by Beau Brown
After a moment, Nathan nodded and went inside the house. From Arthur’s office, he phoned the Sweet Water Sheriff’s Department, and spoke to Ross McClintock, watching Thompson through the window. He had dropped the duffle bag and knapsack and stood, hands on his lean hips, studying the old barn. Probably wondering what he had let himself in for. And for fifty bucks a week? If he had any sense, he’d keep walking.
Nathan shook his head, listening to Ross.
“I’ve known Wes fifteen years. He’s one of the good guys, Nathan. You can trust him to do whatever needs doing.”
He’s one of us, that’s what Ross meant. Tribe. Or, as some people—non-tribe—liked to say, throwback. You were either born with it or you weren’t. Most people weren’t.
“He’s not from around here. He’s not from Sweet Water.”
“No. He’s originally from Waco.”
As references went, it left something to be desired. Heck, as introductions went, it left something to be desired. Nathan protested, “What’s he doing all the way out here?”
Ross said casually, “He just needs to lay low for a while. Get away from everyone and everything. You know how it is.”
Well, no. Nathan didn’t. Nathan was a sheltered young omega who had gone from living with his eccentric and slightly reclusive father to marrying Arthur Swan, who was equally eccentric in his own way. Nathan had never traveled beyond McLennan County, except in books and movies. Arthur had always talked about traveling, about showing Nathan the world beyond Sweet Water, but they had never got around to it—and now Arthur was gone and Nathan was widowed and alone and starting to feel a little desperate.
Into his silence, Ross said, “You’ll be helping each other. You can’t deny you need someone.”
“No, I can’t deny that.” Nathan added doubtfully, “He doesn’t seem much like a ranch hand though.”
“He grew up on a ranch. Same as me. Don’t worry about that. There’s nothing you can throw at him, Wes won’t be able to handle.”
That, Nathan could believe. He eyed Thompson through the office window. Tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged. Wes Thompson looked strong and capable. More, he seemed to have the quiet confidence of someone who knew just how strong and capable he was.
Still.
“He’s not in Witness Protection or anything, is he?”
Ross chuckled. “Nope. Like I said, he’s one of the good guys. I think you two will get along just fine. Trust me.”
“I do. So…okay. I’ll let him know he’s hired. And thanks, Ross.”
“No problem, kiddo.”
After Nathan hung up, he continued to watch Wes Thompson through the office window. Thompson looked relaxed, as though he were in no doubt as to the outcome of Nathan’s phone call.
When he stepped out onto the porch again, Thompson turned at once, as though he sensed Nathan’s presence—though Nathan had made no sound.
“Okay?” Thompson smiled, a brief flash of white teeth in his dark face.
Nathan nodded. “Okay. Room and board and fifty bucks a week for as long as…” He wasn’t sure how long.
Thompson said, “For as long as it’s agreeable to both of us?”
“Right. Yes.” Nathan still felt oddly uncertain, a little defensive. Thompson was such an obvious alpha. It was unsettling. Arthur had been an alpha, but he had been so much older and then not well. But even when he’d been younger and healthier, Arthur hadn’t been so…virile. Thompson’s scent was amazing, distracting. Just standing next to him made Nathan feel flushed and a little excited.
He said briskly, “The bunkhouse is on the other side of the barn. It’s clean, but probably a little dusty. A lot dusty. There’s plenty of wood stacked along the wall if you get cold tonight.”
“I won’t get cold.”
“Not this time of year,” agreed Nathan. Though the desert did cool down considerably after sundown, this time of year even the nights were balmy. “There’s running water, but no hot water, so you can use the shower off the kitchen here in the house, if you like.”
“Okay.”
“Breakfast is at seven, lunch at one, dinner at six.”
“Sounds good.” Thompson shouldered his duffle bag and knapsack once more. He gave Nathan a little nod and strode off toward the barn and bunkhouse beyond.
Less than an hour later Nathan sat at Arthur’s desk paying the bills and watching Wes Thompson walking the gambrel roof as easy and surefooted as a cat. Every now and then he stopped to examine another rotten area. There were plenty of them. But there was also plenty of roofing supplies and plywood behind the barn. Enough to sheet the roof before laying the new shingles.
Nathan had tried to fix the roof himself a couple of times, and had learned the hard way that he had no head for heights. A slight case of Acrophobia, according to Doc Jackson, and he was lucky as hell that he didn’t have a broken neck to go along with it.
Even if he’d had the extra money to hire someone, it hadn’t gone so well the last time. After Tate Nelson had tried to lay claim to Nathan—or, more likely, Robinsong Ranch—Nathan had shied away from the idea of bringing anyone else on. So, the barn had sat there for the last eighteen months, baking in the sun and leaking in the rain.
Repairing that roof was really a two-man job, so it would be interesting to see just how tough and resourceful Mr. Thompson was.
At one o’clock Nathan went out to the porch and clanged the old triangle dinner bell, a relic from the days Arthur’s family had run Robinsong as a real working ranch.
He left the back door open, and a couple of minutes later Thompson appeared in the kitchen. Lean and quiet though he was, he seemed to crowd the sunny cheerful space.
