Page 72 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

I discovered Tammy by the compost pit, holding her palm and unleashing a string of Earth expletives that our language processors were still working to categorize. Some appeared to involve deities and reproductive functions in combinations that made little biological sense.

“Goddamn mother-fucking piece of—” She looked up, noticing my approach. “Oh, Vantor. Just got a splinter the size of Kansas in my hand from the damn shovel handle. I try to do one thing, and I screw it up.”

I was at her side in an instant, assessing for serious damage. Her palm displayed a puncture where a wooden shard had embedded itself in her soft skin. Blood welled up around it—such a vivid red, so different from my own bluish fluid.

“Allow me,” I said, not waiting for permission before taking her hand in mine.

I pressed a suction cup to her injury, the one disguised as a fingerprint on my human thumb. Automatic extraction protocol engaged, and I felt the wood fragment dislodge into my specialized collection pouch. I held up the splinter—two centimeters of jagged wood—examined it briefly, then discarded it.

“Injury contained,” I informed her, then pressed a different digit to her wound.

“What are you—” she began but went silent as I released a small amount of healing gel, sliding it across her damaged skin.

“Antiseptic, coagulant, and cellular regeneration compound,” I explained. “Standard field medical treatment.”

Tammy stared at her palm where a thin, slightly iridescent film now covered the wound. “That’s... actually pretty cool. Thanks.”

It was then that she noticed Hoover, who had remained remarkably still throughout the procedure.

“Um, Vantor? You’ve got a raccoon on your shoulder.”

“Yes. This is Hoover. He presented a security threat initially but has since been tamed by my superior combat skills.”

A laugh burst from her, bright and genuine. “It’s just a trash panda. They’re basically the least threatening thing out here, unless you count how they’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down.”

As if to prove her point, Hoover chose that moment to leap from my shoulder and dart away with what I now realized was a button from my shirt clutched in his paws.

Tammy grinned. “See? Told you.”

I frowned at the retreating form of my newly named companion. “It is an absurd creature.” Even to my own ears, my tone sounded saddened that the “trash panda” had left me.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be back. Especially if you feed it next time.” Tammy soothed with a smile. “Though, that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do. They’re greedy little monsters.” Her tone suggested amusement rather than censure.

“I will carry substance in my human pants pockets so I am ready,” I decided aloud, already planning which foods might appeal to a creature with such tactical prowess.

Tammy’s lips quirked upward as she looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite decode, but which made my core temperature rise by no less than two degrees. “You know what, Van? You’re kind of adorable for a big scary alien.”

I wasn’t entirely certain what “adorable” signified in this context, but the way her eyes softened when she said it made me hope it was a warrior’s compliment of the highest order.

The air shifted before I heard their footsteps—Cyro and Kalith approaching rapidly from different directions, drawn by Tammy’s earlier cry. They emerged from behind different outbuildings, their human disguises perfect except for the telltale flush creeping up their necks—a bleeding through of our natural coloration that happened when emotions ran high. I recognized the hues immediately: the deep teal of Cyro’s concern mixed with primal impulses, while Kalith’s skin showed faint traces of forest green jealousy. I didn’t need to see my own skin to know similar colors were betraying me. They both halted, taking in the sight of my hand still gently holding Tammy’s, my body positioned protectively close to hers.

“We heard shouting,” Cyro said, his metallic-sheened eyes darting between us. “A threat?”

“Injury,” I replied tersely, not stepping away from Tammy. “Contained.”

Kalith moved closer, his gaze fixed on where my healing secretion glistened on Tammy’s palm. “You used biological assistance?” Frustration flickered across his face, as if he were irritated that he hadn’t been the one to aid her.

I felt an unfamiliar possessiveness surge through me. On our home world, we shared everything—resources, discoveries, even mates. But here, with Tammy, something primitive and territorial awakened in me. I wanted to step between her and my companions, to declare a claim I had no right making.

Then she exhaled softly, and everything changed.

Her scent—that “Omega” biological signature that was more potent than anything I’d encountered in all my many star cycles of living—bloomed in the air between us. Sweet, intoxicating, like the electric flowering sea anemones that bloomed once a century in our deepest trenches. I inhaled involuntarily, drawing it deep into my specialized olfactory chambers.

My companions did the same, their pupils dilating visibly even in their human forms. Cyro’s neck flushed more intensely, patches of iridescent pastels breaking through his disguise. Kalith’s fingers twitched at his sides, a small tendril of deep green temporarily replacing his pinky finger before he regained control.

Our bodies responded immediately, releasing our own musk—what humans might call “Alpha” pheromones—into the air. The chemicals mixed with Tammy’s scent, creating a brand-new experience. It was heady and rich, making my blood rush hot and fast through my veins.

As if drawn by an invisible current, we all moved closer to her. I stepped forward first, Cyro and Kalith flanking me, our movements unconsciously synchronized as they had been during countless missions. Tammy’s eyes widened, darting between us as she took one step back, then another, until her shoulders met the weathered wall of the outbuilding.