Page 26 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

I think… I was inked.

Consciousness returned in painful increments, each sensation more unpleasant than the last.

First came the throbbing behind my eyes, a rhythmic pounding that matched the frantic beat of my heart. Then the burning in my throat, raw and scratchy as if I'd swallowed sandpaper, its grit made of sea salt. The taste in my mouth was worse—metallic and bitter, with an underlying flavor so alien my brain couldn't even categorize it. So… alien…

I pried my eyelids open to find the world tilted sideways, my cheek pressed against the sun-warmed ground of my own front yard. I blinked, adjusting to the brightness of the world. Why the hell was I on the ground in front of the porch?

For one merciful moment, my foggy brain couldn't recall recent events. I must have been drunk off my ass—drunker than ever, two shots away from alcohol poisoning—to end up face down in the dirt.

Flattening my palms into the gravelly surface below me, I pushed up. I had to pause every few inches. It felt like I was on a tilt-a-whirl, one that was moving far too fast. Every move I made quickened the spins.

When I finally was on my feet, albeit swaying, my eyes refused to completely focus. I blinked rapidly, eventually realizing that I didn’t have my dang glasses on.

“So weird,” I muttered, rubbing one hand down my face, trying to chase away lingering confusion.

When I pulled my hand back, despite hazy vision, I could tell that my palm was coated in a dark, powdery residue.

Memory slammed into me with the rib-fracturing force of a freight train. My stomach churned, and I spat into the grass, desperate to rid my mouth of the gross lingering taste of ocean water, blood, and something rotten. Dark speckles dotted the ground where I'd spit, remnants of that inky substance one of the crazy ass creatures had shot at me.

Tentacles. So many tentacles.

Pulsing, damp bodies that changed color.

"No," I croaked, my voice a ragged whisper. "No, no, no."

It couldn’t be real, could it?

I turned around, legs feeling like gelatin, and I beelined for the porch stairs. I stumbled up them, crossing the few feet to the front door, and then pushed into the house. Thankfully, I was familiar enough with the house’s layout that even blindfolded, I could find my way around. Moments later, I was in the kitchen where I had a spare set of glasses stuffed in the junk drawer. I grabbed them, pushing them onto my face and immediately racing back outside.

Though I already knew what I would see, my eyes landed on the supply barn—that listing structure I'd been meaning to fix for months. Wisps of that odd, lavender smoke which had spilled from the spaceship before the creatures emerged rose from the center of the wreckage. I could almost pretend that the thin ribbons quickly dispersing in the light breeze didn’t exist. And if they didn’t exist, then the weird, inking octopi monsters also didn’t exist. And, in that case, the barn was totally fine.

Unfortunately, reality refused me my delusions.

The purple didn’t fade fast enough. I had no time to convince myself.

"It was all real," I whispered, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "They were real.” I glanced down at my filthy palm. “And one freaking inked me!”

A frantic whinny cut through the morning air, jerking my attention away from the barn wreckage. My head snapped around so fast that pain lanced down my neck. The sound came again—a distressed horse, but not from the paddock where Mystery and Sassafras were kept. This came from the far pasture, where Artie, my elderly Appaloosa, spent his retirement days. That made no sense. If everything that happened last night and this morning was real, then that meant I’d stabled the horses last night. They should be safe, not out in the open.

Through the morning haze, I spotted movement in Artie's pasture. Three figures, too tall and too fluid to be human, advancing on my old horse. Their bodies rippled with color in the sunlight—vibrant blues, purples, and browns shifting across surfaces that glistened with moisture. Tentacles extended from what passed for torsos, reaching toward Artie, who backed away with another panicked whinny. I may be scared out of my wits, but I’d be damned if those squid mutants hurt my horse.

"Get away from him!" I shouted, though the words emerged as a hoarse croak that wouldn't carry half the distance to the pasture.

A surge of protective rage swept through me, clearing the last cobwebs from my brain. Artie was twenty-three years old, practically ancient in horse years, with arthritis in his hocks and cataracts clouding his once-bright eyes. He'd been part of the ranch when I bought it, and I'd promised the previous owners I'd give him a peaceful retirement. He wasn't like Mystery and Sassafras—valuable breeding stock that represented my financial future. Artie was family, a gentle soul who'd earned his quiet golden years.

Without hesitation, I scrambled toward the barn ruins, my boots slipping on the dew-slick grass. It was all real. All real. And that meant the pitchfork I’d held in my ‘dream’ was somewhere inside the rubble. If I couldn’t find it, then I’d get the nail-riddled two-by-four again.

Once again in the middle of the destruction, doing my best to ignore the gleaming, dented UFO at the center of the mess, I searched. In passing, I wondered how the aliens had made the barn look unharmed last night. Some sort of illusion technology? I’d dropped the pitchfork devil-may-care on what seemed to be the empty ground. My hands trembled with a mixture of fear and determination as I began pulling aside pieces of wood and twisted metal. Splinters jabbed into my palms, but I barely felt the pain through the adrenaline surging through my system.

"Come on, come on," I muttered, tossing aside a chunk of broken rafter.

My scent shifted as panic and protectiveness flooded my system. The normally sweet, slightly floral notes that marked me as an Omega darkened to something sharper and acidic—a biological warning system that shit was hitting the fan. Even to my own nose, the change was startling, a tangible manifestation of my fear and rage.

Another distressed neigh from Artie's pasture sent my hands scrambling faster through the debris. My fingers were bleeding by the time they closed around something solid. I pulled hard, revealing the snapped shaft of one of my shovels. Not good enough. I’d have to get too close to the outer space interlopers. I moved on, digging through the wreckage like a woman possessed.

"Please," I whispered, not sure who I was begging—God, fate, the universe—just that I needed help. My horse needed help. If they hurt Artie, I’d kill them.

Finally, mercifully, a pitchfork revealed itself. Not the one from last night—this one was older, its wooden handle worn smooth by years of use. The metal tines were dulled with age but still pointed enough to give those creatures pause if I jabbed with enough force. The newer pitchfork seemed to have vanished into thin air.