Page 16 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

THE PACK OF THREE

~ M EADOW~

The rhythm of the brush against Maple's chestnut coat soothes Marigold's thoughts into a gentle cadence.

Stroke, stroke, pause. Stroke, stroke, pause.

So different from the one-two-three, one-two-three that once dictated her every waking moment.

"You're a good girl, aren't you?" she murmurs, watching the horse's ears twitch backward at the sound of her voice. "No judges scoring your form, no critics analyzing your extension."

Marigold's muscles remember a different kind of work — the burn of holding an arabesque, the precise control required for thirty-two fouettés.

Here, her body learns new patterns: the firm pressure needed to curry a coat, the steady balance while mucking stalls, and the careful placement of feet around unpredictable animals.

She pauses, resting her forehead against Maple's warm flank, inhaling the earthy scent that's become strangely comforting.

Certainly, a few weeks ago, she would have recoiled from the smell of hay and horse.

Now it grounds her.

"If they could see me now," she whispers with a half-smile. "Prima ballerina Marigold Everhart, smelling of manure instead of perfume."

The thought doesn't sting as much as it once did. The calluses forming on her once-perfect hands tell a new story — one of survival rather than the spotlight.

Maple shifts her weight, breaking Marigold's reverie.

"Sorry, girl. Got lost in thought again."

She resumes brushing, her movements methodical.

The afternoon sun slants through the stable windows, catching dust motes in golden beams. In the theater, lighting was calculated, artificial — designed to highlight the ethereal quality of dancers while hiding imperfections.

Here, the natural light reveals everything: sweat, dirt, honest work.

"You know, Maple," Marigold says, working through a tangle in the mare's mane, "in ballet, we concealed our effort. The audience should never see how hard you're working." She gives a soft laugh. "But here, the work itself is the point."

The horse snorts, as if in agreement.

"Back then, there was always someone waiting for me to fail." Her voice drops lower. "Someone plotting it, as it turned out."

The memory of Magnolia's betrayal flashes — her twin sister's smile as she introduced Rowan to his 'true mate' at what should have been Marigold's triumph celebration.

The public rejection that followed, broadcast across social media within hours.

Marigold shakes her head, forcing the thought away.

"But you don't care about any of that, do you?"

Maple nudges her gently with her nose.

"No competitions here. No one waiting in the wings to take my place." She runs her hand down the horse's neck. "Just work that needs doing, animals that need care."

Outside, a rooster crows, off-schedule and imperfect. Marigold smiles.

In the dance world, timing was everything — milliseconds of precision the difference between brilliance and failure.

Here, nature sets the rhythms, unpredictable and forgiving.

"I spent twenty years chasing perfection," she tells Maple, moving to her other side. "Every morning at the barre, every blister, every skipped meal…all for momentary applause."

The horse shifts, stamping a hoof impatiently.

"I know, I know. Who cares about my existential crisis when there's oats to be had?" Marigold chuckles. "That's what I like about you, Maple. Your priorities are clear."

As she works, Marigold's trained awareness notices the subtle harmony around her — the distant lowing of cattle, the rustle of hay beneath hooves, the gentle breathing of the animal beside her.

It forms a different kind of music than the orchestral swells that once accompanied her across stages worldwide.

"It's strange," she says, reaching for a hoof pick. "I don't miss the applause as much as I thought I would." She carefully lifts Maple's front hoof, cradling it while she works. "What I miss is belonging somewhere. Having a purpose."

The admission hangs in the air, more honest than she'd intended.

Being an Omega alone in the world carries its own particular ache — one she's tried to ignore since fleeing Rowan's rejection.

She tries to ignore what her Omega instincts are begging for. The comforting warmth of being around her Alphas. Their meshed scents and the warmth such nests and scents gave her.

Such simplistic yet essential needs.

All taken away and replaced…

"But this place..." She looks around the weathered stable, noting its sturdy beams and practical design. "There's something healing about somewhere that values usefulness over beauty."

Maple whickers softly as Marigold finishes with her hooves and straightens, stretching her back.

"In ballet, damaged goods get discarded." She pats the horse's flank. "Here, everything has value…even broken things."

Including, perhaps, a broken Omega finding her way back to herself, one day at a time.

As Marigold returns the hoof pick to its place on the wall rack, her thoughts drift to Meadow.

