Page 4 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

NEW BEGINNINGS IN THE HEART OF SCENTFUL MAYHEM

~JUNIPER~

T hey don’t tell you, when you inherit a thirty-year mortgage and three pasture-raised nightmares, that the real heartbreak isn’t the debt. It’s the terrain.

Case in point:

I’m currently stuck— like, terminally, cosmically stuck —on a backroad out of Saddlebrush Ridge, where the only thing looser than the mud is my grip on reality.

The Bell Ranch’s battered pickup is canted at an angle so severe, I half expect the next passing truck to offer me last rites and a tow chain.

Mud spatters the fenders, the axles, my boots, and has even managed, through some mystical wicking property, to dampen the back of my jeans. I don’t want to know how.

I thump my forehead against the steering wheel, inhaling the truck’s primordial stew of sweat, spilled grain, and leftover ranch hand.

There’s the unmistakable tang of Omega hormones in the air, too— mine, obviously —running high and mean, cut through with a sharp note of road rage and fuck-all frustration.

I told myself I’d do this whole move in peace.

Swore I’d be different out here: zen, resilient, one with the land.

Utter bullshit…

I slam the door and swing my legs out, planting my boots in a puddle so deep it gurgles.

The air is bracing, not quite cold enough to numb the ears, but sharp enough that the world feels hyperreal—like a reality show, but I’m both the disaster and the camera crew.

The sky is one endless gray bruise, pressing down on a landscape so flat it hurts.

At the far edge of the horizon, the faint smudge of town beckons, but between me and deliverance: a half-mile of greasy ruts and a quarter-mile of pure, weaponized embarrassment.

I pop the tailgate with a rusty shriek. It’s loaded for bear—a week’s worth of canned food, a duffel of books, two horse blankets, and, for reasons I can’t explain, the world’s most awkward English saddle.

I try to shoulder it, but the slick leather just slides, biting into my already-tender neck.

There’s a series of expletives, escalating in both creativity and decibel, as I attempt to maneuver it one-handed toward the cab.

The second I get leverage, the entire rig tilts, teetering over the lip of the gate?—

—and then it’s gone, hitting the mud with a splatter so spectacular that it feels personal.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter as my hands clench into fists at my sides, and my words are swallowed by the expanse of open fields.

Despite the isolation, I can practically feel the waves of Omega scent broadcasting off me like some kind of distress signal.

It's a telltale mix of irritation, embarrassment, and something else—something that annoyingly circles back to need.

I should be used to this by now, but every time it surprises me.

The way emotions bleed into the air around Omegas like me is as natural as breathing—or rather like an unwanted spotlight in this moment of solitude.

It's one of many frustrating aspects of being what I am: vulnerable to those overwhelming scents that announce every mood swing to any nearby Alpha within a 100-meter radius. There’s a bitterness in knowing how the line between my thoughts and desires is often blurred by these very scents, leading to bouts of unnecessary longing and uninvited fantasies about strong arms, safe havens, and delulu thinking.

It’s not just about me either; it’s about them too—the Alphas whose presence prowls like a shadow across an Omega's senses.

The distinctiveness of an Alpha's scent so potent that it drives us Omegas into fits of inappropriate daydreams, stirring up sensations that aren’t welcome right now when I have mud dripping down my boots and pride left somewhere back in the ditch.

My mind absently wonders if there is an art to existing without being dragged away by these primal instincts at every turn. If there is, I haven't mastered it, not with my scented trail blaring through Saddlebrush Ridge with all the subtlety of an untamed car alarm.

With a resigned huff, I bend to retrieve the saddle from where it lies disgraced in the muck—a formidable task considering my current state of flustered distraction. Just at that moment, the air shifts—a gentle caress against my cheek—and with it comes a new scent riding the breeze.

It crashes into my awareness with all the force and power peculiar to an Alpha in his element; heavy yet enticingly wild.

It’s more than just an Alpha scent: it's intoxicatingly complex—a seamless blend of sun-warmed leather reminiscent of rugged days spent under open skies, wild pine whispering secrets of ancient forests, and the smoky undertone of charred cedar that speaks to fires burned low through snowy nights.

