Page 21 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
UNEXPECTED DELIVERY
~JUNIPER~
I watch Wes's truck disappear down the muddy road until it's nothing but a dust cloud and exhaust fumes, my coffee mug warming my hands against the morning chill.
The question that's been nagging at me since he showed up blooms into full-blown paranoia: Did he hear me in the shower?
The timing was too perfect, showing up right after I'd finished my little... stress relief session.
And the way he'd looked at me, that knowing glint in his blue eyes, the slight quirk of his lips when he asked if I'd had a rough night.
The way he'd looked at me—that slow, deliberate once-over, the kind you can't decide if you should slap or kiss him for—was infuriatingly effective at both making my knees weak and my hackles rise.
There was a knowing glint in his blue eyes that said, clear as day, he had clocked every beat of my morning routine: the rushed towel dry, the hurried dressing, maybe even the half-muffled, desperate little noises I'd lost to the water.
My face heats at the memory, and I take a long sip of coffee to hide behind the mug. If he did hear, he was gentleman enough not to mention it.
Though with Wes, "gentleman" is a relative term.
The man's always walked the line between charming and trouble, usually landing on whichever side caused the most chaos.
The hug, though.
That was unexpected. The way he'd held me, careful but sure, like he was afraid I'd bolt but couldn't stop himself from trying.
And that whisper against my shoulder— welcome back, Junebug —delivered with such raw honesty it made my chest ache.
I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the vehicle rumbling up the road.
Not another truck —thank God, I can't handle another Alpha ambush this morning —but a mail delivery car, the kind that looks like it's held together by rust and pure determination.
It lurches through the puddles and potholes with admirable tenacity, finally grinding to a halt near the porch.
The mail carrier's car hasn't even fully stopped rattling when the driver's side door slams open with the force of someone twice her size, and out pops a woman who is, for a moment, almost too colorful to register against the overcast gray at her back.
That's not just orange hair. It's traffic-cone, hazard-warning orange, styled in a blunt pixie cut that practically broadcasts its own weather alert.
She stands a moment surveying her battlefield—Boots, meet Slop.
Slop, meet Boots—with an air of resigned hilarity, as if the universe has once again delivered her the punchline to a joke only she finds funny.
She's maybe twenty-five, twenty-six tops, but her posture is all swaggering adolescent boy: slouched shoulders, hands dug so deep in her pockets her uniform shirt hikes up a fraction, revealing a tattooed sliver of something geometric just above her waistband.
Her USPS shirt is untucked, the official blue faded almost to periwinkle, and the name patch—N.
FLETCHER—is partly obscured by a row of enamel pins with slogans like "I Came, I Saw, I Delivered" and "NOT YOUR POSTAL SWEETHEART.
" Every inch of visible skin is punctured or inked or both; I count at least three nose rings, a silver bar through one brow, and enough earrings to make her ears resemble bedazzled chain mail.
Her postal cap is cocked back on her head, revealing eyebrows dyed a shade darker than her hair and eyes that glitter with competitive curiosity as she clocks me standing on the porch.
She plants her boots in the ooze with theatrical care, as if expecting one to be claimed by the mud monster that haunts rural delivery routes, and immediately locks eyes with me.
No fear, no hesitation, just a challenge: your move, Ranch Girl.
We stare each other down for a beat, two strangers in a standoff mediated by caffeine and rain boots.
She sizes up the porch steps, the slick mud, the precarious foothold, and lets out a sigh so dramatic it's probably audible in three counties.
Then she grins, revealing a tiny gap in her front teeth that inexplicably makes her look both like a cartoon felon and the most trustworthy person I've ever met.
She grabs a battered shoulder bag—patches, more pins, duct tape repairs—and slings it crosswise, marching up the steps like a soldier on a doomed mission.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she mutters, surveying the muddy battlefield between her car and my porch. "How the hell do you even get up this road? I swear I left half my undercarriage back there with what's probably the ghost of my alignment."
I can't help but grin.
"Welcome to Bell Ranch, where the roads are more suggestion than reality."
She eyes my truck with something like professional appreciation.
"Ford F-250? Good choice for out here, though you might want to think about bigger tires. The mud in Saddlebrush is like nothing I've ever seen, and I've delivered mail in some pretty questionable places. I swear nature up here has it out for anything with wheels."
