Page 123 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

Well, if it isn’t the consequences of Derek’s own actions… staining his pants.

The county equestrian auction buzzed with activity—horse people clustering in tight conversation circles, the air thick with leather polish and expensive cologne and that particular smell of money pretending to be rustic. It was always easy to tell the real ranch workers from the deep pocket men who were cosplaying. The fake “cowboys” wore jeans that were always a little too clean and a little too crisp at the seams. They wore hats barely broken in, and their boots looked brand new. Of course, I couldn’t avoid them. They were the ones with egos the size of Texas who would pay top dollar for a horse they could brag about over cigars.

I stood behind my booth, smoothing down the front of my blazer (purchased specifically for this occasion and still feeling like a costume) and trying not to look as nervous as I felt. Once, I’d have been invisible here—just another struggling rancher with a failed breeding program and a property headed for foreclosure. Now, heads turned as I passed. Whispers followed. And all because of the three impossible, wonderful beings currently positioned strategically around the exhibition hall, watching over me with the careful vigilance that had become as familiar as breathing.

Across the room, Cyro chatted with a group of veterinarians, his human form maintained with careful precision, his silver-blue eyes catching mine for just a moment before returning to his conversation. He’d spent three days memorizing equine medical terminology, and now he was dropping phrases like “biomechanical fetlock stabilization” with such authority that the actual doctors were nodding along, completely unaware they were learning from an alien xenobiologist who’d never set foot in Earth’s medical schools.

Near the refreshment table, Kalith demonstrated what appeared to be a normal tablet to a group of impressed ranch owners, though I knew the device contained technology centuries beyond anything humans had developed. His shorter tentacle remained carefully concealed beneath his sleeve, but I caught the slight shimmer along his forearms—his true skin showing through in moments of excitement. He’d promised to behave, to maintain his disguise, but engineering enthusiasm was hard to contain.

And by the entrance, Vantor stood with an almost eerie stillness. His massive frame was somehow both intimidating and reassuring as he scanned the crowd for potential threats. His defense training had kicked into high gear the moment we’d decided to attend the auction—three days of perimeter assessments, contingency planning, and that look of concentration that meant he was calculating exit strategies should our cover be compromised.

But it was our booth that drew the most attention. Where other breeders had photos, pedigrees on laminated cards, and the occasional video playing on tablet screens, we had Kalith’s masterpiece: a holographic display that projected three-dimensional images of Mystery and Sassafras directly above our table. Not the fuzzy, blue-tinted projections of Earth technology, but crystal-clear, full-color renderings that rotated slowly, showing every angle of the magnificent animals—Mystery’s powerful build, Sassafras’s elegant lines, and most impressively, a translucent cutaway that revealed the twin foals developing in her womb.

The technology had required significant adaptation—Kalith had spent two weeks “dumbing down” the actual capabilities to something humans might theoretically develop within the next decade. But the effect was stunning. As I watched, a woman in a tailored riding outfit stopped abruptly, her expensive boots nearly tripping over themselves as she stared at the display.

“Is that...” she began, her voice trailing off as she leaned closer to the hologram.

“Sunflower Hills’ first premium breeding pair,” I finished for her, falling into the practiced spiel I’d rehearsed a hundred times in the bathroom mirror. “A Quarter Horse stallion out of Midnight’s Mirage bloodlines, bred to a Selle Français mare with three generations of championship show jumping in her pedigree.”

The woman’s eyes widened as the hologram rotated, showing a carefully analyzed breakdown of the expected traits in the foals.

“But they’re not even born yet,” she said, reaching a finger toward the projection before snatching it back as if afraid to touch it. “How can you possibly⁠—”

“Advanced ultrasonography and genetic modeling,” I said smoothly, parroting the phrase that Cyro had painstakingly drilled into my head. “We’ve partnered with some innovative tech developers to create predictive breeding analytics.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Just not the whole truth about which planet the “tech developers” called home.

More people were gathering now, drawn by the woman’s obvious fascination. A murmur ran through the crowd as the hologram shifted to display the ultrasound imagery of the twin foals—two perfect, miniature horses floating in a ghostly blue womb, hearts visibly beating in perfect synchronization.

“Twins?” A man in a Stetson that probably cost more than my first horse pushed to the front of the group. “You’re breeding for twins deliberately?”

I smiled, feeling a flutter of pride. “Not deliberately, no. It just happened that way. Thankfully, we’ve developed specialized prenatal care protocols that maximize the chances of both foals arriving healthy.” This was another carefully crafted half-truth. The “protocols” mostly involved Kalith’s alien tech harness and Cyro’s daily monitoring of fetal development.

The Stetson man frowned, skepticism written across his weathered features. “And if something goes wrong? Twins are risky. One or both might not make it.”

This was the moment I’d been dreading, and the question that had kept me awake for three nights before the auction. But I’d rehearsed for it, prepared for it, and now the words came with a confidence that surprised even me.

“Sunflower Hills offers a full money-back guarantee,” I said, meeting his eyes steadily. “If either foal fails to thrive during the first year, we’ll refund the purchase price in full. We also plan to provide personalized support during that twelve-month period, ensuring the best outcome for our buyers.”

A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd. Money-back guarantees were virtually unheard of in horse breeding—the risks too great, the variables too many. But I’d made the decision after a long night of discussion with my alien trio, watching as they’d carefully calculated probabilities and return-on-investment scenarios with the same precision they’d once used to plot their course between stars. Buyers would be more willing to hand over the large deposit and make the commitment if they knew they were safeguarded.

“So, you’re guaranteeing pedigreed, viable twins?” The woman had recovered from her surprise and was now studying me with new interest. “At what price point?”

I named a figure that made several people in the crowd inhale sharply. It was high, and deliberately so. We weren’t just selling horses; we were establishing Sunflower Hills as a premium breeding operation. The price reflected that ambition. If we started low, it would be harder to claw our way to the top of the Junction City community.

The woman didn’t even blink. “I’ll take them both,” she said, reaching for her checkbook. “Is it the industry standard of half now as a deposit and half on delivery?”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate.

A buzz of conversation erupted, several people moving forward with suddenly urgent questions, others pulling out phones to text what was clearly developing into the auction’s biggest news. I maintained my calm with great effort, accepting the woman’s information and beginning to fill out the preliminary paperwork.

“That’s quite a gamble, Ms. Tucker.”

The voice cut through the excited chatter like a physical thing, hitting me square in the chest, nearly making me drop my pen. The sound of his stupid voice was smooth, cultured, and it carried a threatening undercurrent that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I didn’t need to look up to know who it belonged to. It could be a decade from now, and Derek Morgan’s voice would still trigger my fight-or-flight response. No matter how hard I tried to heal from his asshole self, I couldn’t quite wrap bandages around all the little wounds.

With a trembling hand, I finished writing the date on the form before raising my eyes to meet his. I plastered a smile on my face, so my buyer wouldn’t be put off.

Derek looked exactly the same as always, with his tall, lean frame draped in custom ranch wear, and his smile never quite reaching his eyes. The only difference was the new tension around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his gaze as he took in the holographic display, the crowd around my booth, and most importantly, the signed check the woman was extending toward me. Pay to the order of Sunflower Hills Ranch. If Derek hadn’t shown up, I think I might die of happiness on the spot seeing how the woman had written my property’s name.