Page 10 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

A GLIMPSE OF SADDLEbrUSH

~JUNIPER~

I ’m wondering whether wearing the clothes I am was a good idea.

I mean, on the one hand, nothing says “I am a functioning adult” quite like pajama bottoms with tiny, grumpy cats embroidered on them, paired with a tee shirt declaring I SURVIVED THE BOURBON COUNTY CHILI COOK-OFF .

Why I decided to switch to this tee instead of the simplistic band one that surely no one in the heart of this town would know about is beyond me, but sometimes its good to follow your instincts.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the town of Saddlebrush is the sort of place where people wear “real pants” before nine a.m. and scorn outsiders who don’t.

The second I step out of the truck, I feel eyes on me—not in the predatory way of the Alphas at the gas station, but in the judgy, careful way of people who have never seen a person under sixty wearing a bandana as a hair accessory.

Main Street is already alive with people, even though it’s barely ten.

I park the truck in front of the post office, ignoring the glares from the blue-haired matriarchs on the bench and the cluster of grade schoolers whizzing by on battered bikes. The second I step out, the entire block seems to take note.

Heads pivot. Conversation pauses, fractures, resumes in lowered tones.

The first wave hits before I even make it to the hardware store.

Scent trails, fine as spider silk, reach out from every open door: citrus and honey from the salon, sawdust and metal shavings from the lumberyard, cigarette smoke and mint from the law office.

Underneath it all, the sharp tang of Beta and Alpha, each scent tagged to its owner like a signature on the wind.

I duck into the hardware store, greeted by a windchime and a sudden, intense hush. The place hasn’t changed since I was a kid: two aisles, ancient pegboard walls, cash register so old it probably has a rotary dial.

Behind the counter, two Betas—man and woman, both in identical green aprons—are already whispering behind their hands.

I grab a basket and make a beeline for the fencing supplies. The inventory is picked over, but I find the heavy-duty gloves, a spool of baling wire, and a coil of orange survey tape. I can feel eyes on me the entire time, drilling through the shelves like I’m under surveillance.

At the counter, the Beta woman— Arlene, according to her pin —looks me over with a mixture of curiosity and pity.

"Back for good?" she asks, voice pinched.

No hi, hello, are you enjoying our little sweet town…

"Depends on your definition of good," I say, setting my haul on the counter.

She sniffs, not subtle about it.

"Heard you inherited the Sanctuary. That’s a lot of work for one girl."

Am I surprised? Nope. Word loves to spread fast here.

"Guess I’ll have to work twice as hard, then," I reply, flashing teeth in a way I hope is not a snarl.

She rings me up in silence, her eyes softening a fraction at the edges.

The man with her leans in as I pay, his voice pitched low.

"If you need extra hands, the town hires out day labor. Not all of us are Alpha." He winks, like this is the punchline to a joke.

"Thanks," I say, already moving for the door.

The bell chimes behind me like a warning shot.

I hustle past the feed store. Here, the clientele is pure rural: ancient ranchers in overalls, the odd Beta kid on a delivery run. One of the old men—face like a walnut, eyes sharp as a fox—tips his hat as I walk by.

"Not seen an Omega in these parts in a spell," he says. It’s not a judgment, just a fact.

"Don’t get your hopes up," I shoot back, and he laughs, a dry bark.

The next stop is the general store, which is really just an overgrown bodega.

I get coffee— real, blessed, caffeinated coffee —a box of granola bars, and three bags of animal feed.

The Alpha behind the register is my age, maybe a year older. Blond, chiseled, smile dialed up to eleven.

"You’re the Bell girl, right?" he says, leaning forward in a way that means business. "Didn’t think you’d show your face here again."

Crazy how everyone seems to know who I am but also assumes I’m some sort of coward that desperately came back here.

There should be nothing wrong with it, but it proves that not everything is deemed “simple’ when it comes to Saddlebridge’s acceptance.

I load my bags onto the counter.

"Guess you were wrong."

He grins wider.

"I like a girl with confidence. Bet you could use a strong hand out at the Sanctuary. If you’re lookin’ for?—"

I cut him off with a stare so cold it might freeze his smirk in place.

"If I’m looking for muscle, I’ll get a backhoe."

For a split second, he looks wounded, then laughs and hands me my receipt.

"Suit yourself. If you need anything, you know where I’m at."

I shoulder my way out before the scent he’s putting out— some mix of bergamot and bravado —can trigger anything in me. But the truth is, my body is already humming, blood alive with the undercurrent of Alpha attention.

