Page 47 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

BUILDING SOMETHING TOGETHER

~JUNIPER~

T he old barn stands before us like a challenge written in weathered wood and rusted nails, its skeletal frame reaching toward the cloudless sky with the kind of stubborn determination that speaks to decades of surviving weather.

What was once Aunt Lil's pride and joy now looks more like the aftermath of a particularly vindictive tornado, but there's good bones underneath all the decay.

At least, that's what Callum keeps insisting as he surveys the structure with the critical eye of someone who's spent his life coaxing function from broken things.

"Foundation's solid," he announces, kicking at one of the support posts with his steel-toed boot. "Most of the frame is salvageable. We'll need new siding, obviously, and about half the roof needs to be replaced, but it's not as hopeless as it looks."

I'm perched on the tailgate of his truck, swinging my legs and trying to look like I'm paying attention to his architectural assessment instead of admiring the way his shoulders move under his worn flannel shirt.

The morning sun is already promising another scorcher, and all three of them have that focused intensity that men get when they're about to embark on a project involving power tools and the opportunity to show off their competence.

"You sure about this?" I ask, gesturing at the collection of lumber, hardware, and equipment they've assembled. "Because it looks like you're planning to rebuild the entire thing from scratch."

"That's because we basically are," Wes says cheerfully, hauling a circular saw out of the truck bed with practiced ease. "Difference between rebuilding and building from scratch is we get to keep the parts that aren't completely fucked."

Beckett emerges from behind the barn carrying what appears to be half the contents of a hardware store, his arms loaded with boxes of screws, brackets, and various metal implements whose purposes I can only guess at.

"It'll be worth it when we're done," he says, setting his burden down with a grunt. "This barn has good bones. With some love and attention, it could last another fifty years."

The way he says 'we' and 'our' sends a warm flutter through my chest that I'm not quite ready to examine too closely.

Because there's an assumption in those words, a casual possessiveness that suggests he's already thinking of this project—this property, this life—as something that belongs to all of us.

Which should probably concern me more than it does.

Instead, I find myself imagining what the barn will look like when they're finished.

Clean white siding catching the afternoon light, new red roof gleaming like something out of a postcard, wide doors thrown open to reveal organized space instead of the chaotic jumble that currently occupies the interior.

A real working barn, the kind that could house animals and equipment and serve as the heart of an actual functioning sanctuary.

"So what's my job in all this?" I ask, hopping down from the truck. "Because I'm warning you now, my construction experience is limited to putting together IKEA furniture, and even that usually ends with leftover screws and creative interpretations of the instructions."

Callum's lips twitch in what might be the beginning of a smile. "You're going to learn. Can't have you living on a ranch without knowing basic construction skills."

"Besides," Wes adds with a grin that promises trouble, "we promised you lake time if you help with the barn. No work, no swimming."

The lake. Right.

I'd almost forgotten about their promise to take me to the swimming hole once we finished the morning's work. The same swimming hole where we'd spent countless summer afternoons as teenagers, diving off the rope swing and sprawling on sun-warmed rocks until the mosquitoes drove us home.

The thought of cool water and afternoon sunshine is appealing enough that I'm willing to endure a few hours of manual labor. Even if my idea of appropriate work attire is probably going to drive them all to distraction.

"Fine," I say, tugging at the hem of my oversized white t-shirt. "But if we're going swimming later, I came prepared."

I peel off the shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing the simple black bikini underneath. It's nothing fancy—just basic triangle top and boy-short bottoms—but judging by the way all three of them go very still, it might as well be lingerie.

The silence stretches for several heartbeats before Wes clears his throat.

"Right," he says, his voice slightly rougher than before. "Swimming. Later. After we get some actual work done."

Callum hasn't said anything at all, but I can feel his gaze tracking over my exposed skin like a physical touch. His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth, and there's a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the morning heat.

Beckett just shakes his head with fond exasperation. "You're going to be the death of all of us, you know that?"

