Page 41 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
VETERINARY LESSONS
~JUNIPER~
T he foal is breech.
Wes's voice cuts through the barn's humid air with clinical calm, but I can see the tension radiating from every line of his body.
His hands disappear elbow-deep inside the trembling mare, his brow furrowed in the kind of intense focus that transforms him from charming troublemaker into the skilled veterinarian he's become.
Sweat beads at his temples despite the cool morning air filtering through the barn's open doors, and his shirt— a faded blue button-down that's seen better days —clings to his shoulders with effort and determination.
This isn't like helping Pickles with a stubborn hoof or brushing down some cranky gelding.
This is life and death.
This is blood and instinct and the kind of raw, primal experience that strips away all pretense and leaves you face-to-face with what really matters.
I hover beside him in the sterile gloves he insisted I wear, feeling completely out of my depth.
The mare is enormous— a beautiful chestnut draft horse with kind eyes that are currently wide with pain and fear —and every muscle in her body is taut with the effort of bringing new life into the world.
I've never been present for anything like this.
The closest I've come to veterinary medicine is bandaging my own scraped knees.
But Wes asked me to come with him this morning, said he could use an extra pair of hands, and something in his voice made it impossible to refuse.
"Juniper," he says without looking up, his voice maintaining that steady, professional tone that somehow manages to be both commanding and reassuring.
"I need you to apply pressure to her belly.
Right here—" He gestures with his chin toward a specific spot on the mare's swollen side.
"Not too hard, just steady, consistent pressure. "
I nod even though he can't see me, placing my hands where he indicated. The mare's skin is hot and slick with sweat, and I can feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing beneath my palms. My arms tremble slightly from the unfamiliar effort, but I hold steady.
The responsibility is terrifying.
One wrong move, too much pressure, and I could hurt both mother and baby.
But Wes trusts me to do this.
That has to count for something.
The mare groans— a low, guttural sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in her soul —and shifts her weight, causing her enormous body to sway slightly.
I adjust my position, maintaining the pressure Wes requested while trying not to think about how small and fragile I feel next to this magnificent creature.
We work in tense silence broken only by the wet, organic sounds of Wes manipulating the foal's position and the labored breathing of the mare.
Occasionally he murmurs something— words of encouragement for the mother, clinical observations for his own reference, quiet curses when something doesn't go as planned.
The air in the barn is thick with the scents of hay and horse and the metallic tang of blood.
But underneath it all is Wes's scent—warm cedar and clean sweat and something that's purely him.
It should be comforting, but instead it's doing things to my nervous system that have nothing to do with veterinary procedures.
"Almost there," he says, his voice threading with relief. "Come on, baby... that's it... just a little more..."
I watch his face as he works, noting the way his jaw clenches with concentration, the furrow between his brows that appears when he's thinking through a complex problem.
There's something incredibly attractive about seeing him in his element like this— confident, capable, completely in control of a situation that would leave most people panicking.
This is Wes at his most Alpha.
Not the charming flirt who makes jokes to deflect serious conversations, but the skilled professional who holds life and death in his capable hands.
The foal slips free with a wet, squelching sound that turns my stomach and tugs at something deep in my chest all at once. Wes eases the tiny creature to the ground with infinite gentleness, his large hands suddenly tender as he clears fluid from its airway.
For a moment that feels like eternity, there's complete silence.
Then a sharp, indignant cry pierces the air.
Alive.
The foal is alive.
My heart stutters in my chest, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
The little creature is all legs and wet fur, kicking weakly against the clean hay Wes has prepared.
Its mother immediately begins the instinctive process of cleaning and bonding, long tongue rasping gently over her baby's coat.
"Oh," I breathe, staring at the miracle unfolding before me. "Oh my God, she's—is she okay?"
"She's perfect," Wes says, grinning now as he strips off his bloody gloves and reaches for a clean towel. "You did incredible, Junebug. Couldn't have done it without you."
