Page 26 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

THE WEIGHT OF REGRET

~CALLUM~

T he truck's engine growls through the heat like a beast that's seen better days, kicking up dust and gravel as we roll down the familiar road toward the Bell Ranch.

It's hot as Satan's armpit today.

Behind me, I can hear the steady rhythm of hoofbeats as Wes and Beckett keep pace on horseback, their mounts breathing hard in the oppressive heat.

We'd started this little expedition with the intention of surprising Juniper with help she didn't ask for—tools, supplies, and three Alphas determined to prove we could be useful instead of just ornamental.

Beckett’s Dad's brilliant idea, of course.

"Go fix your girl's sanctuary and her heart," he'd said, like it was that simple.

Like ten years of fucking up could be undone with a toolbox and good intentions.

"Jesus Christ, it's hot as fuck today!" Wes's voice carries over the sound of the engine, punctuated by the jingle of tack and the heavy breathing of his mare. "I'm sweating through my shirt, and we've only been riding for twenty minutes."

"I'm glad I got to leave the bakery," Beckett calls back, his voice steady despite the heat. "It would be like an oven by now with how hot it suddenly got. The industrial ovens were already making the place unbearable before this heat wave hit."

I grumble under my breath, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

"Your Dad didn't have to send us on this errand adventure. Could've waited until evening when the temperature drops below the surface of the fucking sun."

But that's not really what's bothering me.

What's bothering me is the way Dad looked at me this morning, like he could see straight through all my bullshit to the coward underneath.

What's bothering me is that he's right, and I hate being called out on my failures.

"You're probably just having a shitty day because Beckett’s Dad called you out for being a coward jerk, and not fixing shit with Juniper," Wes observes with that particular brand of brutal honesty that makes him both invaluable and insufferable as a friend.

"Why do I have to fix shit?" I snap, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know how pathetic they sound. "We all fucked up. We all pushed her away. Why is it my responsibility to unfuck everything?"

"Duh?" Wes's voice carries a note of exaggerated patience, like he's explaining basic math to a particularly slow child. "You're the Alpha leader in our pack. Plus, you're the most stubborn, so it only makes sense for you to be the one to swallow your pride and do something about it."

Alpha leader.

The title sits heavy on my shoulders, weighted with expectations I never asked for but somehow inherited anyway.

It's not like we ever sat down and voted on it. It just happened organically—situations would arise, and everyone would look to me to make the call. Fights would break out, and I'd be the one stepping in to settle them. Plans needed to be made, and somehow, I became the default decision-maker.

With Juniper, though, the title feels more like a burden than a privilege.

Because being the Alpha leader means I was the one who made the choice to push her away.

I was the one who convinced Wes and Beckett that it was for her own good.

The one who broke all our hearts in the name of protecting her.

And look how well that turned out.

"Do you think she's home?" Beckett asks as we turn the final corner toward the ranch, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty that matches the growing unease in my gut.

I frown, looking ahead at the property.

Something feels off.

The truck is parked in its usual spot near the porch, so she hasn't gone anywhere. But there's no movement around the house, no sign of life beyond the ancient wind chimes clanging discordantly in the hot breeze.

She should have heard us by now.

The truck's not exactly subtle, and Wes and Beckett's horses have been making enough noise to wake the dead.

She should be walking out onto the porch, probably wearing some baggy clothes that I suspect she chooses specifically to avoid drawing attention.

Though she doesn't realize she could be wearing a garbage bag and still look hot as fuck.

There's something about the way she moves, the tilt of her chin when she's annoyed, the flash of fire in her eyes when she's gearing up for a fight—it doesn't matter what she's wearing or how much fabric she hides behind.

She's magnetic in a way that has nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with the fierce spirit burning just beneath the surface.

We wait in silence for a moment, all of us holding our breath like we're expecting her to materialize out of thin air. The heat shimmers off the metal roof of the barn, creating waves of distortion that make everything look slightly unreal.

But there's no movement.

No Juniper emerging to demand what we're doing on her property.

No sarcastic commentary about uninvited visitors.

Nothing.

