Page 23 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

FLOUR, FRUSTRATION, AND FATHERLY ADVICE

~BECKETT~

T he wedding cake is going to be the death of me.

I've been at this for six hours straight, and the three-tier monstrosity sitting on the work table still looks like it was assembled by a drunk toddler with commitment issues.

The bottom layer lists to the left like it's contemplating escape, the middle tier has a suspicious crack running down one side, and the top layer... well, the less said about that disaster, the better.

My hands are coated in buttercream and regret, flour dusting every surface within a five-foot radius of where I've been working.

The Hendersons' daughter is getting married next weekend, and they specifically requested "something elegant but not too fancy"—which is baker-speak for "we want perfection but we're only paying for decent."

The problem isn't the cake.

The problem is my brain, which keeps wandering to silver-streaked hair and storm-gray eyes, to the way Juniper looked yesterday in the rain, soaked through and defiant as ever.

The problem is the scent memory that clings to everything—honeysuckle and stubborn determination, sweetness cut with the kind of wild energy that makes my chest tight and my hands shake.

Hence the stress baking.

When I can't sleep, I bake. When I'm worried, I bake. When I miss someone so fiercely, it feels like a physical ache, I bake until my arms are sore, and the ovens have been running so long they're practically smoking.

Today, I've made six dozen dinner rolls, two apple pies, a batch of experimental lavender shortbread, and this fucking wedding cake that refuses to cooperate.

I step back from the latest disaster, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist, and survey the carnage.

Powdered sugar has settled over everything like snow, mixing with the flour to create a fine coating of baking debris.

Empty mixing bowls are stacked in precarious towers by the sink, and I'm pretty sure there's buttercream in my hair.

This is what happens when I let my emotions get the better of me.

The morning started normally enough—coffee at five, first batch of bread in the ovens by five-thirty, the familiar rhythm of mixing and kneading that usually centers me.

But then Wes had shown up with that shit-eating grin and the news that he was taking breakfast to Juniper, and everything went sideways.

The way he'd said her name, like it was something precious.

The careful way he'd selected which pastries to take, choosing her favorites without even thinking about it.

The fact that after ten years, we all still know exactly what makes her smile.

By seven, I was elbow-deep in cake batter, muttering curses at the mixing bowl like it had personally offended me.

By eight, I'd moved on to aggressive pie crust rolling, taking out my frustrations on innocent dough.

Now it's nearly nine, and I'm contemplating whether setting the whole kitchen on fire might be a more productive use of my time.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Beck." Ray's voice cuts through my flour-induced haze, heavy with exasperation.

"You've been at this for six hours straight.

The ovens haven't stopped running, you've got enough baked goods back here to feed a small army, and you're muttering at that cake like it owes you money. "

I don't look up from the disaster I'm trying to salvage, carefully piping a border of rosettes that are supposed to hide the structural issues plaguing the middle tier.

"It's a wedding cake, Ray. It has to be perfect."

"It's a wedding cake for the Hendersons, who think caviar is fish bait and champagne is what you drink when beer runs out.

" Ray leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying me with the kind of look usually reserved for mental health interventions.

"They're not gonna notice if the roses are slightly lopsided. "

He's not wrong, but that's not the point.

The point is that when my hands are busy, my brain can't spiral into all the ways I've fucked up my life.

When I'm focused on buttercream consistency and proper temperature control, I can't think about the way Juniper used to laugh at my terrible jokes, or how she'd steal bites of whatever I was making before it was finished, or the fact that I've been in love with her since I was seventeen and too stupid to know what to do about it.

"Maybe you need to go find some Omega pussy to work out all this sexual frustration," Ray continues, apparently unaware that his commentary is about as welcome as a root canal.

"Because this stress-baking marathon is driving me fucking insane, and if I have to smell one more batch of cinnamon rolls, I'm gonna lose what's left of my mind. "

I finally look up from the cake, fixing him with the kind of stare that's made grown men reconsider their life choices.

"Fuck off, Ray."

He rolls his eyes, unimpressed by my intimidation tactics.