The memory of this morning rises unbidden — his tall frame silhouetted against the early light as he'd helped her feed the horses, the quiet competence in his movements.

So different from Rowan's calculated elegance.

"He made me lunch," she whispers to herself, running her fingers along the worn wood of the stall door.

No Alpha she'd known would have bothered with such a simple gesture.

In her experience, Alphas demonstrated their worth through grand displays — expensive gifts, exclusive invitations, and public claims. Never through carefully wrapped sandwiches with the crusts cut off exactly as she preferred.

The scent memory of Meadow's earthy cologne mingles with hay and horsehair.

Her omega instincts respond with a quiet hum of approval that startles her.

"Who made you lunch?"

Marigold turns to find Daisy leaning against the stall entrance, her freckled face curious beneath her wide-brimmed hat. The beta ranch hand tucks a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear, waiting.

Daisy was a Beta and only came to the ranch from time to time. Think of it as a once in a while drop by to see the horses and be in touch with the wildlife before she goes back to whatever reality she’s probably escaping from.

It’s been nice to be around another female, even if she was a Beta, though she was curious because she didn’t really “smell” like a Beta.

If that even made sense.

"Oh, just..." Marigold hesitates, suddenly self-conscious. "Meadow. This morning. It was nothing, really."

Daisy's eyebrows lift as she enters the stall, grabbing a brush to help with Maple.

"Meadow Calloway made you lunch? Mr. I-Can-Feed-Myself-Just-Fine?"

She must know him long enough to know his usual “traits” which makes this a little embarrassing to admit.

Marigold's cheeks warm.

"It was just a sandwich."

"Mmhmm." Daisy's smile is knowing as she begins brushing Maple's flanks with long, practiced strokes. "And the sky is just blue."

Marigold focuses intently on reorganizing the grooming tools, avoiding Daisy's gaze.

"He was being polite."

"Meadow's polite to everyone, honey, but he doesn't make everyone lunch." Daisy pauses. "You know, in the three years I've worked here on the once-in-a-new-moon basis, I've never seen him go out of his way like that for anyone outside his pack."

Something flutters in Marigold's chest — a dangerous, fragile hope she's afraid to examine too closely.

"Is he..." The question forms before she can stop it. "I mean, does he have someone? An omega or...?"

The words hang in the air, vulnerable and exposing.

Marigold immediately wishes she could snatch them back.

Daisy's laugh is warm and free of judgment.

"Well, well! Look who's interested in our resident strong, silent Alpha.

" She taps Marigold playfully with the brush handle.

"No, honey. Meadow's been on his own as long as anyone around here can remember.

Plenty has tried, but he's always been more married to this land than interested in finding a mate, let alone an Omega at that. "

"I'm not interested," Marigold protests, though her rapid pulse betrays her. "Just curious. Professional curiosity."

"Sure," Daisy drawls, her eyes twinkling. "And I'm just professionally curious about whether you're blushing right now."

Marigold presses her cool palms to her heated cheeks.

"It's hot in here!"

"It's sixty degrees, sweetie."

A deep chuckle interrupts them — masculine, amused, and undeniably close.

Marigold's spine straightens instinctively, a reflexive posture correction born from years of ballet training that now serves as her defense mechanism.

"Meadow's a hard nut to crack, but worth the effort," says the unfamiliar voice. "Though I wouldn't say he's immune to connection…just waiting for the right reason to put down those walls."

Marigold turns slowly, mortification creeping up her neck like a hot tide.

Standing in the doorway is a tall, broad-shouldered man, arms crossed over his chest and an easy smile playing on his lips. His scent — earthy, metallic, with undertones of cedar — marks him unmistakably as Alpha.

The scent drives her wild as heat rushes to her cheeks and right to her core, making it so easy for slick to pool between her legs.

She fights the urge to press her thighs together, as if they aren’t already side by side.

"I—" Words fail her, and she curses the traitorous flush rising to her cheeks. It feels so young, so foolish, to be caught wondering aloud.

Her hands twist the brush she's holding, knuckles whitening.

The man's smile widens, revealing a chipped front tooth that somehow adds character to his rugged face rather than detracting from it.

"Don't mind me. I've got terrible timing according to my mother."

He steps forward, extending a hand that's a map of calluses and old burns.

"Flint Sutter. The resident metal-bender."

"Blacksmith," Daisy corrects with an eye roll. "And professional eavesdropper, apparently."