Page 25 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

HEATSTROKE AND CHILDHOOD ECHOES

~JUNIPER~

T he sun is trying to murder me.

I adjust my baseball cap for the fifteenth time in the last hour, pulling the brim lower over my eyes as I squint up at the merciless orb blazing overhead.

The sky is that particular shade of blue that promises no mercy—not a cloud in sight, just endless, punishing sunshine that turns the air into a shimmering furnace.

Oregon isn't supposed to be this hot in late spring.

But here I am, sweating through my tank top like I'm training for a sauna competition, staring at the pitiful amount of progress I've made since Piper left this morning.

Which is pretty much nothing.

The fence post I've been wrestling with for the last hour stands exactly where it did when I started—crooked, stubborn, and apparently welded in place by pure spite.

The wire I managed to untangle from the blackberry vines lies in a coiled heap at my feet, looking about as useful as my college degree in this particular situation.

Three broken fence slats lean against the barn like casualties of war, and the gate still hangs at that drunken angle that makes opening it a full-contact sport.

Who knows how many fucking hours of backbreaking labor, and I have precisely jack shit to show for it.

I groan, a sound that's part frustration and part heat exhaustion, and lean against the fence post that's been winning our wrestling match all morning. The metal is hot enough to brand cattle, and I jerk my hand back with a hiss.

Brilliant, Juniper. Add burns to your growing list of injuries.

Pickles watches my misery from his preferred spot in the shade of the barn, one ear flicked forward in what I'm choosing to interpret as concern rather than judgment.

Though knowing Pickles, it's definitely judgment.

The mule makes a sound that's somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, then deliberately turns his back to me and walks further into the shadows.

Even the livestock thinks I'm pathetic.

I side-glance him, realizing with growing certainty how absolutely stupid it was for me to think I could handle all of this on my own.

The sanctuary isn't just a fixer-upper—it's a full-scale disaster requiring actual skills, proper tools, and probably a team of professionals who know the difference between a fence post and a telephone pole.

Instead, I have enthusiasm, stubbornness, and a rapidly depleting bank account.

With a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my soul, I wonder if I should take a break. I've been out here since after breakfast when Piper left, working through the morning heat with nothing but determination and a growing sense of impending doom to sustain me.

The smart thing would be to go inside, drink some water, maybe figure out if I have any aloe vera for what's definitely going to be a spectacular sunburn.

But the smart thing feels too much like giving up, and I've been giving up on things for ten years. Moving from city to city, job to job, relationship to relationship—always finding reasons why this place or this person or this life wasn't quite right, wasn't quite enough.

I can't give up on this, too.

Not when it's the only thing Aunt Lil left me.

The only chance I have to prove I can build something lasting…

The next time I see Piper, I'll have to get her number or something so we can chat.

It would be nice to have someone to complain to who doesn't bray judgmentally or require grain as payment for listening.

Someone who understands the particular hell of being an Omega in a town full of Alphas with opinions about everything.

Though my phone never has service anyway.

I pull the ancient device out of my pocket, squinting at the screen through the sun's glare.

Zero bars, as usual. The thing is older than most of the fence posts I'm trying to replace, a hand-me-down that I use strictly for emergencies—assuming I can find enough signal to actually make a call when an emergency arises.

Which, let's be honest, is never.

I groan hopelessly, staring at the useless rectangle of plastic and false promises.

I wonder if I can afford to get a new one, something that might actually connect to the modern world instead of existing as an expensive paperweight with a camera that takes pictures like it's perpetually 2005.

Probably not.

Not with the ranch hemorrhaging money and my savings account looking like a rounding error.

I think about all the books I've read about girls texting their Alphas for assistance or just leisure commentary—those perfect fictional relationships where communication flows as easily as breathing, where a simple "thinking of you" message can brighten an entire day.

Meanwhile, I can't even get signal, let alone make a 911 call if I needed it.

The irony isn't lost on me.

Here I am, supposedly living in the age of connection and instant communication, and I'm more isolated than a pioneer woman on the frontier. At least pioneer women had neighbors who checked on them. All I have is Pickles, and he's made it clear that my problems are my own.

With a huff, I slide the phone back into my pocket, deciding I should take a break. Aside from the sweet goodness Wes brought earlier—those perfect cinnamon rolls that tasted like comfort and complicated feelings—I haven't really eaten anything substantial.

When did I become the kind of person who forgets to feed herself?

Or dismiss how basic self-care becomes a luxury I can't afford to prioritize?

I wonder what time it is, squinting at the sun's position like some kind of pioneer timekeeper. Based on the angle and the fact that my shadow has gotten significantly shorter since I started this morning, I'm guessing it's almost eleven.

Four hours.

I've been out here for four fucking hours, achieving nothing but a spectacular case of heat exhaustion and enough frustration to power a small city.

I should have brought sunscreen. The thought hits me like a revelation, though it's about three hours too late to be useful. The sun is blazing overhead with the intensity of a small star, and I can feel my skin tightening and burning despite the hat.

I'm going to blister up or at least get five shades darker.

Assuming I don't just spontaneously combust first.

I look up again, trying to gauge just how much damage I've done to myself, and immediately regret the decision.

The world tilts sideways for a moment, and I feel a familiar dizziness that takes me back to being a kid, sprawled along the riverside with nothing but a towel and misplaced confidence in my ability to handle the sun.

I can almost hear Callum's voice, that particular tone he'd get when he was trying to scold me while also being worried. The way he'd lecture me about sun safety and proper hydration while helping me apply aloe vera to shoulders that were red as lobsters.

Fun times.

The memory makes me groan, but even as I do, the dizziness doesn't fade.

