Page 49 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
WOOD AND WHISKEY
~JUNIPER~
T he lake is perfect.
After a week of steady rebuilding, the guys have transformed what used to be a neglected swimming hole into something that belongs in a magazine spread about rustic retreats.
The water itself was always beautiful—clear and spring-fed, with a natural rock formation that creates the perfect diving platform—but now there's infrastructure that makes it feel like an actual destination rather than just a convenient place to cool off.
Beckett and Wes have been collaborating on a stone path that winds from where we park the trucks all the way down to the water's edge, each stone carefully placed and leveled so we can walk barefoot without worrying about sharp rocks or uneven ground.
The path is bordered with wildflowers that seem to have sprouted overnight but were clearly planted with intention— black-eyed Susans and purple coneflowers and some kind of trailing vine that releases the sweetest fragrance when you brush against it.
Callum built wooden benches positioned to catch both morning and evening light, their simple lines complementing the natural landscape without overwhelming it.
There's also a changing area constructed from weathered cedar that provides privacy while maintaining the rustic aesthetic, and a small dock that extends into the deeper water where the current creates natural pools perfect for floating.
The finishing touch is a collection of stone sculptures that I suspect Beckett created during his stress-baking phases—smooth river rocks balanced in impossible configurations that somehow manage to look both deliberate and organic.
"You guys have been busy," I say, settling onto one of the benches after our afternoon swim. My hair is still damp, and I'm wearing one of Callum's flannel shirts over my bathing suit because the evening air carries just enough chill to make the extra layer welcome.
"Figured if we're going to be spending time down here, might as well make it comfortable," Wes says. He's sprawled on the dock, still shirtless and gleaming with water droplets, looking like some kind of lake god who decided to take human form.
"Besides," Beckett adds from where he's arranging our impromptu picnic on a flat boulder, "you seemed to like it here. Made sense to invest in improvements."
The casual way he says 'invest' makes my chest warm with feelings I'm not ready to examine too closely. Because there's an assumption of permanence in that word, a suggestion that this isn't just a temporary arrangement but something worth building for the long term.
I'm discovering that I'm much more of an outdoor person than I ever expected.
Maybe it's because I feel safe here in a way I never have before—surrounded by three Alphas who've made it clear that my wellbeing is their top priority, free to explore and experiment and just exist without constantly looking over my shoulder for threats.
Or maybe it's because everything about this place feels like home in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
"I never thought I'd be the type to prefer mud between my toes over city sidewalks," I admit, wiggling said toes in the soft grass. "But there's something about this that just feels right."
"That's because you were always meant to be here," Callum says quietly. "Some people are city creatures, some are meant for wide open spaces. You're the latter."
The certainty in his voice makes me look at him more closely. He's sitting on the edge of the dock, feet dangling in the water, and there's something contemplative about his expression that suggests deeper thoughts than our casual conversation would warrant.
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"Because I've been watching you all week," he says simply. "The way you light up when you're working outside, the way you move when you think no one's looking. You're more yourself out here than you ever were in enclosed spaces."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate, and I find myself studying his face for signs of the analytical distance that usually characterizes his assessments of people and situations.
But instead of clinical observation, I see something softer.
Something that looks like affection mixed with a kind of protective satisfaction.
Like he's pleased to have been proven right about something he's believed for a long time.
We spend another hour by the water, sharing the sandwiches Beckett packed and watching the sun sink toward the horizon.
The conversation flows easily between all four of us—stories about the week's progress on the barn, plans for additional improvements to the property, gentle teasing about who's contributed the most labor and who's been the most distracted by certain bikini-wearing Omegas.
It's comfortable in a way that feels both familiar and entirely new. Like we're rediscovering rhythms that used to define our interactions while simultaneously creating something that belongs entirely to who we are now.
As the evening light starts to fade, Wes and Beckett begin packing up the remains of our impromptu picnic with the kind of efficient teamwork that speaks to years of practice.
They've got plans to head back to town—something about inventory at the bakery and a late-night emergency call at the veterinary clinic—but their departure feels natural rather than awkward.
"You two have fun," Wes says with a grin that suggests he knows exactly what kind of trouble Callum and I might get into if left to our own devices. "Try not to do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves a pretty wide range of possibilities," I point out.
"Exactly," he winks, then leans down to press a quick kiss to my forehead. "See you tomorrow, Junebug."
Beckett's farewell is quieter but no less affectionate—a gentle squeeze of my shoulder and a murmured reminder to eat something substantial for dinner instead of surviving on leftover sandwich crusts.
And then it's just Callum and me, sitting by the water as the first stars begin to appear in the darkening sky.
"Want to see my workshop?" he asks after we've sat in comfortable silence for several minutes.
The question surprises me, though it probably shouldn't. I know he has a woodworking setup somewhere on the property—I've seen the evidence in the perfectly crafted benches and dock construction—but he's never offered to show me the space where the actual creation happens.
"I'd love to," I say, meaning it.
His workshop turns out to be housed in a converted outbuilding behind the main barn, accessible via a well-worn path that suggests frequent use.
The space itself is a study in organized efficiency—tools arranged with military precision, workbenches positioned to catch the best natural light, and the kind of dust collection system that speaks to serious investment in the craft.
But what really catches my attention are the projects in various stages of completion. A rocking chair that looks like it was designed for peaceful evening contemplation. A dining table with hand-carved details that would make furniture designers weep with envy.
A collection of smaller items— jewelry boxes, picture frames, decorative bowls —that showcase the kind of attention to detail usually reserved for heirloom pieces.
"Callum," I breathe, running my fingers along the smooth surface of the dining table. "This is incredible. How long have you been doing this?"
"Since high school," he says, moving to light a few strategically placed lanterns that cast warm pools of light throughout the space. "Started as a way to work off aggression, turned into something I actually enjoyed."
"These aren't just hobby pieces," I say, studying a jewelry box with intricate marquetry work. "This is professional-level craftsmanship."
A flush creeps up his neck at the compliment, and I realize he's genuinely modest about his skill level despite the obvious evidence of his talent.
"It's just something I do in my spare time," he says, but there's pleasure in his voice that suggests my appreciation means more than he's willing to admit.
"Bullshit," I say firmly. "This is art. Beautiful, functional art that's going to last for generations."
He moves to a cabinet and retrieves a bottle of whiskey along with two glasses, the amber liquid catching the lantern light like liquid gold.
"Thought you might like to try your hand at some basic carving," he says, pouring generous measures for both of us. "Nothing complicated, just enough to get a feel for how wood responds to different tools."
The whiskey burns pleasantly as it goes down, spreading warmth through my chest and helping to settle the nervous energy that always seems to accompany one-on-one time with any of them.
Callum selects a piece of smooth pine and a collection of carving tools, arranging everything on the workbench with the kind of care usually reserved for surgical instruments.
"First lesson," he says, positioning himself behind me much like he did when teaching me to hammer nails. "Wood has grain, and you have to work with it, not against it. Try to carve across the grain and you'll get nothing but splinters and frustration."
His hands cover mine as he demonstrates the proper grip on the carving knife, guiding my movements with the same patient attention he brought to construction work. But here, in the intimate space of his workshop surrounded by the evidence of his skill and passion, the contact feels more charged.
More intentional.
"Feel that?" he murmurs as the blade slides smoothly through the wood. "When you're working with the grain, it's almost effortless. The wood wants to be shaped."
"Like this?" I ask, adjusting my angle according to his guidance.
"Perfect," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You're a natural."