Page 12 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

THE STORM AND THE STALLION RUN

~JUNIPER~

T he truck dies a mile from the sanctuary’s battered front gate, and there’s a perfect, cinematic moment where I’m convinced I might catch fire along with it.

The dash lights flicker a desperate Morse code, then snuff out.

The engine chokes, bucks once in a last act of defiance, and leaves me stranded in the world’s most depressing diorama: one Omega, a cab full of impulse-purchased supplies, and a gravel road so empty it seems hostile.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the Bell Ranch was actively repelling me.

I pound the steering wheel, a wet, meaty sound, and snarl out a curse that’s more bestial than human. The word echoes in the dead air and dies somewhere out by the fence line. There’s nobody to hear me but the vultures, and they are already circling, literal and metaphorical.

The phone is dead, because why not make this cinematic more of a disaster…

The jumpy bar of reception from town is a distant rumor out here, as useless as the motivational quote taped to the dashboard.

“THERE IS NO PLAN B.”

Thanks, Aunt Lil…

I let my head drop back against the headrest, the smell of vinyl and sweat and frustration mixing in the hotbox of the cab.

It takes a solid sixty seconds of sustained self-loathing before I gather the will to even look outside.

The storm is almost here, roiling like a deep bruise overhead.

The first fingers of wind rattle the truck and set the supply bags in the back seat rustling—fencing wire, a plastic bucket, a five-pound sack of flour, a bag of off-brand tortilla chips, and the world’s most underwhelming cucumber.

The old starter, now a paperweight, had gotten me all the way to the far side of town and only decided to give up the ghost after I’d spent an entire morning getting my ass handed to me by Saddlebrush Ridge’s parade of predatory Alphas, judgmental Betas, and the ghost of my own bad decisions.

And— most insultingly —I’d said no to the free cinnamon buns at the bakery, because I was “in a rush.”

A rush to what?

To break down in the exact spot where even the livestock refuse to graze?

I fumble the door open and spill out, boots crunching on the gravel, sky gone green and ugly above me. It’s the kind of light that makes everything look a little sick, a little unreal.

A few yards away, the ditches are choked with early wildflowers and the crisping bones of last year’s thistles.

The ground is hard, dust layered over stone, and the wind pulls at my shirt with the insistent hands of a bratty child. I check the hood out of habit, even though I don’t know the first thing about engines.

I stare at it for a full minute, pretending to troubleshoot, before dropping it shut with a clang that rings down the valley.

The silence is total.

No passing cars, no birds, not even the crackle of static from the useless phone.

Just me, the sickly sky, and the distant pulse of thunder.

I square my shoulders, trying to convince myself that this is a setback and not a total systems failure.

Worse, I can already feel the smell of defeat rolling off my skin—the telltale sweet-and-sour tang of Omega panic, rising like a beacon for any passing Alpha within a half-mile radius.

I try to get a lid on it, but the more I focus, the sharper it gets: sweat, frustration, and a tickle of something spicy, like chili powder on a paper cut.

I glance up at the horizon, squinting against the wind.

A shadow moves out there, low and fast.

My heart spikes.

For a second, I think maybe the storm is closer than I thought, that the sky itself is coming down to swallow me whole.

But then the shape resolves, and I see it for what it is:

A herd, wild and feral, black and chestnut and dun, maybe two dozen strong, churning through the grass in a living wave.

Horses.

No—mustangs, untamed, driven by instincts older than the ranch and probably smarter than me.

They move as one, a rippling mass, manes flying, hooves throwing up loose stones and debris.

And behind them, flanking them with the deliberate precision of a pincer movement, are three riders.

For a moment, I don’t recognize them.

They’re bare-chested, sun-burnished, moving with that loose, predatory grace you only get from years of saddle and sweat and never giving a single fuck what people think. They’re not a trio of men so much as a pack of wolves, tanned and cut, riding like they were born on horseback.

For a split second, it’s almost mythic— three gods come to wrangle the world’s last wildness.

Then the wind shifts, and their scents hit me all at once: pine and citrus and smoke and the sticky, dangerous sweetness of unclaimed Alpha.

My skin goes electric, every nerve ending lighting up like a pinball machine.

Of course it’s them.

It’s always them.

Callum is in the lead, mounted on a horse so black it swallows light.

His hair is darker than the clouds above, sticking to his forehead in damp, angry spikes.