I flash him my most innocent smile. "I have no idea what you mean. I'm just dressed appropriately for the weather."

"Uh-huh," he says, clearly not buying my act for a second. "And I suppose the fact that you're planning to spend the day half-naked around three Alphas who are already struggling to keep their hands to themselves is just a coincidence?"

Heat floods my cheeks at his blunt assessment, but I lift my chin with stubborn defiance. "Maybe I'm just hoping you'll work faster if you're properly motivated."

"Jesus Christ," Callum mutters, running a hand through his hair. "You're going to be the end of me, Bell."

The rough affection in his voice makes my stomach flutter with something that has nothing to do with nervousness. There's hunger there, yes, but also something deeper. Something that speaks to the kind of possessive tenderness that makes my Omega instincts purr with satisfaction.

"If you're gonna work, you're gonna need gear," Wes announces, apparently deciding that the safest course of action is to focus on practical matters. "Can't have you handling power tools without proper protection."

He disappears into the truck and emerges with an armload of safety equipment that looks heavy and uncomfortable and completely at odds with my plans for staying cool in the summer heat.

"Really?" I groan, eyeing the thick work gloves, safety glasses, and what appears to be a hard hat with genuine dismay. "It's like ninety degrees already. I'll melt in all that stuff."

"Better melted than missing fingers," Wes says firmly, holding out the gear with the kind of implacable determination that suggests argument is futile. "I have to protect my Omega, right?"

My Omega.

The casual possessiveness in those two words hits me like a physical blow, sending heat spiraling through my entire body. My face goes nuclear, and I know I'm blushing hard enough to be visible from space.

"I—you—that's not—" I stammer, apparently incapable of forming complete sentences.

Beckett's low chuckle rumbles through the air like distant thunder. "If anyone can convince her to do something she doesn't want to do, it's Wes. Man could charm a snake out of its skin."

Wes grins and waggles his eyebrows at me.

"Come on, Junebug. Don't make me get creative about enforcement."

The threat in his voice is mostly playful, but there's an underlying edge that makes my knees go weak. Because I know exactly how creative Wes can get when he sets his mind to it, and my body is already responding to the promise in his tone with embarrassing enthusiasm.

"Fine," I huff, snatching the safety gear from his hands. "But if I pass out from heat stroke, I'm blaming all of you."

"Noted," Callum says dryly. "Though I'm pretty sure your chances of heat stroke are lower than your chances of serious injury if you try to use a circular saw while wearing a bikini."

I pull on the work gloves with exaggerated martyrdom, then settle the hard hat on my head with the kind of resigned dignity usually reserved for facing execution. The safety glasses complete the look, transforming me from beach-ready to construction worker in the span of thirty seconds.

"There," I announce, spreading my arms to display my ensemble. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Wes says, but his eyes are dancing with amusement and something hotter. "You look like the world's sexiest safety inspector."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," I inform him, though I can't quite suppress my smile.

The work itself is more engaging than I expected. There's something satisfying about the systematic process of demolition and reconstruction, the way broken things can be transformed into something functional and beautiful with enough patience and skill.

Callum takes charge with the quiet authority that comes naturally to him, directing the placement of new support beams and explaining the engineering principles that will keep the whole structure standing.

His hands are steady and sure as he demonstrates proper technique, and I find myself mesmerized by the casual competence with which he handles tools that look like they could cause serious damage in the wrong hands.

Wes focuses on the electrical work, running new lines for outlets and lighting with the kind of methodical precision that speaks to formal training.

He hums while he works, occasionally breaking into actual song when a particular lyric strikes his fancy, completely unconscious of the way his voice transforms mundane labor into something almost musical.

Beckett handles the detail work, measuring and cutting and fitting pieces together with the same attention to quality that he brings to his baking. Every joint is perfectly aligned, every angle precisely calculated, and watching him work is like observing a master craftsman in his element.

And me? I'm the enthusiastic amateur, eager to learn and probably more hindrance than help, but gradually picking up skills and confidence as the morning progresses.