Page 11 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

There’s a titter from the tables, like people can’t decide if they’re amused or horrified.

The Alpha’s eyes narrow, and he leans even closer.

"You know," he says, dropping his voice, "I’ve heard about Omegas like you. Heard you all run hot, but cool off fast. Guessing you’ll be gone by August."

He says it like he’s delivering a compliment, but his tone has an edge sharp enough to slice bread.

The laugh I give him is pure city.

"If you’re offering to help, I’m sure you could use the exercise. But I hear the bakery has a public restroom if you need to go rub one out."

The room goes silent, then erupts in a wave of nervous, scandalized laughter.

The Alpha’s face flushes, and for a second, he looks like he’s going to retaliate, but then another voice cuts in from the back.

"Ray, that’ll be enough."

It’s not a threat, but a statement of fact.

A man steps out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a flour-stained towel.

He’s tall—taller than Ray, even—with dark hair pulled back in a low knot, jawline squared off by a week’s worth of beard.

His eyes are warm brown, deep set, almost sleepy.

He looks at Ray, then at me, and I can feel the entire room holding its breath.

It slams into me like a migraine under bright lights, the shape of the man behind the counter, the certainty of his voice.

The bakery air is suddenly too thick, too humid with cinnamon and the heavier, darker undercurrent that is pure Beckett Ford: the scent from yesterday hitting me with vengeance.

The brain does weird things with memory.

I always assumed I’d see him again and feel nothing.

A quick pass by, or a glance from a far.

Or a simple moment where he’s with his pack, holding another pie or some other delicious delicacy I’d crave to eat.

How ironic that he’s here, working at the bakery, not just real but more so—bigger than I remember, voice like velvet over a chainsaw, eyes so brown they seem to swallow the light.

He hasn’t changed, except for the beard and maybe a new tattoo crawling up his forearm, but the rest is Beckett as I remember: slow moving, heavy lidded, always on the verge of a smile or a warning.

I am unprepared for how the room pivots around him, the way even Ray’s bravado shrinks in the gravitational pull of Beckett’s presence.

The tables, the mothers with their sticky-handed offspring, the Beta high schoolers with phones half-raised for a viral moment—they all quiet, like the alpha’s entered the room and the pack is waiting for orders.

My skin crawls with awareness. I’m caught between humiliation and some stupid, traitorous relief.

Our eyes lock for half a second. There is no recognition in his, not outwardly, but I swear his nostrils flare, the tiniest shift of muscle at the jawline.

He doesn’t say my name, but the way he looks at me, I wonder if he’s calculating the time since we last spoke. Not just a simple time of need conversation with pie offerings, but back when we could have genuine conversations but the uncertainty and truth of who we’d grow up to be.

Or if he even remembers the night I left town and didn’t bother to say goodbye… he probably does, but just that good at pretending.

He wipes his hands on the rag, squares off with Ray, and waits.

Ray straightens, mutters, "Yeah, okay, boss," and backs away from the counter.

He gives me a lopsided smile, then gestures at the pastry case.

"What can I get you?" His voice is quiet, smooth as honey and twice as warm.

I scan the options, trying not to stare at him.

He has hands built for bread—wide palms, thick fingers, strong and gentle. There’s something about the way he moves— unhurried, deliberate —that makes the air settle.

"Just coffee," I say, then change my mind. "And a cinnamon roll. If you’ve got one."

His eyes crinkle, and he slides a roll onto a plate, then pours coffee into a heavy ceramic mug. He rings me up, hands the change back without touching my skin. It’s the kind of courtesy that’s more familiar in big cities, but feels strangely intimate here.

He glances at the scar on my knuckle, then at the blue stain on my jeans.

"You had a day," he says, not quite a question.

"You have no idea," I say, and for the first time all morning, I mean it.

He passes me the plate, then the coffee.

"Take a seat wherever. If you want quiet, there’s a table on the patio. People talk less when they can’t hear themselves think."

I nod, grateful, and duck out the side door. The patio is empty except for a stray cat sleeping in a patch of sun.

I sit, rip the cinnamon roll in half, and let the sugar dissolve on my tongue.

Inside, I can hear the buzz resume, softer now, like the room is digesting what just happened.

The patio smells of yeast and cut grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke. My hands are sticky with icing, and my chest aches, but the sun feels good, and for the first time all day, I’m not drowning in my own scent.

