Page 28 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

FEVERED TRUTHS

~JUNIPER~

C onsciousness comes in waves, like the tide rolling in and out on some distant shore.

One moment I'm floating in blessed darkness, weightless and peaceful, and the next I'm burning alive from the inside out. My skin feels like it's been set on fire, every nerve ending screaming in protest against the heat that seems to radiate from my very bones.

But then the magical hands appear.

Cool, gentle, efficient.

Patting me down with towels that feel like salvation against my fevered skin.

Someone— and I can't quite grasp who, can't quite focus enough to identify the touch —keeps replacing the cloth on my forehead whenever it grows warm from absorbing my body heat.

The moment things get too uncomfortable, too overwhelming, those hands are there with fresh coolness, bringing relief that allows me to drift back into the peaceful darkness.

It's so calm.

So safe.

Like being wrapped in cotton and care, protected from everything that could hurt me.

The scents follow me into my dreams, weaving through my subconscious like threads of gold and comfort. Pine and smoke, citrus and storm, cinnamon and warmth—familiar as breathing, comforting as a lullaby sung by voices I've known since childhood.

I drift through memories like pages in a photo album.

Seven years old, scraped knee from falling off my bike, and three worried boys hovering over me while Beckett's mom cleaned the wound.

Ten years old, camping trip by the river, all of us squeezed into one tent because I was afraid of the dark and they refused to let me sleep alone.

Thirteen years old, first day of high school, and the way they flanked me in the hallways like bodyguards, making sure no one so much as looked at me wrong.

The memories grow sweeter as they progress, tinged with the golden haze of adolescence and possibility.

Fourteen, and Callum teaching me how to change the oil in my aunt's truck, his hands guiding mine on the wrench while he explained the mechanics in that patient, careful way he had.

Fifteen, and Wes making me laugh until I snorted soda through my nose, then laughing even harder at my mortification until I was laughing too.

Fifteen and a half, and Beckett presenting me with a birthday cake he'd made from scratch, decorated with wonky roses and my name spelled out in purple frosting because he remembered it was my favorite color.

The memories crystallize around sixteen, that golden year when everything seemed perfect and possible.

When I thought I'd be one of the lucky Omegas who found her pack straight away.

Men who were my friends for the longest time—protective, loyal, loving in that fierce, uncomplicated way that made me believe the whole world was safe as long as they were in it.

I remember lying in the grass by the river that summer, all four of us sprawled out under the stars, and thinking that this was it.

This was my forever.

These three boys who knew every secret, every dream, every fear I'd ever had.

These three boys who looked at me like I was something precious, something worth protecting, something worth loving.

I remember the way Callum would watch me when he thought I wasn't looking, his eyes intense and searching, like he was trying to memorize every detail.

The way Wes would find excuses to touch me—brushing my hair back from my face, catching my hand to examine a paper cut, pulling me close when we watched movies on the old couch in Beckett's basement.

The way Beckett would make my favorite foods without being asked, anticipating my needs before I even knew I had them, creating comfort and sweetness in equal measure.

It felt inevitable.

Like we were planets orbiting the same sun, held in perfect balance by forces too fundamental to question.

Like all we had to do was wait for the right moment, the right words, the right configuration of courage and honesty to make it official.

Like love was just another word for coming home.

And then it all went downhill.

The memory shifts, darkens, and I try to push it away, to sink back into the peaceful darkness where nothing hurts and no one leaves and sixteen-year-old dreams don't curdle into seventeen-year-old nightmares.

But even in sleep, even cushioned by fever and exhaustion, the pain finds me.

The way they started pulling away, subtle at first, then more obvious.

The way conversations would stop when I entered a room.

The way they began finding excuses not to spend time together, not to include me in plans that had always been assumed to include all four of us.

The way they looked at me like I was a problem to be solved rather than a person to be loved.

The way everything that had felt permanent and inevitable suddenly felt fragile and conditional.

The way I started wondering what I'd done wrong, what I'd said or failed to say, what had changed in me that made them start treating me like a stranger.