Alright. I like her.
"You been here long?" I ask, leaning against the porch railing.
There's something about her scent that catches my attention— sweet but muted, like honey diluted in water .
It tickles at my senses, familiar but wrong somehow, like a song played in the wrong key.
She hefts her mail bag with a grunt.
"Six months, give or take. Transferred here from Portland, which was its own special kind of hell, but at least the roads there were paved."
I tilt my head, studying her.
The scent thing is really bothering me now.
"Not to be weird, but... are you an Omega? Your scent's giving hints but it's so faint it's hard to tell."
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she schools her expression back to casual amusement. She glances around like she's checking for eavesdroppers, then leans in close enough that I catch a stronger whiff of that diluted sweetness.
"Shh," she says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't go spreading my secret around. Name's Piper, and yeah, I'm an Omega. But I've been dosing with suppressants and scent blockers since I got here. Was warned that playing Beta was the smarter move in a town like this."
"Warned by who?" I ask, though I can guess the answer.
"The postmaster in Portland. His cousin used to live here, told him Saddlebrush is one of those towns that doesn't take kindly to newcomers. Especially not Omega newcomers." She straightens up, adjusting her bag. "After six months, I'm grateful for the advice. This place is...intense."
"That's one word for it," I agree, thinking of yesterday's gauntlet through town. "How've you been surviving?"
Piper laughs, a bright sound that seems too big for the quiet morning.
"By keeping my head down, doing my job, and investing in industrial-strength suppressants. Though honestly? Some days I wonder if it's worth it. The pills make me feel like I'm walking around wrapped in cotton, you know?"
I do know.
I'd tried suppressants in the city, hoping they'd make dating easier, make me less aware of every Alpha in a three-block radius. All they did was make me feel like a ghost of myself, drifting through life without ever really touching it.
"Things have been rather... tricky," I admit, which might be the understatement of the century.
She gives me an appraising look, taking in my still-damp hair, the oversized t-shirt, the general air of someone who's been through the emotional wringer before 8 AM.
"Tricky's one word for it," she says with a knowing grin. "But you look like a badass Omega to me. I'm sure you've got things handled. Sometimes you just gotta show these small-town Alphas you're not here to play their games."
"Trying to," I say, though I'm not sure how successful I've been so far. "Some days are better than others."
"Ain't that the truth." She digs into her bag, producing a small stack of mail. "Anyway, got some stuff for you. Mostly junk, but there's something official-looking from the county. Probably about property taxes or some other bureaucratic bullshit designed to make our lives harder."
I take the mail, flipping through it absently.
Bill, bill, credit card offer, something from the county that does indeed look ominous, and... a handwritten envelope with no return address.
My name is scrawled across the front in unfamiliar handwriting.
"Want some coffee?" I offer, tucking the mystery letter to the back of the stack. "Or water? Hell, I might even have some juice somewhere if you're feeling adventurous."
Piper considers this, squinting at her watch.
"You know what? You're actually my last delivery for the morning. Started my route at 4 AM, so I could definitely use the caffeine."
"Four in the morning?" I gawk at her. "That's ungodly. Even the roosters aren't up that early."
She shrugs, following me toward the porch.
"I'm a bit of a night owl. Haven't actually been to bed yet, if I'm being honest. Insomnia's a bitch, you know? Some fun leftover trauma from... well, from before. Figured if I'm gonna be awake anyway, might as well get paid for it."
I want to ask what she means by trauma, but I recognize the careful way she skirts around it.
Some stories aren't meant for first meetings, no matter how instantly comfortable you feel with someone.
"Fair warning," I say as we navigate the obstacle course of boxes in the living room, "I just got here a couple days ago, so the place is a disaster. If you're the judgmental type, now's your chance to run."
Piper laughs again, that bright, infectious sound.
"Please. I'm from the streets of New York City. I once delivered mail to a guy who kept seventeen cats and a python in a studio apartment. Your boxes don't even register on my weird-shit-o-meter."
"New York?" I lead her to the kitchen, grateful I'd at least washed the mugs earlier. "That's a hell of a change from Saddlebrush."