Page 51 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
WEALTH AND WANT
~JUNIPER~
" C ome with me today," Wes says over his morning coffee, already dressed in his professional veterinarian attire—clean khakis, polo shirt with the clinic logo embroidered in neat blue thread, and the kind of confident demeanor that inspires trust in both animals and their owners.
"I've got a house call to the Thornfield estate, and after watching you handle that foaling last week, I think you'd find it interesting. "
The invitation surprises me, though it probably shouldn't.
Ever since the incident with the breech birth, Wes has been more intentional about including me in his work when schedules allow. Not as a formal apprentice or anything that official, but as someone whose genuine interest and natural aptitude deserve encouragement.
I'm sitting across from him at the small kitchen table, wearing one of Callum's flannel shirts over yesterday's jeans, my hair still messy from sleep. The domestic intimacy of sharing morning coffee feels both natural and revolutionary—like something I've been craving without realizing it.
"What kind of animals are we talking about?" I ask, already mentally rearranging my day to accommodate the trip.
"Standard ranch livestock mostly, but they've also got some exotic breeds that require quarterly health checks.
" He grins over his coffee cup, blue eyes dancing with the kind of mischief that usually means trouble.
"Plus, the Thornfields pay premium rates for house calls, so it's worth the drive even if Mrs. Thornfield can be. .. a lot."
There's something in his tone that suggests 'a lot' might be an understatement, but I'm curious enough about his work—and eager enough for any excuse to spend time with him— that potential personality challenges don't deter me.
"Sounds educational," I say, taking another sip of coffee that's perfectly strong and somehow tastes better when shared. "And I promise to stay out of the way if things get complicated."
"You're never in the way, Junebug," he says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
His fingers are warm and slightly rough from years of handling animals, and the casual affection in the gesture sends warmth spreading through my chest. "Besides, I like having you there.
Makes the job more enjoyable when I've got someone to share it with. "
The simple honesty in his words makes me smile for no particular reason except that he wants my company and isn't afraid to say so.
After years of relationships where my presence felt tolerated rather than welcomed, his enthusiasm is both refreshing and slightly overwhelming.
An hour later, we're driving through countryside that grows progressively more manicured as we approach the Thornfield property.
Wes's truck is practical rather than impressive—a well-maintained Ford with veterinary equipment secured in the bed and the kind of lived-in comfort that comes from daily use.
The radio plays softly between us, some classic rock station that provides background music for our conversation about everything and nothing.
The natural wildness that characterizes most of the rural landscape around Saddlebrush gives way to perfectly maintained fencing, geometrically precise pastures, and the kind of landscaping that requires professional maintenance crews.
Every fence post is identical, every gate perfectly aligned, every patch of grass trimmed to regulation height.
"Jesus," I breathe when we reach the main gate. "This is like something out of a magazine."
The gate itself is a testament to both wealth and a complete misunderstanding of rural aesthetics.
Instead of the simple wooden construction that characterizes most ranch entrances—weathered cedar posts and hand-forged hardware that speaks to generations of use—this is an elaborate wrought-iron affair with electronic controls and security cameras mounted on sleek metal poles.
It's impressive in a completely soulless way, more suited to a corporate headquarters than a working ranch.
The intricate metalwork probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, all flowing curves and decorative flourishes that serve no functional purpose beyond demonstrating the owner's ability to spend money on unnecessary ornamentation.
There's a small control panel where Wes has to punch in a security code, and I catch a glimpse of multiple camera angles on a tiny screen that monitors everyone who approaches.
"Built with money instead of love," I murmur, studying the mechanical precision of the metalwork that lacks any trace of the hand-forged character that makes rural craftsmanship beautiful.
"Exactly," Wes agrees, punching in the security code Mrs. Thornfield provided earlier in the week. "Everything here is for show. Functional, sure, but without any of the character that makes a place feel like home."
The gates swing open with the kind of silent efficiency that speaks to regular maintenance and expensive engineering. No creaking hinges or manual effort required—just smooth, automated perfection that somehow manages to feel sterile despite its obvious sophistication.
The drive to the main house takes us past a series of perfectly maintained outbuildings that look like they were designed by the same architect who created the gate.
Clean lines, expensive materials, and the kind of aesthetic consistency that requires both substantial investment and complete creative control.
Even the barns are architectural statements rather than purely functional structures, with designer cupolas and weather vanes that probably cost more than entire buildings in most rural communities.
There are horses in some of the pastures—beautiful animals with obvious breeding and professional conditioning, their coats gleaming with health and careful grooming.
But even they seem somehow disconnected from their environment, more like expensive ornaments than creatures with their own personalities and quirks.
The fencing that contains them is pristine white vinyl that will require constant cleaning to maintain its showroom appearance.
When we reach the house itself, I can't suppress a low whistle of amazement.
It's enormous, all natural stone and timber beams and soaring windows designed to showcase mountain views.
The architecture is technically impressive— probably featured in architectural magazines as an example of luxury rural living —but it lacks the organic relationship with its landscape that makes truly beautiful homes feel inevitable rather than imposed.
The circular driveway features a fountain that probably cost more than most people's cars, surrounded by flower beds so perfectly arranged they look like they were installed by a team of engineers rather than gardeners who understand how plants actually grow.
Water arcs in precise patterns that never vary, controlled by hidden pumps and timers that eliminate any trace of natural randomness.
"This family is wealthy as hell," Wes observes, parking near what appears to be a service entrance marked with discrete signage that directs various categories of visitors to their appropriate doors.
"Funny thing is, the ranch isn't particularly popular despite all the obvious investment.
You'd think with resources like this, they'd be the premier destination for boarding and breeding in the region. "
I study the pristine but somehow lifeless landscape, trying to put my finger on what feels wrong about the whole setup. Everything is technically perfect, but there's no sense of evolution or organic development.
No evidence of the kind of gradual improvement that comes from years of living with and understanding a piece of land.
"It's probably because it's built off money more than love," I say finally, watching a maintenance crew work on flower beds with the kind of military precision that suggests they're following detailed specifications rather than responding to what the plants actually need.
"And the desire to show off wealth rather than actually connect with the land or the animals.
People can sense that kind of thing, even if they can't articulate it. "
Wes reaches over and takes my hand, his thumb tracing slow circles against my palm as he speaks. The gesture is casual but intimate, grounding me in the moment rather than my growing feelings of inadequacy.
"Comparison is the thief of joy, Junebug," he says softly, his voice carrying the kind of gentle wisdom that comes from understanding both success and struggle.
"Your ranch is beautiful and will only grow more inviting because it's being built with the right intentions.
This place might be impressive, but it's also cold. Yours has heart."
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize he caught me engaging in the kind of self-doubt that's been plaguing me since we started working on the sanctuary.
Because looking at the Thornfield estate, it's impossible not to wonder if what we're building will ever measure up to this level of polish and sophistication.
But Wes is right about the fundamental difference.
Our projects might be smaller in scale, might rely on salvaged materials and creative problem-solving rather than unlimited budgets, but they're motivated by genuine care for the animals and the land rather than the desire to create an impressive facade.
"You're right," I admit, squeezing his hand in return. "It's just... intimidating, you know? Seeing what money can accomplish when it's applied systematically."
"Money without vision is just expensive emptiness," he says, bringing my hand to his lips for a quick kiss before releasing it to gather his veterinary supplies from the back seat. "Trust me, what you're building is going to last longer and matter more than anything here."