Page 5 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Not like he’s even the slightest bit interested in someone with my petite frame, barely scraping five foot two, which stands in stark contrast to his towering giant complex.

Oh, sure, Callum seemed magnetic in a way that made anyone believe he could command the attention of an entire room without saying a word.

But back in those days of awkward adolescence, when our paths intersected like mismatched train tracks leading nowhere, he showed about as much attraction toward me as a brick wall might toward wallpaper.

So, why would anything be different now?

Why would he suddenly find appeal in the grown-up version of the girl who once wore braces and hid behind stacks of library books?

My silver hair dances rebelliously down my shoulders, daring to transform into wild shades of lavender under the shimmer of sunlight—a manifestation of my defiant spirit.

And as for my small, perky breasts—well, they’re still on my bucket list for an audacious piercing if I don’t find a pack by twenty-seven.

Ironically, it had been twenty-six once upon a time, but I figured giving myself an extra leap year was only fair.

After all, I’d rather avoid being judged by prospective packs for something as trivial and scandalous as pierced nipples than claim I did it solely for some misguided sense of empowerment.

Besides, in this moment of solitary contemplation — interrupted rudely by Callum’s intervention, obviously — there’s more at stake than figuring out how to express myself through metal and flesh. The ground beneath us feels like common territory strewn with remnants of unresolved teenage rivalry.

To him, I’m still that stubborn Omega who chose gardening over giggling at school dances; to me, he’s still the Alpha whose presence loomed like a shadow even when his gaze never lingered longer than necessary.

But here we are— standing among echoes of youthful skirmishes —a past silent competition that neither acknowledged, yet both participated in with vigor unmatched by any classroom debate.

A reluctant ally at best today, Callum appears unchanged except for being more carved from stone; his eyes are keen and calculating.

It’s this unspoken history that casts its own shadows between us now.

I find myself wondering if all these years have shifted anything within him—or within me—that might crack the veneer of indifference.

Yet there’s no time to dwell on these what-ifs when reality remains stubbornly present before us: his carefully sculpted facade juxtaposed against my own chaotic existence.

“What do you want, Callum?”

He gestures vaguely down the road.

“Heard your truck from the house. Figured you were stuck.” There’s a pause, then, “You smell like a damn flare. Figured you’d also try to do this on your own, like always.”

The words come out low, almost a growl, but there’s no judgment behind them. Just fact.

It’s the Callum special: say the quiet part out loud and pretend it’s no big deal.

.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath, turning my attention back to the truck that waged its war against gravity and mud with all the tenacity of a toddler throwing a tantrum.

But no amount of my internal protest could change the fact: word on this one-way country road spread faster than molasses on a summer’s day.

In the time it took for me to hit that rut and lose my balance spectacularly amid swirling aromas, Callum had already heard about my return—news transported to him by some unseen herald when I wasn't even halfway back into town.

There hadn’t been time to prepare for this ambush— not from him or the scent storm engulfing us both —and definitely not from whatever preconceived notions he’d carried since those schoolyard days when everything we said was either brashly honest or veiled behind teasing half-truths.

The notion added another layer of annoyance to what was already shaping up as a day worthy of infamy. That word reached him so fast—it grated against every nerve I had left standing after fighting off nostalgia and navigational errors.

We stood there in that tension-filled space between past missteps and present realities—a duo forced together by circumstances neither asked for nor acknowledged willingly.

Yet here we were; two people whose paths diverged once before now finding themselves entangled again amid cracked windshield reflections and shifting dynamics that mirrored stubborn skies close to dusk.

Each heartbeat seemed louder than the last as silence spun fine threads around us until they knotted into something more substantial than words—something forged from shared history yet fraying at edges where new encounters reshaped old boundaries.

“I can handle it,” I snap. “Was just…pacing myself.”

He gives me a look that’s both a challenge and a eulogy for my remaining pride.

“You almost faceplanted into the saddle.”

