Page 13 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

I don’t realize how soaked I am until my shirt sticks to my ribs and the cotton underlayer starts sliding south in defeat.

My white tank top, a relic from better, braless days, goes translucent instantly.

Every inch of me is on display: hard points, soft curves, the kind of high-contrast show that would’ve had my high school principal calling for an immediate dress code intervention.

Worse, the cold and the shock make my scent spike again, a spike so sharp and clear it’s almost tangible: Omega, embarrassed and angry and running at a dead sprint from vulnerability. I’m trying to figure out how I’ll escape this stream of badluck, while wondering how those mustangs even got out.

Whether it was an accident or maybe on purpose, how would I even know?

With a frustrated huff, I try to tame my wild scent that’s only getting strong, the distress like some siren call that I’m sure won’t end well if I can’t get myself home. If I thought that would keep the Alphas at bay, I was out of my goddamn mind.

They’re on me before I can even think about hiding.

The herd of mustangs are back, less wild and more tamed as they sweep past, driven by the three men, all of them shirtless, soaked, and skin gleaming with rain and effort.

The horses’ breath fogs the air, the heat of their bodies colliding with the chill of the storm.

Beckett rides by first, chestnut horse kicking up mud and water, and there’s this moment—so brief I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it—where his gaze snaps to mine, softening at the edges, and he gives a lopsided smile.

Not the smirk of someone amused by my predicament, but the gentle, knowing smile of a man who’s seen a thousand storms and survived all of them.

He tips his head, almost a bow, and I catch the cinnamon warmth of his scent, even through the wet and the wind.

Wes follows, bay mare dancing under him like she’s got electric wires for legs. He rides with one hand, the other held high in a wild, boyish wave, and his laugh is bright enough to cut through the entire shitshow of my day.

“Hell of a look, Junebug!” he shouts, voice nearly lost in the thunder. “Could’ve used a white flag if you wanted to get our attention!”

He rides on, laughter trailing behind him like a comet tail. It’s hard to not roll my eyes at him, knowing this playful boyish side is one of the traits I actually liked about him. Not to serious. A breath of fresh hair and balance, especially in their pack dynamic.

Then comes Callum, and he’s not just passing by—he’s aiming straight at me, like a bullet with my name etched into the casing.

His horse is a beast, black and monstrous, and he rides it with a single-mindedness that’s almost threatening.

He reins in hard, mud spraying everywhere, and for a second the only thing between us is a wall of hot, fogging breath.

There’s lightning behind him—literal lightning, split-forking the sky, illuminating the valley in a wash of white.

It turns his silhouette into something mythic, half-man, half-animal, and he doesn’t even flinch as the thunder chases it, rumbling so deep it rattles my teeth.

He’s just…there.

Present.

And I dare admit in the depths of myself how badly I wished he could be mine…

His eyes rake over me, and I can feel the heat in them, the way they take in every inch of my body: the soaked tank top, the curve of my arms clamped tight across my chest, the flush of my cheeks, probably redder than a barn roof.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches.

I cross my arms tighter, shivering from cold and anger and the rawness of being seen.

“What?” I snap, louder than I mean to. “You gonna lecture me about accepting help again?”

He blinks, slow, like the words have to work their way through a labyrinth before they find purchase.

“No,” he says.

The word is a brick, dropped flat.

I wait. The rain pours down, flattening the world around us, turning the road into a slurry of rock and gray water.

“No?” I repeat, thrown off balance.

He swings down from the horse in one motion, barely breaking stride as his boots hit the mud.

“Figured you learned your lesson already,” he says, voice so calm it’s disarming.

I don’t know what to do with this new version of Callum, the one who isn’t pushing, who isn’t trying to prove a point or take the upper hand.

It’s almost worse than if he’d come at me full throttle.

I watch him wipe the rain from his eyes, shake water from his hands, and I can’t help but notice the way the muscles flex and settle under his skin.

He looks like he was built for this weather, for this life—everything about him is so solid, so permanent, it makes me ache.

The horse stands beside him, nearly as massive as the man himself, and it watches me with the same inscrutable calm.

I wish I could stare back with half the confidence, but all I can do is fidget and try to keep the chill from making my teeth chatter.

Callum steps closer, careful not to crowd but not leaving any question about who owns the space between us.

He glances at the truck, at the horizon, at me, then shrugs.

