Page 22 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

"Tell me about it." She settles onto one of the creaky bar stools, looking around with curious eyes. "Went from dodging taxis to dodging pickup trucks. From pretentious coffee shops to... well, actually there's still pretentious coffee, it's just served by cowboys instead of hipsters."

I snort, pouring her a mug.

"Let me guess—The Orchard?"

"Oh my God, yes!" She accepts the coffee gratefully, wrapping both hands around it like a lifeline.

"What is with that place? I went in once asking for a simple latte and the barista looked at me like I'd requested unicorn blood.

Then he proceeded to lecture me about the superiority of their house blend for fifteen minutes. "

"That would be Ray," I confirm. "He's... intense about coffee. And everything else, honestly."

"I'll stick to gas station coffee, thanks." She takes a sip, sighs contentedly. "Though this is good. Like, actually good. Not the tar I usually mainline."

"Thanks. It's about the only domestic skill I have." I lean against the counter, studying her over my own mug.

There's something refreshing about talking to another Omega, especially one who clearly takes no shit from anyone. Her whole energy is different from mine—where I bristle and fight, she seems to deflect with humor and strategic invisibility.

"So what brought you from NYC to the middle of nowhere Oregon?" I ask.

Her expression shutters slightly, that same careful sidestep from before.

"Needed a change of scenery. Sometimes you gotta get as far away from your old life as possible, you know? And they were hiring, so..." She shrugs. "Here I am, delivering mail to ranches that apparently require four-wheel drive and a death wish to reach."

"The road's not usually that bad," I say, though that's possibly a lie. "The storm really did a number on it."

"Yeah, I noticed." She glances around the kitchen, taking in the dated appliances and water-stained ceiling. "This place yours?"

"Inherited it from my aunt. Lucky me, right?" I gesture at the general chaos. "Came complete with a three-legged mule, more repairs than I can count, and the judgment of an entire town."

"The judgment's free with every small-town membership," Piper says sagely.

"I swear these people have nothing better to do than gossip about everyone else's business.

Last week, Mrs. Henderson cornered me for twenty minutes to discuss the scandal of the Baker's teenage daughter dying her hair black. Black! Can you imagine?"

"The horror," I deadpan.

"Right? Meanwhile, I'm walking around with traffic-cone orange hair and enough metal in my ears to set off airport security, but sure, let's panic about some teen's gothic phase."

We fall into easy conversation, trading stories about small-town absurdities and the culture shock of coming from bigger cities.

Piper's got a gift for storytelling, painting vivid pictures of her NYC mail route that included everything from mob-adjacent businesses to avant-garde artists who paid in interpretive dance performances.

"I'm not kidding," she insists when I express skepticism about the dance thing. "This woman would come to the door in full body paint and insist on performing what she called 'kinetic gratitude' instead of signing for packages. My supervisor just told me to go with it and mark it as received."

"That's..." I search for words. "Actually kind of beautiful?"

"It was something, all right. Definitely made the day interesting." She drains her coffee, checks her watch again. "Speaking of interesting, I should probably head out before my car decides to become a permanent part of your driveway. This mud's only gonna get worse once the sun really hits it."

I walk her back to the door, oddly reluctant to see her go.

It's been nice talking to someone who doesn't have ten years of complicated history with me, someone who doesn't look at me and see all the ways I failed to live up to expectations.

"Thanks for the coffee," Piper says, pausing on the porch. "And the conversation. It's nice to talk to another Omega who gets it, you know?"

"Yeah," I agree. "It really is."

She starts down the steps, then turns back.

"Hey, if you ever need anything—gossip, coffee that doesn't come with a lecture, someone to bitch about Alpha bullshit with—I'm around. The post office knows where to find me, obviously."

"I might take you up on that," I say, meaning it.

She gives me a mock salute, then trudges back to her car, muttering creative curses at the mud trying to steal her boots.

I watch her execute a twenty-seven-point turn to get the car facing the right direction, then she's off, leaving deep ruts in the road and the lingering scent of diluted honey.

I head back inside, flipping through the mail again.

The mystery letter catches my eye, and I tear it open, curious.

The message inside is brief, written in the same unfamiliar hand:

"Heard you were back. Some things never change. Be careful who you trust. -A friend"

Well, that's not ominous at all.

I crumple the letter, tossing it in the general direction of the trash.

Anonymous warnings are just another fun feature of small-town life, right up there with everyone knowing your business and having opinions about it.

But as I pour myself another cup of coffee, I can't shake the feeling that things are about to get a lot more complicated.

Between the Alphas who won't leave me alone, the Omega who's hiding in plain sight, and now anonymous letters, it seems like Saddlebrush Ridge isn't done with me yet.

The morning sun streams through the kitchen window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. Somewhere outside, Pickles is probably planning his next escape attempt. The ranch needs about a thousand hours of work.

And I still can't get the feeling of Wes's arms around me out of my head.

"Just another day in paradise," I mutter, raising my mug in a mock toast to the empty kitchen.

But even as I say it, I realize something's shifted. Maybe it's Piper's easy acceptance, or the way Wes held me like I was something precious, or just the fact that I made it through another night without running back to the city.

Whatever it is, I feel a little less alone than I did yesterday.

It's not much, but it's something.

And right now, something is more than enough.