A second scent arrives, sweet and wild, edged with lemon zest and the unmistakable brine of high-octane testosterone.

“No way she’s letting you help, man,” a voice calls. “She’d rather push the truck out with her bare hands and die of a hernia than owe you a favor.”

Wes Carter.

He saunters up the ditch, every movement relaxed and lazy, as if he’s out for a pleasant stroll and not about to insert himself into my personal disaster.

Wes Carter meanders toward our impromptu roadside assembly with the kind of swagger that suggests nothing short of a nuclear disaster could ruffle his feathers.

He’s a textbook study in calculated nonchalance, every step a deliberate blend of grace and carelessness.

The man’s frame is sculpted from years working on animal farms, yet he carries himself like he’s just strolled off a golden beach rather than trudged through the muck and mire of ranch life.

His presence is like a burst of sunlight cutting through the overcast tension funneling between Callum and me.

Unlike Callum's looming solidity, Wes embodies motion—an ocean breeze that teases without breaking stride. His blond hair seems almost alive, quivering with energy as it catches the wind in playful rebellion against gravity. Of course, there’s an art to his apparent dishevelment; those sun-streaked locks are always one defiant gust away from becoming their own weather system.

He wears his relaxed charm as effortlessly as that threadbare tee hugging him with familiarity, each fray and rip more intentional than accidental, whispering secrets of adventure and mischief.

And those jeans? They’re practically a museum exhibit—holed relics that might’ve once been whole but now bear testament to escapades unknown.

Together, they announce him to be effortlessly sexy in a manner so brazenly natural it feels like an affront to my own carefully constructed defenses.

As if aware of his effect—and no doubt reveling in it—Wes approaches with the confident ease of someone who knows their place in any given scenario.

His blue eyes meet mine, vibrant pools that manage both innocence and devilish intent within their crystalline depths.

They glint under the fading afternoon light, challenging reality itself by daring anyone to call them anything but genuine.

He pauses when he reaches us, standing at the edge of our tension-laden triangle like a diplomat sent to broker peace—or perhaps merely enjoy the show.

Everything about him screams relaxation; shoulders unburdened by worries not worth carrying, hands shoved casually into pockets as though pocketing experiences is just another pastime for him.

In this tableau we’re painting, he stands as both contrast and complement: where Callum offers quiet strength rooted firmly in earthiness and I provide volatility sparking amidst half- formed plans, Wes presents levity—a buoyant air lifting spirits even amid mud-caked boots.

Yet beneath that insouciant exterior lies layers unexplored; I suspect mysteries lurking behind those mischievous grins masking truths perhaps only revealed under starlit confessionals or shared laughter over late-night tales spun around tavern tables sticky with spilled beer.

But here and now?

There’s only Wes Carter— part-time peacemaker, full-time troublemaker —armored not with steel but charm honed sharper than any blade forged by fire’s kiss.

He flashes a grin at me, all teeth and mischief. “Hey, Junebug.”

I flinch.

Eww. Nicknames.

It’s not like I’m not fond of them.

The problem is they can become permanent and nothing seems to “remain” in my life for long.

Guess my Aunt is a good example…

“Don’t call me that.”

Wes holds up both hands.

“Sorry. Force of habit.” But he’s not sorry. Not even close.

That’s when a third scent seems to enter the chat:

Behind them, like an apparition conjured from the heart of Saddlebrush Ridge itself, a third figure appears with the effortless grace of someone accustomed to nature's uneven pathways.

This is Beckett Ford—known not just for his towering stature and formidable strength, but for the warmth that seems to emanate from him in waves, much like the aromatic goodness wafting from the tin he cradles as though it were a precious artifact.

As he moves forward, each step deliberate and assured, it’s impossible not to notice how the afternoon light catches on his rich, dark hair—woven through with hints of red that glow like embers under a layer of ash.

The sun dances across his shoulders, highlighting the meticulous care given to his neatly trimmed beard and the gentle curve of his lips set in a knowing smile.