Underneath all of this lies something purely masculine and assertive—so commanding in its essence, it feels less like a greeting and more like a dare thrown down at my feet.

I falter briefly beneath this aromatic assault; knees weakened as though suddenly boneless while my vision tips sideways for heartbeats longer than welcome.

The world tilts gently but inexorably around me like a game nearing its inevitable conclusion—the stakes too high to bear, yet irresistible all the same.

Bracing myself against this sensory onslaught, I attempt once more to grasp at reality—bend down again for that cursed saddle—but find coordination slipping away from fingers gone nerveless as they refuse cooperation amidst chaos internalized.

That’s when the wind shifts, and a new scent rides the current—heavy, predatory, so thick it might as well have its own zip code.

Alpha, obviously. More than Alpha: a blend of sun-warmed leather, wild pine, charred cedar, and something so fundamentally male it feels like a dare.

My knees go loose, my vision tilts for a fraction of a second.

Oh c’mon, Juniper! Just pick the saddle and let’s figure out how to get this truck out!

I go to grab the saddle again — because the third time has to be the charm, right?

— but my arms refuse to coordinate, the world suddenly swaying with the slow inevitability of a doomed Jenga tower.

I don’t even try to fight it this time around, realizing I’m destined to fall by the Omega Scent Gods for taunting me to this extent of mayhem.

Strong hands catch me around the biceps before I hit the dirt.

There’s a second— maybe two —where time stops, and all I can process is the heat of his palms and the scent that’s now a full-body assault.

“Easy, Bell,” a voice says. His voice is dry as fencepost splinters and twice as sturdy.

And far too fucking familiar…

I don’t need to look up to know who it is.

Callum Hayes.

I can’t fucking believe it…

Of all the Alphas in this godforsaken county, the one who spent half of middle school pretending I was invisible and the other half scaring off any boy who looked my way.

If you crossbred a human with a draft horse, you’d get Callum—built like he could bench-press a round bale, with arms that belong in a steel mill, not a shoeing shed.

His dark chestnut hair is shoved under a trucker hat, his jaw dusted with stubble so symmetrical it looks like it was carved in a factory.

The eyes, though, are his best and worst feature: gold, clear, and so piercing they might as well come with their own warning label.

He steadies me, just long enough for me to find my feet again, then lets go.

It’s surgical. Precise.

Like he’s used to extracting wounded livestock from ditches, and I’m just another pitiful lamb.

Which simply pisses me the fuck off.

“I’m fine,” I snap, mustering every ounce of defiance my battered pride can conjure and shooting him a glare sharper than the biting wind.

My voice is steady, sure, even if every molecule in my Omega-centered body screams otherwise.

The words are meant to be a barrier—a wall around the vulnerable pieces—and they come out more like a challenge thrown at his feet: cross this line if you dare.

But Callum Hayes—the man who seemed forged from solidified stoicism as much as muscle—doesn’t flinch.

“Fine,” I insist, voice rising just slightly over the wind that pleads for attention like a petulant child.

His presence grates against my stubbornness, igniting an old irritation that flickers through the haze of my failed dignity—memories of schoolyard turf wars and unsaid words that filled summers of youthful animosity.

He doesn’t react to my glare or the sudden air of tension between us. His expression remains unreadable, carved in granite beneath that ridiculous trucker hat of his, eyes assessing—always assessing—like he’s weighing me against some unspoken standard.

The silence stretches—a taut string pulled tight between two points of stubborn resilience. It’s a standoff of sorts, neither willing to give ground, yet both aware that the universe around us has shifted.

I can feel Callum’s gaze sweep over me with measured scrutiny.

It’s not judging exactly, but there’s an intensity to it akin to watching weather change; a thunderstorm gathering strength with each passing moment.

He says nothing, but his demeanor speaks volumes—that I’m still here under my own power is enough to keep him on guard.

“Didn’t say you weren’t.” He stoops, plucks the saddle from the mud like it weighs nothing, and sets it gently in the bed.

The entire time, he’s eyeing me with this infuriating mix of curiosity and caution.

I pull my flannel tighter around me, suddenly aware that it’s half-unbuttoned and sticking to my ribs in all the wrong ways.