Page 50 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
We work in companionable silence, the whiskey and the gentle concentration required for carving creating a bubble of intimacy that feels separate from the rest of the world.
Occasionally he offers guidance or demonstrates a particular technique, but mostly he just lets me explore the feel of the tools and the responsive nature of the wood.
"What should I carve?" I ask when I've gotten comfortable with the basic motions.
"Whatever feels right," he says. "Though there's something to be said for starting with initials. Simple letters, but you can put your own style into the curves and lines."
The suggestion makes sense, and I find myself carefully outlining the letters of my name in the smooth pine surface. The work is meditative, requiring just enough concentration to quiet the constant chatter of my thoughts while leaving room for awareness of Callum's presence beside me.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," I say as I work on the curve of the 'J'.
He's quiet for long enough that I think he might not answer, but then he speaks with the kind of careful honesty that suggests he's sharing something important.
"I used to think I'd never leave Saddlebrush," he says. "Not because I couldn't, but because I never wanted to. This place, these people, this life—it was enough. More than enough."
"Used to?" I prompt gently.
"After you left, nothing felt permanent anymore," he admits. "Like everything I thought I could count on was just temporary, waiting for the next person to decide they needed something bigger or better or different."
The quiet pain in his voice makes my chest ache with sympathy and guilt in equal measure.
Because I understand now what my departure cost them, how it shattered assumptions about stability and permanence that had nothing to do with romantic attachment and everything to do with the basic human need for community.
"I never wanted to leave," I say quietly. "Not really. I just felt like I didn't have a choice."
"I know," he says. "And I know we're the ones who made you feel that way. Doesn't make it hurt less, but I understand why you did what you did."
I set down the carving knife and turn to face him fully. In the soft lantern light, his features look younger, more vulnerable than his usual stoic expression allows.
"What about now?" I ask. "Do you still want to stay here forever?"
His smile is soft and genuine, transforming his entire face. "Now I want whatever you want. If you want to build something here, I'm all in. If you decide you need to see the world, I'll figure out how to make that work too."
"That's a lot of responsibility to put on someone," I point out.
"Not responsibility," he corrects. "Just honesty. You're the variable that makes every other decision make sense."
The admission hangs between us like a bridge, solid and inviting and terrifying in its implications.
Because what he's describing isn't just attraction or even love—it's the kind of fundamental reorientation of priorities that only happens when someone becomes essential to your understanding of yourself.
"Callum," I start, but he shakes his head.
"You don't have to say anything," he says. "I just wanted you to know where I stand."
Instead of responding with words, I move closer to him, close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his dark eyes, close enough to count the faint freckles across his cheekbones that I'd forgotten about until this moment.
"Can I tell you something?" I ask.
"Anything."
"I've never felt as safe as I do here. With you. With all of you." I pause, searching for the right words. "It's not just physical safety, though that's part of it. It's the safety to be myself without constantly calculating how every word and action will be received."
His expression softens at my admission, and when he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture is infinitely gentle.
"You never have to be anything other than exactly who you are," he says. "Not with us. Not ever."
The promise in his words, combined with the whiskey and the intimate atmosphere of his workshop, finally breaks through the last of my resistance to what's been building between us all evening.
I slide off my stool and move to stand between his knees, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. He goes very still, but his eyes never leave mine.
"Is this okay?" I ask, though I think I already know the answer from the way his breathing has changed.
"More than okay," he says, his voice rough with want.
I lean down and kiss him, soft and exploratory at first, then deeper as he responds with the kind of controlled passion that speaks to years of wanting.
His hands settle on my waist, spanning almost the entire width of my torso, and the solid strength of his touch makes me feel delicate and cherished in ways I've never experienced.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
But instead of escalating, I find myself drawn to the simple intimacy of being close to him.
I settle myself on his lap, back against his chest, and reach for my abandoned carving project.
"Show me how to do the 'P'," I say, offering him the knife.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where it's pressed against my back. "The 'P'?"
"For permanence," I say. "Seems like something worth carving."
His arms come around me as he guides my hands through the careful curves of the letter, and I let myself sink into the comfort of being held while creating something lasting.
The combination of whiskey, gentle concentration, and the solid warmth of his body creates a perfect bubble of contentment that I never want to burst.
"This is nice," I murmur as we work together on the final flourish.
"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. "It really is."
We finish the letter in comfortable silence, then set the tools aside and just hold each other as the lantern light flickers around us. My eyes are growing heavy with the combined effects of alcohol, physical exhaustion, and the bone-deep relaxation that comes from feeling completely safe.
"I'm going to fall asleep," I warn him, already feeling my body going boneless against his.
"That's okay," he says, adjusting his position to better support my weight. "I've got you."
The simple promise in those three words is the last thing I hear before sleep claims me, surrounded by the scent of wood shavings and whiskey and the man who's just proven that permanence doesn't have to be a cage— sometimes it can be exactly the foundation you need to build something beautiful.