I drift back to sleep again, seeking refuge in unconsciousness where the memories can't follow, where the hurt is muffled by layers of fever and medication and the persistent, gentle care of those magical hands with their cooling towels.

Time becomes fluid, meaningless.

I surface occasionally, just enough to register the ongoing comfort—fresh coolness against my skin, the soft murmur of voices in the background, the persistent scents that wrap around me like a security blanket.

Then I sink back down, letting the darkness carry me away from everything that hurts.

It's easier this way.

Safer.

No decisions to make, no walls to maintain, no careful distance to preserve.

Just floating, just being cared for, just existing in a space where nothing is required of me except healing.

The next time consciousness threatens to surface, I hear a female voice speaking. The tone is professional, confident, carrying the kind of authority that comes from knowledge and experience.

A doctor.

It has to be a doctor.

I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, letting them think I'm still unconscious. Something about the situation feels delicate, like information is being shared that I'm not supposed to hear, and my instinct is to gather intelligence before revealing that I'm awake.

"After checking all the bloodwork and her vital signs, she should be okay," the woman is saying.

Her voice is crisp, no-nonsense, tinged with just enough warmth to suggest competence rather than coldness.

"The heat stroke was severe, but we caught it in time.

Her core temperature has stabilized, and her blood pressure is returning to normal ranges. "

Relief floods through me, even as I maintain the pretense of sleep.

I'm okay.

Whatever happened—and the details are still fuzzy, fragmented by fever and unconsciousness—I'm going to be okay.

"I'm prescribing a few things that will help with the recovery from heat stroke," the doctor continues, and I can hear the rustle of paper, probably a prescription pad.

"Electrolyte supplements, anti-inflammatory medication, and strict instructions for the next few days of rest. No strenuous activity, plenty of fluids, and absolutely no exposure to excessive heat. "

"Understood," Callum's voice, low and serious in a way that makes my stomach flutter despite everything.

He's here.

They're all here, aren't they?

The scents that have been following me through my fever dreams—pine and citrus and cinnamon—they're real. They're here, in this room, close enough that their presence is wrapping around me like a protective barrier.

"However," the doctor continues, and there's something in her tone that makes my attention sharpen, "I also need to address something else. She's going to be having heat flare-ups in the coming days and weeks, likely increasing in intensity."

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Heat flare-ups.

The thing every unmated Omega dreads, the biological imperative that becomes more insistent with age and stress and the absence of an Alpha's claiming bite.

"Is that connected to the heat stroke?" Wes asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice that makes my chest tight.

"Not directly," the doctor explains. "But it's related to the fact that she's been unmated for so long. The stress of the heat stroke, combined with whatever other stressors brought her to this point, has likely triggered her body's attempt to... let's call it self-correction."

Self-correction.

What a clinical way to describe the desperate, humiliating biological drive that reduces Omegas to need and instinct and the kind of vulnerability that makes me want to crawl under a rock and die.

"Is there anything we can do to make her comfortable during those flare-ups?" Callum asks, and the careful control in his voice doesn't quite hide the underlying tension.

The way he says 'we' like it's assumed, like it's natural that they would be the ones taking care of me.

Like ten years of distance and hurt and careful walls don't exist.

Like we're still sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, still operating under the assumption that we belong to each other in all the ways that matter.

I try to identify the doctor's scent, catching hints of it under the antiseptic smell of medical supplies and the overwhelming presence of three concerned Alphas. She smells like an Omega—that distinctive sweetness that marks our designation—which makes my stomach toss nervously.

An Omega doctor.

That's... unexpected.

And somehow more concerning than if she were a Beta or Alpha.

Because an Omega doctor will understand exactly what I'm facing in a way that makes the clinical discussion suddenly, intensely personal.

"That's really her call," the doctor says, and I can hear something like amusement in her voice. "How she wants to tackle this situation. Obviously, it's going to get worse until she's able to mate with a pack."

A pause.

The kind of weighted silence that speaks volumes.

"Which I'm only assuming isn't you three?"

The silence stretches.

Becomes uncomfortable.