Page 32 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
THE COURT IS YOURS
~JUNIPER~
T he silence between us is palpable, thick enough that I could probably reach out and touch it if I had the energy.
It sits in the room like a living thing, heavy with years of unspoken words and carefully buried truths. The tension is immense, crackling in the air like electricity before a storm, and I can feel it pressing against my skin with an almost physical weight.
I know what needs to be said. We both do. The truth is finally out there, hanging between us like a bridge we're both too scared to cross. But oddly enough, I find myself holding my tongue, not because I don't have words, but because I'm angry.
I don't entirely understand why the anger is there, burning hot and bright in my chest like a coal that refuses to cool.
At the same time, I do understand it completely.
All this time wasted. All these years lost to fear and miscommunication and the misguided belief that love meant protection through distance rather than standing together against whatever threatened us.
But as I sit here, looking at Callum's face—at the guilt and regret and desperate hope written across his features—I realize something that surprises me.
I'm not necessarily mad at them. Not mad at Callum, Wes, or Beckett for thinking I was too weak to deal with surviving whatever odd threats and attempts on my life had been made.
I'm mad at whoever had hidden in the shadows, pleased with the news that I'd been scared away. That I'd disappeared and became the outcast they wanted. I'm furious at the faceless enemy who orchestrated this whole mess, who turned my protectors into the instruments of my exile.
And maybe, if I'm being completely honest with myself, I'm mad at me too. For running instead of fighting. For disappearing instead of demanding answers. For letting fear win when I should have been braver, stronger, more willing to weather whatever storm was coming.
Instead of saying any of this, instead of trying to untangle the complicated knot of emotions churning in my chest, I decide to stand up. The movement seems necessary, like I need to be on equal footing for whatever conversation is about to happen.
But the moment I start to rise, the world tilts sideways. Light-headedness hits me like a wave, making the room spin and my vision blur at the edges. The aftereffects of heat stroke, combined with whatever emotional toll the last few hours have taken, leave me unsteady and weak.
Callum is at my side in a heartbeat, moving with the kind of reflexes that speak to years of watching out for others. His hands grasp my arms lightly but firmly, preventing me from falling back onto the couch or, worse, tumbling to the floor.
Instinctively, I try to pull away. The touch is too much, too familiar, too loaded with history and complicated feelings that I'm not ready to process. But he tightens his hold, not enough to hurt but enough to keep me stable, to make it clear that he's not letting go until he's sure I'm safe.
I'm ready to snap at him, to tell him to let go and give me space and stop treating me like I'm made of glass. Our eyes lock, and I can feel the anger blazing in my gaze, hot enough to burn bridges and scorch earth. But then he opens his mouth and whispers something I don't expect.
"I was scared to lose you."
The words come out in such a rush, delivered in the most vulnerable voice I've ever heard from him, that I have to pause and look at him carefully. For a moment, I wonder if he's a hallucination, if the heat stroke has damaged my brain enough that I'm imagining this conversation entirely.
Because this is Callum Hayes. Callum doesn't do vulnerable. He doesn't admit fear or uncertainty or any emotion that might be construed as weakness. He's always been the steady one, the Alpha who has everything under control, the leader who makes decisions and stands by them regardless of the cost.
But here he is, looking embarrassed and raw and more human than I've ever seen him. He sighs, briefly looking away as if gathering courage, before his eyes find mine again.
"Imagine meeting the girl of your dreams, but you don't know it yet," he says, his voice soft and hesitant.
"You've watched her from afar. Seen the way her smile lights up your world and how you're too afraid to admit how stunning she really is because you're just a teenage, horny Alpha who thinks he doesn't need to be in love. "
His words paint a picture I wasn't expecting, a version of our story told from his perspective instead of mine.
I'd always assumed the attraction was mutual, that the pull between us was obvious and acknowledged from the beginning.
But listening to him describe it like this—watching from afar, being afraid to admit his feelings—it reframes everything.
"But you can't stop yourself," he continues, his voice gaining strength as he finds his rhythm.
"From falling for her, day by day, week by week, month by month.
Time passes and we're getting older, and there she is, blossoming so beautifully, and the world begins to notice.
How pretty she is. How fierce and dominating she can be.
That fire is so fucking hot and bright. It's beautiful and yet frightening all the while because it's what you want. "
He pauses, and I can see him struggling with the words, fighting against a lifetime of keeping his emotions locked away. When he looks into my eyes again, there's something desperate there, something that speaks to years of regret and longing.
"Then you realize there's competition, and you begin to grasp that she's not simply yours unless you have the guts to claim what you want.
Then you realize you're not the only one going down this path.
That those you're confident will remain by your side also like her.
Want her. Are happy with her close proximity. "
The admission hits me like a physical blow.