But I can't respond.
Because something is happening to my body that I have absolutely no control over.
The adrenaline, the intensity of the experience, the overwhelming relief of seeing new life successfully brought into the world— it's all combining into a perfect storm of hormonal chaos that's making my Omega biology go absolutely haywire.
My scent is pouring off me in thick, uncontrolled waves.
I can feel it happening, can smell the sweet honeysuckle undertones mixing with something sharper, more primal.
It's the scent of an Omega who's been pushed to her emotional limits and is struggling to regain control.
And Wes smells it too.
His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, and his gaze snaps to me with laser focus. The easy grin fades from his face, replaced by something much more intense, much more dangerous.
His pupils dilate.
His jaw clenches.
His own scent—cedar and musk and pure, unfiltered Alpha—begins to respond to mine in ways that make the air between us feel electric.
"Juniper," he says carefully, his voice taking on a different quality. "Come with me. Right now."
It's not a request.
It's a gentle but firm command from an Alpha who recognizes that his Omega is spiraling and needs immediate intervention.
I don't argue because I can't— my throat has closed up with emotion and overwhelming sensation, and all I can do is nod mutely and follow him.
He leads me out of the barn and through the back entrance of his veterinary clinic, past examination rooms and supply closets to a small washroom marked "Staff Only.
" His movements are controlled, professional, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he's breathing through his mouth instead of his nose.
He's fighting his own biology just as hard as I'm fighting mine.
And losing the battle just as spectacularly.
The washroom is small and utilitarian— white tile, industrial sink, the kind of harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly corpse-like. But when Wes flicks on the tap and gently tugs my blood-stained gloves from my hands, it feels like the most intimate space in the world.
"You did amazing out there," he says softly, guiding my hands under the warm water. His touch is gentle but firm, professional but unmistakably caring. "I know that was intense. I know it was a lot."
"I'm sorry," I whisper, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. "I didn't mean to—my scent just—I can't control it?—"
"Junebug." He says my nickname like a grounding spell, his voice dropping to that particular register that always makes my insides turn to liquid. "You just helped deliver a breech foal. That's not nothing. Most people would have fainted or run away or thrown up. And your scent?"
He pauses, his hands stilling on mine.
"Your scent is honest. It's beautiful. It's you responding to something incredible and overwhelming, and there's absolutely nothing to apologize for."
The way he says it—with such complete acceptance, such utter lack of judgment—makes my chest tight with emotions I don't know how to name.
He continues washing my hands with careful attention, working soap between my fingers, up my wrists, along my forearms where blood had splattered. His touch is methodical, soothing, but I can feel the barely restrained tension in his movements.
He's holding himself back.
Fighting every Alpha instinct that's telling him to comfort his distressed Omega in much more primal ways.
When he's satisfied that I'm clean, he reaches for a soft towel and begins patting my hands dry with the same careful attention he'd shown to the newborn foal. But then he does something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
He leans forward and presses his face into the crook of my neck.
Just rests there for a moment, breathing me in.
"Fuck," he whispers against my skin, the word barely audible. "You're gonna ruin me, Junebug."
His lips brush my pulse point—barely a kiss, more like a promise or a prayer.
I should pull away.
I should maintain some semblance of boundaries and professionalism.
Instead, I find myself tilting my head to give him better access.
"You said it was just flirting," I manage to whisper, though my voice comes out shaky and breathless.
Wes lifts his head slowly, and when his eyes meet mine in the harsh fluorescent light, there's no more pretense left. No more careful distance or professional composure. Just raw, unfiltered desire burning so bright it's almost painful to look at.
"I lied," he says simply. "I've been fantasizing about you since the day you set foot back in this town. Since the moment I caught your scent on that first morning when I brought you breakfast."
My thighs clench involuntarily at his admission.
Because the heat in his voice, the absolute honesty of it, goes straight to every nerve ending I possess.