Page 23 of The Cowboy and the Stray

Sloane pulled up beside me, her dark fur painted silver by the moonlight. We ran shoulder to shoulder, matched stride for stride, our heartbeats synchronizing effortlessly. She cut me a look, her pale eyes swirling with fierce pride and something quieter, deeper. I understood without her needing to make a sound. This was what it meant to be a pack. Not just furred bodies running together under a generous moon, but a single soul split between many skins. A family in all the ways that mattered, bound tight by something thicker than water or ink on a deed. This was what I was built to protect.

The knowledge settled in my chest, solid and certain as the bedrock beneath our paws. I was alpha. They were mine to lead, to guard, to guide. And they would follow where I led, trust in my strength and my wisdom to see them through whatever trials lay ahead, be they mundane as failing fences or perilous as trespassers with cruel intentions. We stood as one, immutable. And I would die before I let one of them fall.

Too soon, the horses stomped in the distance, our romping circuit bringing us looping back around. I sneezed, a wolf's sigh, reluctant to let the wild magic of the night slip away. The others milled around me, tongues lolling and tails drooping, fighting the same melancholy. The tug of duty, of all the lives that needed living behind human masks, dragged at us. The world always found a way to call us back in.

We shifted back, bones and sinew and skin flowing like molten wax until we stood on two legs once more. Hands to turn keys and light lamps. Mouths to shape careful words for tender ears. We were ranchers again, cowboys, an alpha's family. Our wolves slunk back to curl, unseen, in the shadowed corners of our hearts. Hidden. But never gone.

I thought of Tess, waiting oblivious up at the big house. Of the fences and faucets and fixtures that always needed mending, the hats we had to wear for the human world.

We were werewolves in cowboy clothing, we'd guard our pack with smiles and silence and the occasional tall tale of unruly cattle, slipped like a bone sop to those who prodded too close. Keep the secret. Keep the pack safe.

12. TESS

Dawn was still a rumor on the horizon when I rolled out of bed. I'd been here for weeks and hadn't gotten used to hearing them arrive home from the fields well past midnight, the sounds carrying clearly to my room. Even Midge's lamp had been burning when I finally drifted off. How did they do it on so little sleep?

As I made my bed and brushed my teeth, I thought about the long day, they'd all put in and an idea sparked. I'd make breakfast. My cooking had been a joke since I'd arrived, but I was determined to pull off a meal that didn't end in smoke or embarrassment.

If I could pull this off, maybe Calder and the others would start seeing me as more than a charity case. Maybe I’d start seeing myself that way, too. I'd tried so hard to prove myself useful on the ranch. Now it was time to show I could be useful in the kitchen.

I tied my hair back, rolled up my sleeves, and marched down to the kitchen, a woman on a mission. How hard could it be? Just some eggs. Biscuits. Bacon.

The pan clanged on the stove with something close to optimism. This was either going to go great or end in flames.

Midge made cooking for ten look easy, and I wasn’t completely helpless. Just a little rusty. Rusty like an old tractor abandoned in a field.

I got to work with more determination than actual skill, dumping flour into a bowl and cracking eggs over the side. A puff of white dust exploded into the air, coating everything, including me. But that was fine. I was off to a solid start. I whisked and stirred and slopped batter onto the countertop. I resisted the urge to check the directions on a box. They didn’t have to be pretty biscuits, just edible ones.

Close enough was the goal here. Michelin stars were not on the line.

Bacon sizzled, and biscuit batter hit the pan with a reassuring splatter. I was doing it. Making breakfast. Like a real human adult. Maybe I’d even make coffee, just to show off. Because caffeine covered a multitude of sins.

Eggs next. That was easy. Anyone could make eggs.

Famous last words.

Instead, I tried to channel Midge, her easy confidence. I'd been here a month and hadn't seen anything rattle her. Nothing made her flinch. She'd taught me the basics of cooking, her patience unending as she had walked me through each step like I was some kind of culinary toddler. This was my chance to prove I was a fast learner, that I could be more than an extra mouth to feed. I could almost hear her gruff encouragement. Don't screw it up, girl.

No pressure.

I focused hard, measuring carefully. Added a little salt, the tiniest pinch of pepper, just like Midge had shown me. I would not let myself get distracted. Not this time. Eyes on the eggs.

I thought of the first meal I'd cooked on my own. A disaster. Everything charred, inedible. The way mom had laughed, the rare warmth of it. She’d taken me out for burgers instead, telling me practice would make perfect. The memory left a bittersweet taste, and I pushed it aside. I couldn't afford nostalgia. I couldn't afford sentiment. Especially not when the food was finally not burning.

That's when I caught sight of the quilt, folded and waiting for me to finish.

I shouldn't have picked it up. I knew that, even as I did it anyway. There were other things to focus on, other things that demanded my attention. But the quilt was right there, full of promise and history and the careful stitches I'd made.

It whispered to me of permanence, of roots. Of all the things I'd been running from since I was old enough to lace my boots.

Trying not to care how much I longed for this ranch, this family, this life I had no claim to.

Don't get attached, I warned myself. It's not yours. Don't get comfortable.

Too late. The tiny seed of hope, that stubborn flicker that wouldn't die, told a different story. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time, I'd stay.

And that was the moment the bacon caught fire. Of course it did.

I dropped the quilt and lunged for the stove. Smoke billowed out in a great choking cloud, and my optimism crumbled like the burned biscuits. Flames danced at the edges of the pan, daring me to do something about it.