Page 77 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers
“Hold these,” she said, transferring the delicate glasses to my hands. I accepted them carefully, aware of how easily human craftsmanship could be damaged by my superior strength.
Tammy walked over to the phone and lifted the receiver. She pressed the device to her ear. “Hello, this is Tammy Tucker.”
I observed a remarkable transformation occur over the next seventy-four seconds. The jubilant, confident woman who had stood before me moments ago seemed to physically diminish. Her shoulders curved inward, her spine losing its proud posture. The blood vessels in her face constricted, draining color from her cheeks and leaving her freckles in stark relief against suddenly pale skin.
“But that’s not what the last notice said,” she said, her voice tightening. “Three more weeks... Yes, I understand market rates have changed, but...” Her fingers whitened around the device, knuckles protruding sharply. “I see.”
I set down the glasses, calculating the optimal position for maximum stability on the uneven surface, while maintaining auditory focus on Tammy’s conversation.
“What about the agricultural extension program? Someone mentioned that last month,” she asked, a hollow quality entering her voice. “Right. Yes. I understand.” She paced in a small circle, her free hand moving to her hair, tugging at strands in what I recognized as a stress response. “I can bring the mortgage mostly up to date, but I’ll need to use the money I’d set aside for veterinary expenses.”
The conversation continued for another two minutes and seventeen seconds, filled with financial terminology I made note of for later research. Throughout, Tammy’s vital signs indicated increasing distress—elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, perspiration at her temples.
When she finally pushed the phone back onto the wall, her entire demeanor had transformed. The celebration that had propelled us from the stables had evaporated completely, replaced by a heavy and desperate aura. It seemed to pull her physically toward Earth’s gravity.
“What has occurred?” I inquired, modulating my voice to what my research indicated was an appropriate tone for expressing concern.
Tammy stared at the champagne bottle, no longer reaching for it. “They’re moving up the timeline. They spoke some bullshit Latin about risk assessment and current market values.” She inhaled shakily. “They want their money now, or they start foreclosure next week.”
The unfamiliar term required clarification. “Foreclosure?”
“They take my ranch,” she translated, her voice breaking on the final word. “Everything. The horses, the house, the land. All of it.”
I processed this information, analyzing its implications against what I knew of Tammy’s psychological attachment to this place. “But the breeding success—does this not resolve the financial distress?”
“Not fast enough.” She slumped against the counter; eyes fixed on some distant point outside the window. “A foal takes eleven months to develop. The bank wants their money way before that.”
A sensation spread through my chest cavity; it was strange, yet similar to the pressure changes experienced during rapid deep-sea descents. I identified it, after brief analysis, as protectiveness mingled with distress on her behalf.
“I really hope you’ve fixed my horses, Cyro,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “If I lose everything, if Derek wins and I’m a waste of oxygen, then I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The despair in her voice activated involuntary responses in my physiology. Without conscious decision, I moved toward her, extending my arms in the human comfort gesture I’d observed. She didn’t resist as I enfolded her against my chest, her smaller frame fitting against my constructed human form with surprising complementarity.
“Do not call yourself a waste of oxygen, Tammy,” I said firmly, feeling my control over my human disguise waver as emotion disrupted my concentration. Two tentacles emerged from beneath my shirt, wrapping gently around her back in an instinctive protective gesture. “You deserve every life-supporting inhalation you take. And your ex-mate is the one who deserves deprivation of air.”
She didn’t recoil from the revealed appendages, instead leaning further into my embrace. I felt moisture against my chest—saline secretions from her lacrimal ducts that indicated extreme emotional distress. The dampness triggered protective urges that seemed to bypass my rational thought processes.
Our moment of connection was abruptly severed by an aggressive, rhythmic sound from outside—short, sharp blasts of audio disturbance that my sensors identified as a vehicle’s signaling system.
Tammy stiffened in my arms, her respiratory pattern shifting instantly from distress to alert fear. “That’s Derek’s truck,” she whispered, her hands clutching at my shirt. “He always honks three times, then waits ten seconds, then honks again.”
As if summoned by her description, another series of honks pierced the afternoon quiet.
My tentacles tightened around her instinctively, the protective suckers extending slightly against the fabric of her shirt. I felt a surge of unfamiliar hostility toward this unseen human male who had caused Tammy such distress.
“Do not worry, Tammy,” I assured her, my voice dropping to a lower register as my specialized vocal apparatus prepared for potential confrontation signals. “We will ensure he does not distress you again.”
The honking came once more, more insistent this time. Tammy pulled back slightly, looking up at me with those remarkable blue eyes now reddened from her tears.
“He’s not going to go away,” she said, resignation heavy in her voice. “He never does.”
“Then perhaps,” I replied, allowing my tentacles to become fully visible as they unfurled to their impressive length, “it is time he learned about persistence from a species that has perfected it across seventeen star systems.”
29
TAMMY
Like a bad penny, he kept coming back.