The unease in my stomach coalesces into something sharper, more urgent. I shift the truck into park and turn off the engine, the sudden silence feeling oppressive in the heat.

Something's wrong.

I hop out of the cab, boots hitting the dusty ground with a thud that seems too loud in the stillness. Behind me, I hear Wes and Beckett dismounting, their voices low as they tie off their horses.

The feeling in my gut is getting stronger.

That Alpha instinct that's kept our species alive for millennia, the one that screams danger when everything looks normal but feels completely wrong.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Beckett mutters, echoing my own thoughts.

"You and me both," Wes agrees, his usual cheerfulness replaced by the kind of focused attention he gets when he's treating a sick animal. "She should've been out here by now, giving us hell for showing up unannounced."

I nod toward the back of the property.

"You two check around back. I'll take the house."

They nod, understanding passing between us without words.

We've done this dance before—split up, cover more ground, find whatever needs finding.

Usually, it's been about tracking down missing livestock or investigating strange sounds in the night.

This time feels different.

This time feels urgent in a way that makes my Alpha instincts scream.

I jog toward the house, noting that her truck hasn't been moved since yesterday. The keys are probably hanging on that little hook by the door where she's kept them since we were kids, which means she's here somewhere.

She has to be here.

The front door is unlocked—because this is Saddlebrush, where people still don't lock their doors despite all evidence suggesting they probably should. I push it open, calling out as I step into the cluttered living room.

"Juniper? Bell, you here?"

Silence.

The kind of silence that feels heavy, pregnant with absence.

I move through the house quickly but thoroughly, checking every room with growing urgency.

The kitchen shows signs of recent use—coffee mug in the sink, crumbs on the counter from what looks like one of Beckett's cinnamon rolls. Her bedroom is empty, bed unmade in a way that suggests she got up this morning with plans and purpose.

But no Juniper.

No sign of where she might have gone or when she might be back.

The bathroom is empty, towels still damp from her morning shower. I can smell her everywhere—that honeysuckle sweetness mixed with soap and shampoo and the indefinable scent that's purely her.

But it's not fresh.

It's the ghost of her presence, lingering in spaces she's no longer occupying.

My panic is building now, systematic and methodical in the way that Alpha anxiety tends to be. I'm running through possibilities, calculating scenarios, trying to figure out where an Omega with trust issues and a stubborn streak might disappear to.

That's when I notice the equipment.

Tools scattered on the kitchen table, alongside what looks like a handwritten list.

I pick up the paper, recognizing her neat handwriting immediately.

It's a list of repairs, organized by priority and complexity.

Fencing is at the top, followed by barn roof repairs, gate hinges, and about twenty other items that would challenge a professional contractor, let alone one small Omega working alone.

She's been trying to do all of this herself?

Every single item on this list represents hours of backbreaking labor, and she's been attacking it solo with nothing but determination and whatever tools she could scrounge up.

It clicks in my brain—maybe she went into town to get materials?

But the truck is still here, and knowing Bell, she isn't going to ask for help from anyone.

She'd rather break her back trying to muscle a fence post into place than admit she might need assistance.

Stubborn, independent, beautiful, infuriating woman.

I decide to check out back, moving through the house with purpose now. If she's working on the list, she'd be outside somewhere, probably wrestling with equipment that's too heavy and too complicated for one person to handle safely.

The back door is propped open, and I can feel the heat rolling in like a physical force.

Jesus, it's got to be pushing a hundred degrees out here.

No one should be working in this heat, especially not someone who forgot to eat breakfast and probably didn't think to bring water.

I step onto the back porch, scanning the property with eyes that are trained to notice details. The barn, the paddock where Pickles usually holds court, the fields beyond where the really intensive repair work would need to happen.

That's when I hear it.

A sound from my left, sharp and demanding.

Pickles.

The mule is standing near the fence line, stomping his foot and huffing in that particular way that suggests extreme annoyance. He sees me looking and increases the volume of his complaints, stamping and snorting like he's trying to communicate something urgent.

At first, I think he's just being his usual cranky self.

Pickles has opinions about everything, and he's never shy about sharing them.