He’s got a look of focus so intense it could laser through sheet metal, and his arms— holy shit —are corded with muscle, veins standing out like riverbeds in a drought.

He handles the reins with one hand, the other resting loose at his thigh, ready to grab, to redirect, to control.

For a half second, I picture what those hands would do if turned on something smaller, something breakable.

My own brain supplies a high-def, slow-mo reel of those hands on me instead, and the mental image is so explicit I have to physically shake my head to clear it.

Goodness gracious, Juniper. Horny much?

Maybe a little, says the traitorous inner voice I’ve been cultivating since puberty, the one that never has a filter and always narrates the worst-case scenario in excruciating detail.

I try to focus on the horses, but the vision of Callum’s arms around my waist, pinning me with easy strength, derails every thought train I attempt to board.

Get it together, Bell.

I wipe at my face, pretend the rain is what’s making my cheeks hot, and force myself to scan the full field of play instead of hyperfixating on the Alpha in front.

Which is when I spot the second rider, flanking the herd on the left, all rawboned grace and hell-bent velocity.

It’s Wes, and of course he’s showboating, because if there’s anything he loves more than being the center of gravity in any given room, it’s stealing the spotlight from Callum.

Wes flanks the herd from the left, riding a rangy bay mare with a white splash down her face.

He’s the only one who looks even remotely like he’s enjoying himself—grinning like a kid with a stolen slingshot, hair wild in the wind, eyes squinted against the oncoming rain.

His torso is lean, tanned, the hint of an old tattoo peeking out from under his collarbone.

He doesn’t hold the reins so much as let them hang, steering with his legs and a whistle that pierces the air every few seconds, a sound that cuts through even the gathering storm.

Beckett rides the anchor position, behind and to the right, his horse a hulking chestnut gelding with a face like a Roman senator.

Beckett is bulkier than the other two, all shoulders and arms and a chest that seems too broad for the saddle.

He’s got a line of sweat running down his sternum, and he’s not even breathing hard.

His face is set, jaw locked, eyes scanning the herd, the road, everything.

He doesn’t miss a thing, never has.

They’re close now, the herd funneled between the road and the sagging fence.

The sound is seismic—hooves, snorts, the deep, wet inhale of horses running at full tilt.

For a second, the wind brings the smell of them: dirt, hair, salt, the hot metallic reek of living muscle.

It’s the most alive thing I’ve sensed in months.

I stand there, frozen, as the first raindrops hit.

They’re cold, stinging, and immediately soak through the fabric of my tee and the cheap sports bra underneath.

Within seconds, I’m drenched, hair plastered to my neck, shirt stuck so tight it feels like a second skin.

The mustangs sweep past in a blur, every animal’s eye rolling white, every mouth open and gasping for air. The three men follow, and in the space of a heartbeat, all three look my way.

Wes is the first to react, flashing me a grin so wide it borders on feral. He raises one hand, tips an imaginary hat, and lets out a whoop that’s one part greeting, two parts dare.

Beckett nods, barely perceptible, but there’s something in his eyes—recognition or the start of a laugh.

Callum just stares, and in that stare is a universe: disapproval, concern, a challenge so naked it makes my stomach flip.

Then they’re gone, thundering down the road, herding the mustangs away from the open stretch and into the safety of the side pasture.

I’m left standing, cold and dripping, my pulse thrumming in every inch of my skin.

I want to scream, or cry, or throw something heavy at the truck just for the pleasure of watching it break.

Instead, I stand there, shivering, as the rain comes down harder and the scent of Alpha lingers in the churned-up air.

I’m not cut out for this…

Was that why I left in the first place?

But for a second— just a second —I feel more alive than I have since the day I left.

I wipe my face, flick water from my hair, and trudge back to the truck. Settling inside, I can’t help but look at the second cinnamon bun that’s still on the passenger seat, untouched. I dread not taking the offer for more free goodness, but now the sight simply makes me feel hungrier.

I open the wrapper and, ignoring the rain and the world, eat it with my hands, licking the sugar from my fingers and letting the storm wash everything else away.

The rain doesn’t so much fall as detonate.

It comes down in sheets, as though the sky finally snapped and dumped everything it had. Within seconds, the world is noise: the rattle of water on metal, the shiver of wind through wire, the slap of fat drops on bare arms and upturned faces.