Page 53 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Wes examines each animal with the same thorough professionalism he brings to standard livestock, but I can see him noting details about their care and conditioning that suggest expensive maintenance without necessarily optimal welfare.

Everything looks perfect on the surface, but there's something missing in the animals' demeanor that speaks to the difference between expensive care and genuine attention.

The drive back to our ranch passes in comfortable conversation about the animals we examined and Wes's professional observations about their care and conditioning.

But underneath the surface discussion, I'm grappling with questions about worthiness and suitability that the Thornfield visit has brought into sharp focus.

Because if I'm being honest with myself, Mrs. Thornfield represents everything I'm not.

Wealth, sophistication, the kind of polished confidence that comes from never having to worry about basic security.

She's the type of woman who could offer an Alpha like Wes the kind of lifestyle most people only dream about—exotic travel, unlimited resources, social connections that open doors in exclusive circles.

So what does it say about me that I'm sitting here in secondhand clothes, owner of a property that's more potential than reality, wondering if I'm actually good enough for any of them?

That night, I find myself unable to sleep despite the physical exhaustion that usually guarantees unconsciousness within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.

My mind keeps cycling through images from the day—Mrs. Thornfield's perfect everything contrasted with my own obvious limitations, the casual way she assumed I was just an apprentice rather than someone with my own legitimate place in Wes's professional life.

The nest that the guys created for me is comfortable beyond description, but even surrounded by their scents and evidence of their care, I can't quiet the voices that insist I'm not enough.

Not sophisticated enough, not wealthy enough, not polished enough to deserve the kind of devotion they seem determined to offer.

After an hour of restless tossing, I give up on sleep and decide to check on the barn renovations.

We're close to finishing the major structural work, and there's something soothing about seeing tangible progress on a project that represents everything we're trying to build together.

The barn is illuminated by work lights that cast dramatic shadows across the partially completed interior, highlighting the bones of what will eventually be a fully functional space for animals and equipment. And there, bent over a workbench with his shirt draped over a nearby sawhorse, is Wes.

My breath catches at the sight of him. Shirtless, his skin gleaming with a light sheen of perspiration that catches the harsh light, every muscle defined by the play of shadow as he works.

His hair is tousled from running his hands through it, and there's something almost artistic about the way he moves—economical, precise, completely absorbed in whatever task has claimed his attention.

He's sanding something, the rhythmic motion of his arms creating a hypnotic pattern of muscle and movement that speaks to both physical strength and careful attention to detail.

Wood shavings curl away from whatever he's crafting, and I can smell the sweet scent of cedar mixing with his own natural musk.

I should announce my presence or retreat before he notices me watching, but I'm frozen by the unexpected intensity of my physical response to the sight of him. Because this isn't just appreciation for an attractive man going about his business.

This is visceral, possessive want that makes my skin feel too tight and my mouth go dry.

This is desire so sharp it borders on desperation, made worse by the day's reminder of all the ways I might not deserve what I'm craving.

"Enjoying the view, Junebug?"

His voice cuts through my stupor like a blade, and I realize he's straightened up and is now watching me with obvious amusement. The smile on his face is pure masculine satisfaction, like he's perfectly aware of the effect he's having and is enjoying every second of my obvious appreciation.

Heat floods my cheeks as I'm caught in the act of ogling him like some kind of starved teenager, and I scramble for dignity that's probably beyond salvage at this point.

"I couldn't sleep," I say, trying to sound casual instead of guilty as I emerge from the shadows where I'd been lurking like some kind of perverted barn ghost. "Thought I'd check on the progress."

"Uh-huh," he says, his grin widening at my obvious attempt to deflect attention from my creeper behavior. "And the fact that I happen to be here working without a shirt is just a coincidence?"

"Completely coincidental," I lie, though we both know he's not buying it for a second.

His laugh is rich and warm, the kind of sound that makes my stomach flutter with feelings I'm not ready to examine too closely.

He sets down the piece of sandpaper he'd been using and wipes his hands on a rag, his movements casual but somehow loaded with intention.

"Come here," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes it impossible to refuse.

I approach with the kind of cautious steps usually reserved for potentially dangerous situations, though the danger here is entirely of the self-inflicted variety.

Every step closer makes me more aware of his scent, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his eyes track my movement with predatory focus.

"Want to talk about what's really keeping you awake?" he asks when I'm close enough for him to read my expression in the work lights.

The gentle understanding in his voice breaks through my attempt at casual deflection, and I find myself unable to maintain the pretense that everything is fine. Because this is Wes, who notices things and cares about the answers, and lying to him feels both impossible and wrong.