It’s infuriating. It’s also, for half a heartbeat, tempting.

This is what it means to be an Omega in Saddlebrush Ridge: constantly parsing the difference between what you want and what your body wants.

The line is never as clear as people think.

The last errand is the Feed & Grain. It’s the only building with a mural, a faded rendition of horses galloping under a sky so blue it’s cartoonish.

I slide through the door and immediately into the blast of grain dust and molasses.

There’s a short line at the counter, and every single person in it turns to look at me.

At the front, a trio of Alphas— barely out of high school by the look of them —are clustered together, blocking the register. They’re all broad-shouldered and baby-faced, stinking of cheap cologne and the kind of hunger that only comes with untested manhood.

One of them nudges another, then turns to me with a smirk.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, and his voice drops a full octave. "You lookin’ for help with your…feed problem?" The way he says it makes it sound like the feed is me.

I ignore him, sidestep, and get in line behind a Beta mom with a toddler.

The Alpha isn’t deterred.

"Sanctuary’s falling apart, isn’t it? Be easier if you had a real Alpha to help out." His buddies snicker.

I take a deep breath, and the scent hits me again: Alpha, sharp and sweet and dangerous as nitroglycerin.

I grit my teeth.

"Last I checked, the only thing falling apart was your sense of decency," I say, not turning around.

There’s a pause.

The Beta mom snickers into her sleeve.

The Alpha turns red, then laughs, like he’s scored a point anyway.

I keep my eyes ahead, but my pulse is wild, skin prickling under my clothes. My own scent is intensifying—defiant, yes, but also edged with the kind of raw, involuntary heat that brings every Alpha in a three-block radius running.

I hate it, but I can’t stop it.

At the counter, I pay for my order and get the receipt, hands shaking.

The cashier— a wiry Beta in his sixties —gives me a knowing look.

"Just keep your head up," he says, voice low. "This town eats the weak."

"Good thing I’m not weak," I say, and even I can hear the lie in it.

Outside, the air is brighter, the tension already breaking up under the sun.

I slam the feed bags into the truck bed, climb in, and sit for a moment, breathing slow until my heartbeat calms.

It’s only then I realize: the whole gauntlet, the stares, the snide remarks, the scent games—it’s not about me. Not really. It’s about them, and the way this town is so desperate for entertainment they’ll turn anyone into the main attraction.

For a second, I feel almost sorry for the Alphas, with their pre-programmed desire to chase and claim, doomed to failure as long as I’m the quarry.

Then I remember the pie, waiting for me at home, and decide I’m winning this round after all.

One disaster at a time.

The bakery is my last stop, and the one I dread most.

Not because I’m afraid of carbs— please, let’s not get dramatic —but because The Orchard is the undisputed nucleus of Saddlebrush Ridge social life.

If Main Street was the gladiator arena, this place is the viewing box, where everyone has an opinion and zero impulse control.

Inside, the smell is so rich it nearly floors me.

Cinnamon, hot bread, burnt sugar from the honey sticks.

The air is humid with steam, and the windows are fogged over, blurring the world into a watercolor of sunlight and movement.

Wooden shelves line the walls, crowded with fresh loaves and pastry towers.

There’s a chalkboard menu above the counter, written in perfect block letters, and an antique cash register that could crush a small dog if dropped.

Every table is full—cowboys in flannel, Beta couples, the occasional Alpha mother wrangling sticky-handed children. The bell over the door chimes like a fire alarm.

Instantly, the entire room zeroes in on me. It’s as if I’ve entered a party mid-punchline, and now everyone’s waiting for the next move.

The counter is manned by an Alpha I’ve never seen before: sharp-jawed, eyes like old ice, smile dialed up to "charm offensive."

He’s lean, maybe six feet, hair buzzed close to his scalp. He’s watching me, even as he fills orders and makes small talk.

I shuffle forward, feeling the weight of thirty pairs of eyes like spotlights.

I’m about three feet from the glass pastry case when the Alpha at the counter leans in, voice cutting through the din.

"Haven’t seen you here before," he says, scanning me up and down. "You new in town? Or just passing through?"

I blink, then go for honesty.

"Moved back. I’m the new owner of Bell Ranch."

He grins, like he’s just solved a puzzle.

"That’s the Sanctuary, right? Lotta animals. Lotta work for one girl."

"Funny," I say, "everyone seems very interested in my capacity for manual labor."

He lets the silence stretch, then…

"Most people wouldn’t peg you for ranch stock."

"I’ll be sure to tell that to my three-legged mule," I say, leveling my gaze at him.