All those years, I'd thought the three of them were united in their feelings for me, that whatever happened between us was a foregone conclusion.
But hearing him describe the competition, the realization that he wasn't the only one falling for me, adds a layer of complexity I hadn't considered.
"Then when we finally had something, and you realize we can be something.
A pack. A unified connection. No more chasing or tiptoeing.
We can just love happily and grow even more.
" His voice takes on a wistful quality, as if he's remembering those golden moments when everything seemed possible.
"And then it all goes crashing down. Not because the resources aren't there.
Not due to the reality that there are people who don't want our happiness, but because. .."
He trails off, hesitant to admit whatever truth he's been carrying. But a look my way seems to steel his resolve, reminding him that honesty is the only way forward now.
"But pulling you out of the ice... seeing you not breathing.
Realizing for those few striking moments that could have been seconds but felt like eons where I couldn't dare take a single breath.
.. thinking you'd never breathe again...
I realized we were too far gone... and..
. well... we were too fucking hopeless as a set of boys to be confident in protecting you. "
The words land like individual punches, each one more devastating than the last. Because I can see it now, can understand the logic that led them to their decision.
They were seventeen and eighteen years old, barely more than boys themselves, faced with a threat they didn't understand and couldn't control.
They'd just watched me nearly die, had felt the weight of their failure to protect me, and in their fear and desperation, they'd made the only choice that seemed to guarantee my safety.
It was the wrong choice, but I can understand why they made it.
When he says nothing more, just stands there looking broken and lost, I whisper the words that need to be said.
"So pushing me away was the best option."
He sighs, his head sinking as if the weight of his guilt is finally too much to bear.
"The only option that meant we didn't lose you. As in didn't... have to face watching you... not breathing. It made sense back then... and we thought..." He groans, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "We didn't think you'd leave, Bell."
The admission hangs between us, heavy with all the miscalculations and misunderstandings that have shaped the last decade of our lives.
They thought they could protect me by pulling back, by creating distance without losing me entirely.
They thought they could solve the problem quietly, handle the threat behind the scenes, and then everything could go back to normal.
They never imagined that their attempt to protect me would drive me away entirely.
As we share this look, I can see the truth written across his face. He's not joking around or making excuses or trying to manipulate me with pretty words. This is the raw, honest truth that he's been carrying for ten years, and it's destroying him to finally say it out loud.
"What now?" I ask, because talking is one thing, but the reality is we can't keep running in circles with this. We can't spend the next decade analyzing the mistakes of the past without figuring out how to move forward.
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but firm.
"The ball's in your court, Bell. You get to decide," he whispers. "But this," he lets go of my arms and gestures around the room, around the ranch, around the disaster of a life I've been trying to build on my own, "you need to allow us to help you with this, Bell."
I open my mouth to argue, because that's what I do. I argue and resist and insist that I can handle everything on my own, even when the evidence clearly suggests otherwise. But he shakes his head sternly, cutting off my protest before it can form.
"We weren't supposed to come by today, Bell.
It's by chance that we came by. You could have been laying in that heat for hours.
Hell, days for all we know." His voice takes on an edge of desperation that speaks to how badly my collapse scared him.
"We can't risk that again. You can be as stubborn as you want with everything else, but it's a sharp no on this.
You need to accept our help with the ranch for our own sanity. "
Before I can respond, Wes and Beckett return from the kitchen, carrying water and medication and what looks like a sandwich cut into small, manageable pieces.
They move carefully, like they're approaching a spooked animal, clearly aware that they're walking into the aftermath of an important conversation.
The three of them stand there, waiting for my response.
I can feel the weight of their expectation, their hope, their fear that I'll tell them to leave and never come back.
But I can also feel something else—their genuine concern for my wellbeing, their absolute refusal to let me hurt myself through stubborn pride.
I sigh, feeling defeated and exhausted and overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of everything that's happened.
But underneath all of that, there's a tiny spark of something that might be relief.
Because the truth is, I'm tired of doing everything alone.
I'm tired of pretending I don't need help, don't want support, don't miss having people in my life who care enough to worry about me.
"Fine," I whisper, the word coming out smaller than I intended. "But my rules. My pace."
The three of them nod immediately, and I can see in their faces that they understand exactly what I mean.
We're starting from scratch. Even though the sexual tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, even though the attraction and history and complicated feelings are all still there, it's going to be a slow, torturous game before I open my heart to them again.
They're going to have to earn back my trust one day at a time, one conversation at a time, one small gesture at a time.
They're going to have to prove that they've learned from their mistakes, that they understand the difference between protection and control, that they're ready to treat me like a partner instead of a problem to be solved.
I hope they're ready to saddle up, because claiming my heart this time around is going to be harder than catching the perfect scent on an uncertain wind.