“It’s not a weakness to ask for help,” he says, so quiet I almost miss it over the rain.

I want to say something biting, something that’ll put him back on his heels, but nothing comes.

I just stand there, exposed in every sense of the word, waiting for the next round of humiliation.

He pulls something from his saddle—a flannel shirt, red and blue, worn soft at the edges—and holds it out to me.

Not as a peace offering, but as an inevitability, as though it’s the logical next step and it’d be dumb to refuse.

I hesitate, but the cold wins. I take it, pull it on over the ruined tank top, and immediately the scent hits me: smoke, rain, the deep resinous note of pine, and underneath it all, the unmistakable warmth of Alpha.

It’s so overwhelming I almost sway.

Callum watches, unblinking.

He says nothing, but his eyes say everything—disappointment…or a softer emotion? Something like relief.

I hug the shirt tight around me, fighting the urge to bury my face in the collar and just breathe.

He turns to leave, then stops.

Looks back at me, rain running down his face like he’s made of stone and water.

“Do you need help?” he asks, and I’m left again with the confrontational reality that I don’t want to admit I need his assistance.

Their assistance.

I stand there a minute longer, shirt clinging, face burning, and try to decide if I’m angry, grateful, or just very, very tired.

At this point, it’s probably all three, but there I am bitting my bottom lip like a stubborn mule, unable to do what he’s asking of me.

As if submission is a death sentence for an Omega.

Which is why my silence lingers.

I trudge back to the truck, curl up in the cab, and let the sound of the rain drown everything else out.

Time doesn’t so much pass as thicken, caught in the slow churn of clouds overhead and the heavy press of Callum’s flannel clinging to my shoulders. The scent of him is everywhere—soaked into the fabric, swirling in the close, steamy air of the truck cab, and alive in every inhale.

Smoke and pine, woodsmoke and something under it that’s just raw Alpha, ancient and undeniable. It’s like being blanketed by a memory you never made, only more immediate: my skin prickles with every breath, as if the shirt itself is holding me together.

I expect him to ride off, to leave me stewing in my own embarrassment and wet socks, but he waits—leaning against the truck with his arms folded and his shirtless chest radiating the kind of calm you only see in wild animals right before they pounce.

His horse, black and rain-streaked, stands sentinel beside him, eyes fixed on me as if I’m a misbehaving colt about to spook at a shadow.

For a long moment, nobody says anything.

I watch the rain bead and run down the window, tracing lines across the glass like a finger dragging through sugar. I should get out, say thanks for his patience and encourage him to go his way, should do literally anything except sit here breathing him in like a goddamn inhaler.

When I finally crack the door, he doesn’t move to help in the slightest. It’s my toast of Karma for not accepting his aid and now allowing him to stand next to this stuck truck like a stubborn child throwing a tantrum before going into the store.

Ugh. Let’s get this over with!

I slip on the first step— slick, idiot move —and only just catch myself before I faceplant into the mud. It’s not even a spectacular save. I’m half in, half out of the truck, water dripping from my hair, flannel swallowing my frame, and there he is: solid, unmoving, gaze steady on mine.

I open my mouth to say something sharp, some retort about unnecessary heroics, but the words dry up before they make it out.

Instead, I just look at him, really look, as if staring hard enough might produce a solution to the ever-widening sinkhole that is my life.

It doesn’t, but it does give me a front-row seat to the spectacle of Callum Hayes: six feet of wet, dripping, unimpressed Alpha, hair plastered flat, raindrops beading off his lashes.

His arms cross over his chest, which is —yeah, okay, I’ll admit it —ridiculous in every way that matters.

The muscle’s not just for show.

It’s utility muscle, earned from a decade of wrangling stock and, apparently, delusional Omegas.

For a second, neither of us blinks.

The world narrows to rain, breath, and the tiny increments of tension that ratchet up in the air.

He shifts his weight, the movement so economical it’s almost lazy. The horse beside him chuffs and tosses its head, spraying both of us with a new wave of cold droplets.

Callum doesn’t flinch.

I do. My whole body jerks like a puppet on a string, and suddenly I’m extra aware of every inch of skin, every goosebump, every molecule of scent that’s leeching out into the storm.

I try to reassert my defenses, but the wind just rips the thought away, carrying it off to whatever dimension unclaimed dignity goes to die.