Page 83 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

The warmth of their bodies—slightly higher than human normal but comforting all the same—enveloped me like a living blanket. For the first time since the bank’s call, since Derek’s arrival, I felt safe. Protected. Chosen.

Whatever happened next, I wouldn’t face it alone. And that was worth more than all the money in Derek Morgan’s bank account.

31

TAMMY

Note to self: never mix alcohol with the company of super-hot aliens.

Awild, euphoric energy buzzed through my veins that demanded celebration. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash from the confrontation, or maybe it was the simple joy of watching my ex get exactly what he deserved, but I couldn’t stop grinning as I marched toward the storage shed. “We’re having a party,” I announced over my shoulder to my three alien saviors. “An honest-to-goodness, down-home Kansas celebration.” I yanked open the shed door, my hands still trembling with residual excitement as I reached for the dusty cooler tucked behind my garden tools. Some victories demanded beer, music, and firelight.

And watching Derek Morgan drive away covered in horse shit definitely qualified.

“Celebration requires sustenance?” Vantor asked, materializing beside me with that eerie silent movement that still made me jump. His hazel eyes scanned the shed’s interior, clearly data-banking every detail as he reached past me to lift the heavy cooler I was struggling with.

“It requires beer,” I corrected, brushing cobwebs from the portable speaker I’d stashed away after my last barn dance—before Derek, before the financial troubles, back when Sunflower Hills still hosted weekend gatherings for the local ranchers. “And music. And fire.”

“Fire has very recently attacked this property,” Cyro observed from the doorway, his metallic-sheened eyes catching the fading sunlight in a way that made them flash like mercury. “Yet you speak of it with positive anticipation now.”

“Contained, controlled fire,” I clarified. “For atmosphere. Trust me, you’ll see.”

Within twenty minutes, we’d transformed my weathered front porch into a makeshift party space. Kalith had been fascinated by the fire pit’s mechanics, disassembling and reassembling it twice before finally allowing me to fill it with wood and light it at the base of the stairs. Cyro had systematically arranged the beer bottles in the cooler by what he declared were “optimal cooling positions,” while Vantor established a perimeter of mismatched lawn chairs that somehow managed to look like a tactical formation.

The sun was setting, painting the Kansas sky in brushstrokes of orange and purple that even my alien guests stopped to admire. I cracked open the cooler, condensation misting around my fingers as I pulled out five bottles.

“This,” I announced, holding up a bottle ceremoniously, “is one of humanity’s greatest inventions. Beer.”

“Fermented grain beverage,” Cyro clarified immediately, taking the bottle and holding it up, gaze peering at the liquid inside. “The consumption of which produces mild neurological impairment through alcohol’s effect on GABA receptors in the human brain.”

“That’s... technically correct,” I admitted, twisting off my own cap. “But you’re missing the cultural significance. Beer isn’t just about getting buzzed. It’s about celebration, relaxation, camaraderie.” I gestured around at our little gathering. “When humans share alcohol, we’re sharing a moment together. Lowering our guards.”

“Deliberately impairing defensive capabilities seems counterproductive to survival,” Vantor noted, though he accepted his bottle with curious fingers.

“Sometimes surviving means more than just staying alive,” I replied, surprised by my own sudden philosophical turn. “Sometimes it means actually enjoying being alive.” I raised my bottle. “To dumping shit on shitty exes.”

After a moment’s hesitation, they raised their bottles too, mimicking my gesture before bringing the beer to their lips. The reactions were immediate and priceless.

Vantor’s face remained stoically unchanged, but his throat worked visibly as he swallowed, and a faint navy flush crept up his neck, his natural coloring bleeding through his human disguise.

Kalith’s eyes widened with surprise, and he pulled the bottle away to examine it again. “Fascinating effervescence,” he declared, holding the beer up to catch the firelight. “The carbonation creates a pleasant tactile sensation against the oral membranes.” He took another experimental sip, then nodded approvingly. “The glass container design is remarkably efficient for heat retention properties. Superior to aluminum, which would conduct cold temperatures to the hand more rapidly.”

Cyro, predictably, was analyzing the taste with the concentration of a wine sommelier at a competition. “I detect malted barley, hops—approximately thirty-eight IBUs—and a yeast strain likely of the Saccharomyces cerevisiae variety. The fermentation process has resulted in an alcohol content of... five-point, four percent by volume.” He took another careful sip. “There are also notes of citrus and pine, suggesting late-addition aroma hops, possibly Cascade or Centennial varieties.”

“It’s a local microbrew,” I explained, taking a long swallow of my own. The cold, slightly bitter liquid slid down my throat, familiar and comforting. “Nothing fancy, but it does the job. And word to the wise, we’re drinking to have mindless fun, not analyze every liquor atom.”

Cyro looked like he was about to correct my use of “atom”, but I shot him a death stare, so he clamped his mouth shut.

As the beer bottles emptied and were replaced with fresh ones from the cooler, I connected my phone to the portable speaker. The opening guitar riffs of a Brooks & Dunn classic filled the evening air, and I felt the tension I’d been carrying since the bank’s call begin to loosen in my chest.

“This is country music,” I explained, turning up the volume and setting my beer down on the porch railing. “The soundtrack to every good and bad decision I’ve ever made in my life.”

“The lyrics suggest significant emotional distress regarding the loss of romantic attachment,” Cyro observed, tilting his head as he listened. “Yet the melody is surprisingly upbeat.”

“That’s country music for you,” I replied, already swaying to the rhythm. “Singing about heartbreak while tapping your foot.” The chorus hit, and I couldn’t help but belt it out, my voice carrying across the darkening yard. “I’M SO MUCH BETTER OFF... SINCE YOU’VE BEEN GONE!”

The aliens watched with expressions ranging from fascination to bewilderment as I danced around the fire pit, using my beer bottle as an impromptu microphone. The second time the chorus came around, Cyro surprised me by joining in, his voice a perfect pitch-match to the recording—too perfect, actually, like hearing a studio-quality cover version.

Not to be outdone, Kalith attempted to harmonize, producing a sound somewhere between a foghorn and a dying cow. I nearly spit out my beer laughing as he enthusiastically warbled off-key, completely oblivious to how badly he was butchering the melody.