Page 52 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
A butler— an actual butler in full formal attire that looks like it came from a costume drama —appears to escort us to the first of several barns where Wes will conduct his examinations.
The man's demeanor is professionally courteous but distant, like he's been trained to interact with service providers in a way that maintains appropriate social hierarchies.
His accent suggests expensive education, and his movements have the kind of practiced efficiency that comes from years of managing wealthy people's expectations.
"Dr. Carter, I presume?" he says with the kind of polite formality that somehow manages to be both welcoming and dismissive. "Mrs. Thornfield is expecting you. If you'll follow me, please."
The barn itself is immaculate, more like a medical facility than a working agricultural building.
State-of-the-art ventilation systems hum quietly in the background, maintaining perfect temperature and air quality.
The floors are pristine concrete sealed to prevent staining, and the lighting is the kind of full-spectrum setup usually found in veterinary hospitals rather than rural outbuildings.
Individual stalls are fitted with automatic watering systems and the kind of sophisticated monitoring equipment that tracks everything from temperature to humidity to the animals' movement patterns.
Feed is stored in climate-controlled silos with automated delivery systems that ensure precise nutrition without human error.
It's impressive from a technological standpoint, but there's something sterile about the environment that makes me miss the organized chaos of our own barn renovation project.
Despite all the impressive infrastructure, there's no evidence of the kind of relationship-building that characterizes the best animal husbandry.
No signs of individual attention or the kind of intuitive understanding that develops when people spend actual time with their animals rather than managing them through technology.
Wes works with his usual competence and quiet confidence, examining horses and cattle with the kind of thorough attention that has earned him a reputation throughout the region.
His hands are gentle but sure as he checks vital signs, examines hooves, and runs through diagnostic procedures that reveal both his technical skill and his genuine care for animal welfare.
I stay out of the way but close enough to observe his techniques, continuing the informal education that started with the foaling emergency.
Watching him work is educational, but it's also deeply attractive in ways I'm still processing.
There's something about competence that speaks to primal instincts I didn't know I possessed.
"And who might this lovely young lady be?"
The voice belongs to a woman in her mid-forties, expensively dressed in the kind of casual wear that costs more than most people's monthly rent.
Everything about her screams money and leisure—perfectly styled blonde hair that probably requires weekly salon visits, flawless makeup despite the early hour, and jewelry that catches the light with every gesture.
Her riding boots are custom-made leather that's never seen actual barn work, and her jeans fit with the kind of precision that only comes from professional tailoring.
This must be Mrs. Thornfield.
She moves like someone accustomed to being the center of attention, with the kind of practiced grace that comes from years of navigating social situations where appearance matters more than substance.
Her smile is bright and welcoming, but there's something calculating about the way her eyes assess both Wes and me, like she's determining our respective values in some internal accounting system.
"This is Juniper," Wes says without looking up from the horse he's examining, his voice maintaining the kind of professional neutrality that suggests experience with overly familiar clients. "She's been helping me with some of the more complex cases lately."
"How wonderful," Mrs. Thornfield says, but her attention is entirely focused on Wes rather than me.
Her gaze travels over his form with the kind of obvious appreciation that would make most people uncomfortable, lingering on his shoulders and the way his polo shirt fits across his chest. "It's so nice to have such dedicated professionals caring for our animals. "
She moves closer to where Wes is working, ostensibly to get a better view of the examination but actually to position herself within his personal space.
Her body language is flirtatious in a way that would be obvious to anyone paying attention— all meaningful glances and subtle touches disguised as casual contact.
"Have you been working with animals long?" she asks, her hand briefly settling on his shoulder as she leans in to peer at whatever he's doing.
The touch lingers just long enough to cross the line from professional interest into something more personal.
"About ten years now," Wes replies, maintaining his professional demeanor despite her obvious attempts at seduction.
His voice remains steady and polite, but I can see the slight tension in his shoulders that suggests he's aware of her behavior and not particularly comfortable with it.
"Started right out of veterinary school and never looked back. "
"How admirable," she purrs, her voice dropping to the kind of register usually reserved for intimate conversations. "Such dedication is so rare these days. Most people are always looking for something better, something more exciting."
I remain quiet during this exchange, partly because interrupting would be unprofessional but mostly because I'm too fascinated by the dynamics to look away.
Mrs. Thornfield's flirtation is so blatant it borders on parody, while Wes handles it with the kind of practiced diplomacy that suggests this isn't his first encounter with a lonely ranch wife looking for entertainment.
The whole interaction makes me acutely aware of the power dynamics at play.
She's wealthy, sophisticated, and clearly accustomed to getting what she wants through a combination of charm and financial leverage.
Her confidence comes from knowing she has resources most people can only dream about, and she wields that knowledge like a weapon designed to make others feel inadequate.
"Are you an apprentice, dear?" she asks, finally acknowledging my presence with the kind of patronizing tone usually reserved for children and service staff.
Her smile is perfectly polite, but there's dismissal in her eyes that makes it clear she considers me an irrelevant detail in her interaction with Wes.
The question stings more than it should, probably because it highlights the insecurity I've been trying to ignore.
Compared to her obvious sophistication and resources, I must look like exactly what she assumes—some local girl playing at being important in a professional context where she doesn't belong.
"No," I say calmly, meeting her gaze with as much dignity as I can muster. "I'm his Omega."
The effect of my words is immediate and dramatic.
Mrs. Thornfield's expression shifts from dismissive condescension to genuine surprise, her perfectly composed features revealing a moment of unguarded shock before she recovers her social mask.
"Oh," she says, her voice flat with the kind of deflation that comes from realizing a potential conquest is already claimed. The disappointment in her tone is so profound it's almost comical, like she's just learned that her favorite restaurant has closed permanently. "I see."
The silence that follows is heavy with recalculation as she processes this new information and adjusts her approach accordingly.
Her body language shifts subtly away from Wes, the flirtatious energy replaced by the kind of polite distance that suggests she's moved on to other possibilities.
"We have a second barn with our more exotic animals," she continues after a moment, her tone returning to professional courtesy but lacking its earlier warmth.
"If you wouldn't mind conducting your inspections there as well, Dr. Carter, I'm prepared to pay whatever fee you deem appropriate for the additional services. "
The emphasis on payment feels like flexing, a subtle reminder of her wealth and resources in case anyone had forgotten her social status.
There's something desperate about it, like she's trying to use money to maintain relevance in a situation where it no longer applies. Her smile is bright but brittle, the kind that comes from years of practice at social recovery after minor defeats.
"Of course," Wes says smoothly, his voice maintaining the same professional tone he's used throughout the interaction. "Standard rates apply regardless of the location."
I don't say anything during the remainder of our visit, maintaining professional composure while internally processing the unexpected surge of jealousy that Mrs. Thornfield's behavior triggered.
Because watching another woman flirt with Wes— especially someone with obvious advantages in terms of wealth and social position— awakened possessive instincts I didn't know I possessed.
The feeling is unsettling partly because it's so foreign, but mostly because it forces me to confront the extent of my growing attachment to all three of them. What started as cautious exploration of renewed connection has evolved into something much deeper and more complicated.
Something that apparently includes territorial responses to perceived threats.
The exotic animals turn out to be a collection of rare breeds that probably cost more individually than most people's cars.
Alpacas with impossibly soft fiber, miniature horses with perfect conformation, and several species I can't even identify but that clearly represent substantial investment in genetic superiority.