Page 27 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
But there's something different about this tantrum.
Something that feels less like general irritation and more like...
Panic?
Urgency?
Like he's trying to tell me something important and getting frustrated that I'm not understanding.
The mule keeps making huffing noises and stomping his feet, looking directly at me with an intensity that's impossible to ignore. He's not just annoyed—he's agitated in a way that suggests something is very, very wrong.
And then the wind picks up.
Just a small gust, but enough to carry scents across the property.
Enough to bring me Juniper's scent, stronger than it should be if she were safely inside the house.
Her scent is everywhere, to be fair—this is her property, her territory, marked with her presence in a thousand subtle ways.
But this is different.
This is immediate, intense, concentrated in a way that only happens when...
When she's here.
Right here.
Somewhere close.
I frown, following the invisible trail of her scent as the wind shifts again.
If she's here, if she's this close, then where...
My eyes drop to the ground.
To the tall grass that hasn't been cut in probably a decade.
To the small clearing where someone might have been working.
To the flash of something pale against the green.
A hand.
A limp, unmoving hand barely visible through the grass.
"FUCK!"
The curse tears out of my throat as I break into a run, covering the distance in seconds that feel like hours. My heart is hammering against my ribs, every Alpha instinct I possess screaming in alarm as I drop to my knees beside her still form.
Juniper.
My Juniper.
Unconscious, soaked in sweat, skin flushed red from heat and exposure.
I'm scooping her up before my brain has time to process what I'm seeing, gathering her limp body against my chest with hands that are shaking despite my best efforts to stay calm.
She's so small.
When did she get so small?
I remember her being fierce and untouchable, all sharp edges and defensive fire.
But right now, she's just...
Fragile.
Human.
Vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I possess roar to life.
"Bell," I whisper, shaking her gently. "Come on, Bell, wake up."
Nothing.
No response, no flutter of eyelashes, no sharp retort about my presumption in touching her without permission.
Just limpness and the terrifying stillness of unconsciousness.
I put two fingers to my lips and let out a sharp whistle—the sound we've been using to communicate across distances since we were kids. It carries across the property like a blade, cutting through the heat and silence with unmistakable urgency.
Wes and Beckett's horses react immediately.
I can hear the sudden change in their movement, the quick thunder of hooves as they wheel around and head in my direction.
They can hear it in the whistle—the note of panic, the call that means drop everything and come now.
I continue shaking Juniper, trying to wake her up, but it's like trying to rouse the dead. Her head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel the heat radiating off her skin like she's burning up from the inside.
This is bad.
This is really, really bad.
How long has she been out here?
How long has she been unconscious in this heat?
I quickly check that she's breathing, pressing my ear to her chest to listen for the sound I need to hear more than anything else in the world.
There.
The soft whisper of air moving in and out of her lungs.
But it's weak.
Too weak.
Too shallow.
Like her body is conserving energy for the basic functions of staying alive.
The thunder of hooves gets closer, and then Wes is there, practically throwing himself off his horse before the animal has come to a complete stop.
He hits the ground running, dropping to his knees beside us with the kind of focused intensity that transforms him from goofball veterinarian to medical professional in the span of a heartbeat.
He may be a vet for animals, but he has medical experience.
The dream of one day becoming a doctor got stalled like so many dreams do in Saddlebrush—by economics and family obligations and the weight of small-town expectations.
But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, he's exactly who we need him to be.
His hands move over Juniper with professional efficiency, checking her pulse, lifting her eyelids to look at her pupils, assessing her condition with the kind of calm competence that makes me want to shake him and thank him in equal measure.
"She's been out here for a hot minute," he says grimly, fingers pressed to the pulse point at her wrist. "This has to be heat stroke. We need to get her inside, now."
"Should we take her to the hospital?" I ask, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know what the answer will be.
Beckett reaches us now, dismounting with the kind of controlled urgency that speaks to years of handling crises.
His face is grim as he takes in the scene, already pulling his phone out to check for signal.
"The hospital by truck is still two hours out, remember?" he says, confirming my fears. "The clinic is out of doctors right now, and she needs an Omega doctor, which Saddlebrush doesn't have."
Fuck.
Of course it's not going to be that simple.
Nothing ever is in this godforsaken town.
We're two hours from real medical help, and she's unconscious from heat stroke in my arms.
"I know someone who can help," Wes says quickly, already moving to gather her legs as I support her torso. "But let's get her out of this heat first. We can figure out the rest once she's somewhere cool."
I have her in my arms and I'm on my feet in seconds, muscle memory and adrenaline combining to make her weight feel like nothing.
She fits against my chest like she was made to be there, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder with the kind of automatic trust that breaks my heart.
We're all rushing toward the house, moving with the kind of coordinated urgency that comes from years of working together.
Wes is already on his phone, scrolling through contacts with one hand while using the other to steady Juniper's legs.
Beckett is ahead of us, holding doors and clearing obstacles from our path.
The guilt hits me like a physical weight as we move.
Beckett's dad's lecturing may have been annoying, but now it's proving to be right.
The Omega we're infatuated with could have died in this heat because we wanted to give her independence when we should have been stern about offering our assistance.
We should have insisted.
We should have ignored her protests and shown up anyway.
We should have known that her stubborn pride would drive her to attempt things that were dangerous for anyone to tackle alone, let alone someone who probably didn't eat enough breakfast and definitely didn't bring enough water.
No more.
We have to figure this shit out.
We have to find a way to protect her that doesn't involve pushing her away.
We have to learn how to love her without destroying everything we touch.
Because the alternative—finding her like this, limp and vulnerable and burning up from the inside—is not something I can survive.
Not again.
Not ever again.
The house is blessedly cooler, though not by much.
Wes directs us toward the living room, where he starts moving boxes and clearing space on the old couch. Beckett disappears into the kitchen, returning with towels and what looks like every piece of ice from her freezer.
We work in silence, each of us focused on the task at hand.
But underneath the efficiency, underneath the medical protocols and emergency procedures, there's a current of something deeper.
Fear.
Regret.
The bone-deep understanding that we almost lost her.
That our pride and our cowardice and our inability to figure out how to love her properly almost cost us everything.
That ten years of distance and careful walls and pretending we don't need each other almost ended with finding her unconscious in a field, alone and overlooked and dying from our neglect.
Never again.
Whatever it takes, however long it takes, however much pride we have to swallow or walls we have to tear down—never again.
She's ours.
She's always been ours.
And it's time we started acting like it.