"I'm jealous," I admit quietly, the words coming out smaller than I intended. "Which is stupid and petty and completely unfair to you, but I can't seem to stop feeling it."

"Jealous of what?" he asks, though something in his expression suggests he already knows the answer.

"Mrs. Thornfield," I say, the name tasting bitter on my tongue. "She had everything. Money, the perfect ranch, and she's beautiful in that polished way that comes from never having to worry about anything practical. She could offer you—any of you—things I never could."

Wes is quiet for a moment, studying my face with the kind of careful attention he usually reserves for sick animals. There's no judgment in his expression, just the focused concern of someone trying to understand a problem so he can help solve it.

"You want to know what I saw when I looked at that ranch today?" he asks finally.

I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

"Lifeless perfection," he says simply, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that comes from deep conviction.

"Beautiful on the surface but sterile underneath.

Everything there exists to impress rather than to nurture or support actual life.

And Mrs. Thornfield herself? She's lonely enough to throw herself at a veterinarian she barely knows because her money can't buy the one thing she actually wants. "

"Which is?"

"Connection," he says, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Real, genuine human connection that isn't based on what she can provide or how much she can spend.

Everything in her life is transactional, including her relationships.

There's nothing attractive about that, Junebug. "

He reaches up to cup my face in his hands, his palms warm and slightly rough against my cheeks.

The gesture is gentle but firm, forcing me to meet his eyes and see the sincerity there.

"You know what is attractive?" he continues, his voice dropping to that particular register that makes my insides turn to liquid.

"Someone who cares more about a struggling mule than her own comfort.

Someone who'll get covered in blood and birth fluids to help bring new life into the world.

Someone who looks at a broken-down ranch and sees potential instead of problems."

Before I can respond, he leans down and kisses me— soft and sweet and full of the kind of affection that makes my chest ache with feelings too big for words.

His lips are warm and gentle, moving against mine with careful attention rather than demanding passion, like he's trying to communicate something too important for words alone.

"Oops," he says when we break apart, though his grin suggests the kiss was entirely intentional. "Forgot to ask permission. But I needed you to know that you're everything we've wanted and more for the last ten years, and nothing's going to change that."

The simple honesty in his words does more to settle my doubts than any amount of logical argument could accomplish. Because this isn't just reassurance—it's truth delivered with the kind of certainty that can only come from deep conviction and years of knowing exactly what he values.

"Well," I say, attempting to inject some lightness into the heavy emotion of the moment, "when you put it that way, I guess Mrs. Thornfield can keep her fountain and her butler. I've got something better."

"What's that?" he asks, though his eyes are already dancing with anticipation for whatever smartass comment I'm about to deliver.

"Three Alphas who think I'm worth fighting for," I say with a grin that feels more genuine than anything I've managed all day. "Even when I'm being insecure and ridiculous."

He groans, dropping his forehead against mine in a gesture of fond exasperation that somehow manages to be both affectionate and slightly theatrical.

"You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"Sorry," I say, though I'm not sorry at all and we both know it.

"No, you're not," he says accurately, his voice carrying the kind of amused resignation that comes from understanding someone too well to be fooled by their attempts at innocence. "And now you better get yourself to bed before we end up doing everything except sleeping."

The suggestion sends heat racing through my veins, and I find myself seriously considering the implications of staying right where I am.

Because the idea of 'everything except sleeping' with a shirtless Wes in a barn full of shadows and possibilities sounds like exactly the kind of trouble I'm in the mood for.

"I don't mind," I admit quietly, surprised by my own boldness.

"I know you don't," he says, his voice rough with want and something that sounds like barely controlled restraint.

"But I'm trying to be a good boy tonight, and I already jerked off earlier to the idea of having you spread across that barn table while I'm balls deep inside you, so I'm going to need another rain check. "

The crude honesty of his confession sends such a shock of arousal through me that I actually squeak, my face going supernova with embarrassment and desire in equal measure.

The mental image he's just painted is so vivid and appealing that it takes several seconds for my brain to remember how to form words.

"I'm leaving," I announce, backing toward the barn entrance before I do something that proves I have zero self-control where he's concerned.

"Don't go touching yourself now," he calls after me, his voice thick with amusement and heat. "Or I'm walking in there and joining you."

The threat stops me in my tracks, and for a moment I seriously consider calling his bluff.

Because the idea of Wes appearing in my bedroom to follow through on that promise is appealing enough to override most of my remaining common sense.

But something about his expression suggests he's not bluffing at all, and I'm not quite ready for that level of escalation.

Not tonight, anyway.

Though the temptation to test his resolve is almost overwhelming.