If anything, it's getting worse, the edges of my vision starting to blur like someone's adjusting the focus on a camera.

This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

I try to take a step toward the house, toward shade and water and the basic common sense I should have employed four hours ago, but my legs have apparently decided they're done cooperating.

The ground rushes up to meet me, and the last thing I see before everything goes black is Pickles' judgmental stare.

Even unconscious, I can feel him rolling his eyes.

The voices come first, filtering through the haze like radio signals from a distant station.

"—always stays in the sun when she probably has sun deficiency or something equally stupid."

That voice.

Squeaky with the particular kind of adolescent concern that comes from caring too much and not knowing how to express it properly.

Callum.

But not grown-up Callum with his careful control and measured responses.

This is teenage Callum, all sharp edges and protective instincts he doesn't know how to handle.

"She doesn't have sun deficiency anything, Callum. It's iron deficiency, and it has nothing to do with laying in the sun."

My own voice, younger and more argumentative, rising from wherever childhood memories go to hide.

I sound so sure of myself, so ready to fight about everything, even when I'm clearly wrong.

"Junebug, you're now a ladybug with how red you are."

Wes, of course.

Even as a kid, he couldn't resist making jokes, especially when things got tense. His voice has that particular quality it gets when he's trying to lighten the mood but is actually worried underneath all the humor.

"My Dad's coming with the truck and will bring her to the hospital."

Beckett, steady and practical even at fifteen, already the caretaker of the group.

Always the one with a plan, always thinking three steps ahead while the rest of us were still figuring out step one.

"It's not that serious," I hear myself protest, but the words sound weak even in memory.

Then Callum's finger flicking against my sunburned arm, and the sharp sting that follows.

The way I stared at the red mark his touch left behind, the shock of pain that was somehow worse because it came from him.

"Ow! It stings!"

And then the tears, sudden and overwhelming, the kind of crying that comes from being hurt and embarrassed and overwhelmed all at once.

The way my voice cracked, the sob that escaped before I could stop it.

Being on the verge of tears turning into full-blown sobbing, the kind that shakes your whole body and makes breathing feel impossible.

"Shit! Fuck! Damn it!"

All three of them, cursing in unison, their panic immediate and absolute.

The way they all started talking at once, voices overlapping in their desperate attempt to fix what had gone wrong.

"Don't cry, Bell, please don't cry."

"We'll fix it, I promise we'll fix it."

"Ice cream, we'll get you ice cream, and anything else you want."

"Please stop crying, Sweetpea, please."

Callum's voice, smaller than the others, carrying the weight of guilt and something deeper.

"I'm sorry, Bell. I never want you to be hurt. You have to be more careful taking care of yourself, okay?"

The way he sounded almost desperate, like my pain was his fault, like he'd rather hurt himself than see me in distress.

My pouty response, thick with tears and wounded pride.

"You wouldn't care anyway."

Then being scooped up, strong arms that smelled like sawdust and Old Spice, Beckett's dad loading me into the truck with the kind of gentle efficiency that spoke of experience with injured kids.

And Callum's whisper, so quiet I almost missed it.

"I would care 'cause I like you."

The words that changed everything and nothing, the confession that rewrote the entire landscape of our friendship in six simple syllables.

"What did you say at the last part?"

My question, hopeful and uncertain, hanging in the air like a promise.

"Nothing."

His denial, quick and panicked, the door slamming shut on possibilities that were too big for fifteen-year-old hearts to handle.

The memory fades, leaving behind the taste of old heartbreak and the echo of voices that belonged to people we used to be.

People who were brave enough to care without calculating the cost.

Those who hadn't yet learned that love could be a weapon as much as a gift.

I can feel consciousness creeping back in around the edges, reality bleeding through the sepia-toned filter of nostalgia.

There's something soft beneath me—grass, maybe, or a blanket. The sun is blocked by something, creating blessed shade that feels like a reprieve from divine punishment.

And there are voices.

Real voices, not memory voices.

Adult voices that carry the weight of ten years' worth of careful distance and unspoken regret.

But underneath all that adult restraint, I can still hear the echoes of the boys they used to be.

The boys who would panic at the sight of my tears.

The boys who would promise ice cream and anything else I wanted if I would just please, please stop being hurt.

The boys who cared so much it scared them.

The boys who became men who still care, despite everything that's happened between then and now.

The boys who whispered confessions they were too young to understand and too scared to repeat.

The boys who never really left, no matter how hard we all tried to pretend they had.

The dizziness is fading, replaced by a different kind of light-headedness—the kind that comes from remembering things you'd forgotten you knew, from seeing the present through the lens of the past and realizing how little has actually changed.

We're still the same people underneath all the armor we've built.

The same hearts beating the same desperate rhythm.

Those souls circling each other like planets, held in orbit by a gravity we've never learned to escape.

The same love, just buried deeper now, protected by walls that are supposed to keep us safe but mostly just keep us lonely.

I'm still the girl who falls asleep in the sun and needs rescuing…

They're still the boys who can't stand to see me hurt.

And somewhere in that continuity, in that stubborn persistence of feeling, might be the key to everything we lost.

Everything we might still be able to find again, if we're brave enough to look.

If we're brave enough to admit that some things are worth the risk of getting burned.

Some things are worth staying in the sun for, even when you know it might hurt.

Worth the vulnerability of letting someone else apply the aloe vera.

Worthy of saying out loud, even when your voice cracks and the words come out smaller than you intended.

Even if the echo they leave behind, the way it changes the shape of everything that comes after.

Some things are worth remembering, even when the memory stings worse than any sunburn.

Guess I’m finally realizing…

I really did miss my boys.