the sweat is running down my back. I don’t care. My hands are busy. My body is busy.

Maybe my head is still focusing on the alpha who slept in the room next to me last night, but my hands are busy.

At midday I’m out by the east gate, setting a new post, when I hear the rental car on the road.

I straighten. I’m a long way out, but I’m on the high ground, looking down at the ranch house below. I watch the car as it rolls up the drive and parks in its spot in the yard. The driver’s door opens and Julian gets out.

He’s got shopping bags in both hands. The thin white plastic kind from Halsey’s down on Main. I see his shoulders shift as he pulls a paper grocery sack out of the passenger side, and another one after it.

He’s been to town.

He looks around, maybe for me, maybe for anyone, then carries the bags inside. The screen door bangs shut behind him.

I could go over. I could walk up there and be a host. I could stick my head in the kitchen and say hello and be civil, and we could have a conversation like normal people, and maybe he would say thank you for letting me stay.

Maybe I would say something polite about the drive. Then we’d discuss the Bureau and what we’re going to do about it like two adults who have been matched by a federal agency without the consent of either of them.

I don’t.

I pick up my post driver, carry it to the north fence line and get back to work.

He finds me anyway.

His scent reaches me first.

It is not fair. It is not fair that a person can walk up behind you across a stretch of open ground and simply smell so good that your knees want to give way. I shut my eyes for one second. I open them again. I drive the post down.

“Wyatt.”

“Mm.”

“Do you have a minute?”

I set the driver down against the post. I turn.

He’s in a fresh shirt. His hair is a little damp, like he washed his face before he came to find me. He’s holding his phone in one hand.

I look at the phone. It’s easier than looking at his face.

“Go on.”

“I need to talk to you about the internet situation.” He clears his throat. “I can’t work from here without a connection. I can’t make that work on my phone, and my cell signal is —” He gestures vaguely at the ridge. “So I would like to install a satellite dish. They’ve said they can do an emergency installation. They can come out tomorrow.”

I look at him.

He continues, “I’ll pay for the installation. I’ll pay for the monthly service. For as long as it runs. Or past that, if you want to keep it on after I leave. It’s yours either way. Is that okay with you?”

I swallow. “Sure.”

He pauses. I think he was expecting more of an argument.

“I need to pick somewhere high up for the dish,” he says. “Maybe the roof?”

I shrug.

“Any preference?”