Page 14 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Callum’s gaze drops for a split second—to the collar of his own shirt wrapped around my body, to my fingers white-knuckled at the buttons, then back up to my face. He exhales, the breath visible, a miniature fog bank.

He says, “You cold?”

It takes me a second to comprehend his question because it’s so blatantly obvious that I’m cold, that I’m tempted to let my teeth chatter away like they uncontrollably would if I wasn’t fighting the urge.

No shit Sherlock, I’m fucking cold!

I clamp down on the urge to reply with a quip about how I’m actually overheating from mortification.

Instead, I manage, “I’m fine.”

My teeth click on the f, which does nothing for my already sterling reputation.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Sure about that?”

“Positive,” I lie. “I’ve survived worse.”

“Worse than your truck breaking down in the middle of a storm, wearing a tank top that’s now see-through, and refusing help from anyone who offers?”

The air stings, and so does his accuracy.

But it’s not a challenge; it’s just a statement.

He says it like he’s reading headlines from a local paper.

I open my mouth, reach for a comeback, then remember that my best defense at this point is to stop feeding the Alpha.

But Callum is not so easily starved. He cocks his head, eyes moving over me with a new kind of scrutiny. Not the hungry, possessive kind I’m used to from townies. It’s softer, like he’s running diagnostics, cataloging which parts of me are about to give out next.

He steps closer, and for a moment it’s like standing downwind of a campfire: the wet woodsmoke, the crushed pine, the chemical thrill of lightning in the air. It’s suffocating in the best way, and I hate how much I want to inhale. To just bury my face in the shirt and let everything else fall away.

Instead, I ball my fists and say, “If you’re going to keep hovering, at least have the decency to pretend it’s for your own entertainment.”

He actually cracks a smile at that, quick and razor-edged.

“You ever consider you’re not as unwatchable as you think?”

My cheeks go radioactive. I want to believe it’s from the cold, but I know better.

“You ever consider you’re not as irresistible as you think?”

He shrugs.

“Most days, I try not to think at all.”

The storm’s intensity ratchets up, the rain coming now in horizontal slashes.

Callum glances at the horizon, then at me, then at the corpse of my truck. He looks like he’s about to say something monumental, but what comes out is this:

“You should get inside. You’ll catch hypothermia.”

“I don’t get sick,” I say, and immediately cough on nothing.

The universe’s sense of irony is relentless.

He just watches, the smile gone but not forgotten. He steps away from the truck, reaching into his saddlebag. I brace for him to offer more unsolicited help, but instead, he produces a battered old thermos and unscrews the top. He pours a shot’s worth into the lid and hands it to me.

“Here.”

I sniff it.

“Is this actual coffee, or did you fill it with motor oil to keep your testosterone up?”

He shrugs, the barest glimmer of humor at the edge of his mouth.

“Only one way to find out.”

I take the cup, swallow, and am immediately rewarded with the double punch of scalding caffeine and what has to be the ghost of a cheap bourbon.

It warms a line straight down my throat, and for a second, I could almost kiss him for it.

Almost.

He caps the thermos, wipes his hand on his jeans, and then does the thing that makes my brain do a hard reset: He shrugs off his flannel—another one, because apparently every Alpha is issued at least three per season—and tosses it over my shoulders.

It lands with more precision than a drone strike, enveloping me in fabric that’s warm, thick, and absolutely reeking of him.

The inside is lined with the ghosts of every fire he’s ever sat beside, every horse he’s ever brushed down, every night spent awake while the world slept.

It is, in all possible ways, the realest thing I’ve ever felt against my skin.

He doesn’t look away while I process this, doesn’t give me the grace of averted eyes. He stands there and lets it happen: the slow, humiliating flush of comfort, the immediate drop in adrenaline, the way my body— traitor that it is —settles into the sensation of being cared for.

“That’s…not necessary,” I mumble, even as my fingers lock on the front and pull it tighter.

It nearly swallows me whole.

“Didn’t ask for necessary,” he says. “Just didn’t want you freezing to death before I got my shirt back.”

“You assume you’re getting it back,” I say, which comes out more as a whimper than a threat.

He laughs, low and short, then turns and swings himself onto the horse in one effortless motion.

For a second, he’s just a silhouette against the silver sky, all coiled energy and patience.

“Let’s get you home, Bell,” he says, and it’s not a question.

I want to protest, to tell him I can walk, that I’m not a charity case, that I don’t need a damn rescue.

But the warmth of the shirt and the coffee are already doing things to my resolve that feel suspiciously like surrender.

He waits while I clamber up behind him, the horse shifting under my weight but otherwise unbothered.

I sit awkwardly, clutching the flannel to my chest, aware of every inch of space— or lack thereof —between us.

The shirtless, rain-soaked Alpha in front of me is radiating heat, and despite every good intention I’ve ever had, my hands find their way to his waist just to stay upright.

The ride is silent except for the storm.

The horse’s gait is smooth, and Callum’s back is a wall of steady strength.

I try not to dwell on the fact that my thighs are pressed to his, that the flannel is a permeable boundary at best, that the wind is taking our scents and weaving them together in a way that makes my whole body shiver with the wrong kind of anticipation.

The sanctuary is a mile off, maybe less, but it feels like forever. Every hoofbeat is a drum, every drop of rain a new reason to forget how much I hate this. I’m not sure if I’m angry, grateful, or just desperately tired of being so alone.

When we reach the battered front gate, Callum swings off, then offers a hand to help me down. I take it without thinking, and for the briefest second, our palms meet—warm, solid, a flash of static that leaves me gasping.

He steadies me as I hit the ground, then releases me like I’m radioactive.

He watches while I fumble with the gate, with the flannel, with my own inability to form words.

“You’ll be okay,” he says, not as a question but as a verdict. Then, softer: “If you need anything, you know where to find me. We’ll get the truck back here and figure what’s wrong with it after the storm, okay?”

I nod, the action barely making it from my brain to my neck.

He mounts up again, rain sluicing down his arms, the water beading and running like he’s been carved from the storm itself. He rides off without another word, silhouette shrinking against the bruised sky, taking the brunt of the weather with him.

I stand there, in the ruins of my pride and staring back at where we left my truck, clutching the flannel so tight it leaves an impression on my skin. The scent is everywhere— overwhelming, inescapable —and for the first time since I landed back in this dead-end town,

I don’t know if I want to run from it or crawl inside and never come out.

The storm howls, but the inside of the shirt is a hush, a lull, a promise that I don’t have to do this alone.

I trudge up the path to the house, feet heavy, heart heavier, and try not to think about how much the world has changed in a single, rain-soaked afternoon.

But the scent lingers, and the warmth lingers, and the memory of his hand on mine lingers most of all.

Could this be what it means to be claimed—not all at once, but in increments, until one day you look down and realize you’ve been wearing someone else’s shirt for years and never once wanted to take it off.

Who fucking knows…