"See? You're also a bigger swearing jerk when you're stressed for coochie. It's like clockwork with you—whenever you get worked up about something, you turn into Gordon Ramsay with commitment issues."

I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his amateur psychology when a familiar chuckle echoes from the back entrance.

"He's not wrong, you know."

Dad.

Of course Dad's here.

The man has an uncanny ability to show up at exactly the moments when I least want to deal with his particular brand of paternal wisdom.

He fills the doorway with his presence, all six-foot-three of weathered cowboy and knowing smirks, hat pushed back on his graying head in that way that means he's settling in for a conversation I definitely don't want to have.

"Beckett does stress-bake when he misses a certain woman in his life," Dad continues, stepping into the kitchen with the casual ease of someone who's had this conversation before. "Though I'll admit, the situation's gotten a bit more complicated lately."

I groan, letting my head fall back in defeat.

"Dad, why are you even here? Don't you have cattle to tend or fences to fix or literally anything else that doesn't involve commenting on my baking habits?"

He chuckles again, that low, warm sound that used to comfort me as a kid and now just signals incoming lectures about responsibility and feelings.

"Ray, why don't you head out front? Handle the morning customers. I need to have a word with my son."

Ray's eyes light up with the kind of mischief that spells trouble.

"Oh, I see how it is. Y'all are probably gonna exchange lottery numbers so you can get out of this shithole of a town and leave me out of it. I see how this family operates—keep the hired help in the dark while you make your escape plans."

Dad's smile widens, and there's something almost fond in his expression as he looks at Ray.

"If I win the lottery, I'll make sure to give you a tip. I actually bring everyone with me when I'm climbing the ladder of life, even when they're being douches."

"I don't want to hear that from you of all people," Ray mutters, but there's no real heat in it.

He huffs dramatically, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"Fine, I'll be up front, dealing with the morning rush and pretending I don't know you're back here having some kind of father-son bonding moment over stress pastries. "

The bell above the front door chimes as Ray makes his exit, leaving Dad and me alone in the flour-dusted chaos of my emotional breakdown.

Dad surveys the kitchen with the practiced eye of someone who's seen me work through feelings with baking before.

"Son, you might want to pause whatever you're doing and check those pies in the oven. They're about fifteen seconds away from being charcoal instead of fruit."

"Shit!" I drop the piping bag and rush to the ovens, yanking open the door to reveal two apple pies that are indeed teetering on the edge of disaster. The crusts are golden-brown perfection, flaky and gorgeous, but another minute would have pushed them into burned territory.

I slide them out with practiced movements, setting them on cooling racks with the kind of relief usually reserved for successful surgery.

"Perfect timing," I mutter, wiping sweat from my face with a kitchen towel.

"Always is with baking," Dad observes, settling onto one of the work stools like he's planning to stay awhile. "So, what's the matter, son? Though with how small this town is, I probably already know."

I lean against the work table, suddenly exhausted.

The adrenaline of saving the pies has worn off, leaving behind the bone-deep tiredness that comes from fighting a war against your own heart.

"If you already know, then why are you asking?"

Dad whistles low, the sound somehow conveying both sympathy and amusement.

"Your lost girl's finally back home, huh?"

Lost girl.

The nickname hits harder than it should, carrying with it years of careful distance and unspoken regret. Dad's always had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, seeing past all the bullshit and evasion to the truth underneath.

I give him a look—the same look I've been perfecting since I was sixteen and he started giving me relationship advice I didn't want to hear.

He just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Finally, I sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"That fierce, bold sweetpea is now a closed-off defender whose eyes shine with hope but shadow up with uncertainty.

" The words come out quieter than I intended, heavy with all the things I've been trying not to feel.

"She's... different. Harder. Like she's built walls so high I'd need a fucking ladder just to see over them. "

Dad's expression softens, and when he speaks, his voice carries the weight of experience and hard-won wisdom.

"Can you blame her? Y'all fucked up, Beckett. Badly."

"Thanks, Dad. Really helping here." I turn back to the wedding cake, poking at the frosting with unnecessary aggression. "I came here to bake away my feelings, not get a lecture about my failures."