Halfway through the roll, the man from the kitchen appears with a second mug of coffee. He sets it on the table, then leans against the railing, arms folded.

“Beckett," he says, offering a real smile, re-introducing himself as if we don’t know each other. It could be for performance, or a formal re-introduction that’s genuine after all these years.

"Juniper," I reply, licking sugar off my finger.

He nods, eyes on the field across the street. He’s watching me closely now, his eyes dilating every so slightly while taking in how I’m licking my fingers. Probably not lady like in anyway, but a girl can’t possibly leave such a sweetness unsavored.

He stays silent for a moment, arms folded, letting the air settle again.

There’s something about the way he does silence—it isn’t awkward.

It’s stable, like waiting out rain on a porch, and suddenly I remember a hundred afternoons exactly like this, both of us perched at my aunt’s kitchen table, not saying a word because we didn’t need to.

He’s the kind of Alpha who prefers space to words, who fills rooms with presence rather than noise.

Maybe he’s not even watching me, I tell myself.

He could be watching the clouds, or the curve of the road, or the cat attacking a ladybug at the edge of the patio.

But then he catches me looking, and his mouth quirks, and I know for sure: he’s doing what all Alphas do, clocking and cataloguing, running calculations behind those heavy-lidded eyes.

I should care or feel creeped out, but I’m not.

If anything, it’s sort of flattering—a little weird, but also honest, and I’ll take honest over the other crap any day.

Still, I’m aware of every motion.

The way I break the cinnamon roll, the way my tongue curls around the icing, the way my boot taps restlessly against the patio tile.

For a heartbeat, I want to impress him. Gosh, that’s pathetic .

I left this town to get away from that feeling, and now here it is, returning like a bad penny—or in this case, a perfect cinnamon roll.

I steal a glance at his hands, flour-dusted and large. They’re steady, even when he’s still.

I try to remember the last time I saw those hands up close, and the memory stings: a barn dance, a spilled drink, the briefest touch on my back as he steered me out of harm’s way.

I’d pretended not to notice, but I remembered for days. Maybe he did too.

“You always eat pastry like it’s the last food on earth?” he asks, finally.

His voice has dropped, gone soft and private, meant for me alone.

“Only when it’s good,” I shoot back, licking a streak of icing from my thumb. “This is obscenely good. You could probably rob a bank with these.”

He laughs, a small sound but genuine.

“I’ll make a note of that. Armed and delicious.”

I shrug, aware of how the sunlight catches my hair, how my scent can’t help but rise a little, practically purring with caffeine and sugar.

“It’s a compliment. Some people go their whole lives and never taste anything worth remembering.”

He nods, and for a moment, the energy between us changes. It’s not sexual— not exactly —but it’s charged, electrical, the way dry air gets before a storm. We both know it.

He shifts, turns fully toward me, and leans on the railing so our faces are almost level.

“Town’s weird about new people…or at least those they have no clue are returning,” he says, as if reading my mind. “They’re still talking about the time a Beta from Ridgeview tried to open a smoothie bar. Lasted two weeks. Everyone thought it was a front for a cult.”

“Isn’t everything here a front for a cult?” I ask.

He grins, teeth white against his beard.

“Only on Sundays.”

He glances again at my hands, then back up.

“You did good, standing up to Ray. He’s an ass, but not a bad guy. Just…needs boundaries.”

I snort.

"Don’t we all."

For a while, we just sit in silence.

I drink my coffee, watching the cat flex in the sunlight.

Beckett picks at a splinter in the wood, then glances at me.

"If you ever want real help with the Sanctuary, let me know," he says. "I grew up on a ranch. Miss it, sometimes. And you already know I bake pies." He gives me a saucy wink with that one.

I want to say something clever, but I’m tired and full and not used to kindness.

So I just nod.

"Pies are good." I can’t help but quietly add, “Especially yours.”

He pushes away from the railing, then pauses.

"Take care of yourself, Juniper."

"You too," I say, but he’s already back inside.

Note to self. Work on my social skills.

Mentally sighing, I finish the roll, crumple the napkin, and sit for a long time with the sun on my face. The bakery’s noise fades, replaced by the hum of bees in the planter and the slow tick of the clock in my head.

For a moment, I let myself pretend this could work. That I could fit here, in this patchwork town, surrounded by people who watch and judge but also, maybe, care in their own weird ways.

Then I remember Pickles, waiting back at the ranch, and the list of things to fix.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, stand up, and head for the truck.

Let’s tackle this new life.