“Something smells good.” He took his hat off and wiped his forehead. His damp, dark hair was a little long and looked unruly despite a case of hat head.
“Tuna casserole,” Nathan said. He was a competent cook. Not great—Arthur had done most of the cooking for them, and Arthur had been a fantastic cook—but he knew his way around a frying pan. He pointed to the long wooden table. He had set their places at either end.
“Can I wash up first?” Thompson asked.
“Sure. Of course.” Nathan pointed to a door leading off the kitchen.
Thompson turned in the direction Nathan indicated, and Nathan set about serving up the casserole.
Thompson’s eyes were beautiful. A soft, stormy gray fringed with unexpectedly long dark lashes. They seemed to gaze right into Nathan’s soul. He squashed the thought before it could take hold. That was just…well, ridiculous. Biology. Nothing serious. He was a widowed omega and Thompson was a lone wolf alpha, at least as far as he could tell, so naturally there would be a certain amount of awareness. But getting all warm and weak because Thompson had gazed into his eyes was just…weak.
He took his seat at the table, waiting politely for Thompson to return.
“I noticed there’s a fifty-gallon hot water heater still in its shipping carton in the barn,” Thompson said coming up behind him.
Nathan started a little, and hoped the other man hadn’t noticed. “Uh, yeah.”
“Was that intended for the bunkhouse?”
“It was. Yes.”
“Would it be a problem if I went ahead and installed it this evening? I can do it on my own time.”
“A problem? No. That would be great. You don’t have to do it on your own time. It’s something that needs doing around here.”
Thompson took his place at the table and drew a deep appreciative breath as though Nathan had served filet mignon rather than plain old tuna casserole.
Nathan picked up his fork and took a thoughtful bite. It was fine. Filling. That was the main thing.
“I’ll need help with the plywood,” Thompson was saying. “I can use the pulley to get it up to the roof, but it’s going to take two people. Three would be best.”
“I can help.”
Thompson nodded, though his gaze seemed to be sizing Nathan up. Well, Natha
n was built like the typical omega. Slender and small-framed. He was strong though. Stronger than he looked.
Thompson sampled the casserole and made an approving sound. “This is good.”
Nathan’s half-smile was wry. “You’re hungry.”
“I am. True enough.” He smiled and Nathan felt that smile in his chest. “I saw there were cans of paint in the barn. Did you want the barn painted too?”
Nathan brightened at this display of industriousness. “Yes. That would be great.”
“House too?”
“Well…yes.” Nathan bit his lip. “The thing is, we’re not really a-a working ranch. The place was in Arthur’s—my late husband’s—family for about a hundred years, so it’s just the taxes and then my own expenses. Food, utilities. That’s about it. Arthur’s royalties mostly cover all that.”
“Royalties?”
“Arthur was a writer,” Nathan admitted. “Coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Nathan rose and brought the coffeepot to the table, filling Thompson’s cup and his own.
Thompson murmured thanks. “What did Arthur write?”
“Westerns. What else?” Nathan grinned, and Thompson’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s the first real smile I’ve seen out of you.”
Nathan’s face warmed. “I guess I’m out of the habit. There hasn’t been much to smile about for a long time.”
“When did you lose Arthur?”
“Almost two years ago.”
“That’s a long time for an…” Thompson didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. A long time for an omega to be alone. Especially an omega in the middle of his child-rearing years. He wasn’t the first to notice, even if he was the first to not state the obvious. “You and Arthur didn’t have children?”
“No. We…I…” Let him think what he liked. Let him think the problem had been Nathan. In a way, the problem had been Nathan. He hadn’t wanted children. Not then. And although he had been fond of Arthur, grateful to Arthur, Arthur had been so much older. Nathan had been thankful that Arthur didn’t make many demands on him. Other than the first night, the night of his claiming, Arthur had never even liked to penetrate him. Now, when it was too late, Nathan was sorry there had been no children. Sorry there was no one to love and to love him. An omega needed love and family nearly as much as he needed oxygen.
But Nathan had survived and would go on surviving. Because what choice did he have?
“I’m sorry,” Thompson said kindly. He did seem genuinely sympathetic, especially for an alpha.
“Anyway,” Nathan said.
“I understand why you were a little gun shy when I showed up here without warning.”
Nathan shrugged. It was true, of course. He’d had a little trouble with some of the local bachelor alphas since Arthur’s death. Not so much for his own sake, though even at twenty-four he was still reasonably eligible—healthy, handsome, hopefully fertile—but for the very valuable 47,000 undeveloped primo acres he had inherited.
Thompson finished his coffee and pushed his chair back. “Maybe I’ll tackle that water heater now. Thank you for lunch.”
Nathan said idiotically, “Thank you.” He added, “Let me know when you want to work on the roof.”
Thompson nodded. “It’ll keep. I don’t think there’s any rain in the near future. There’s plenty else to keep me busy around here.” To Nathan’s astonishment, Thompson winked at him.
Nathan listened to the retreating sound of Thompson’s boots on the hardwood floor, and realized that his heart was racing as though he’d just encountered unexpected danger.
The Sheriff Surrenders (The Omegas of Sweet Water, Texas – Book 1)
August 2017
Copyright (c) 2017 by E.E. Wilde
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
Published in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.