Page 54 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

HARVEST MOON

~JUNIPER~

T he wine-red dress hangs on the back of my bedroom door like a question I'm not sure I know how to answer.

I've been staring at it for the better part of an hour, alternating between excitement and terror at the thought of actually wearing something so deliberately feminine.

It's not that I'm opposed to dresses in principle, but my wardrobe for the past few years has consisted almost entirely of practical clothing—jeans, t-shirts, flannel shirts borrowed from various Alphas, and boots designed for function rather than fashion.

This dress has intentions.

The fabric is a deep burgundy that shifts between red and purple depending on the light, with a neckline that's modest but flattering and a hem that hits just above my knees.

It's the kind of dress that says you put thought into your appearance, that you wanted to look beautiful for someone specific.

Which is exactly what makes it so terrifying.

Admitting I want to look beautiful for Callum, Wes, and Beckett feels like crossing a line I've been carefully maintaining since I returned to Saddlebrush Ridge. Up until now, I've been able to tell myself that we're taking things slow, exploring possibilities, keeping our options open.

But you don't spend two hours getting ready for a harvest festival unless you've already made some fundamental decisions about what you want.

My hair has grown out significantly since returning to the ranch, the silver-to-purple ombre now reaching past my shoulders in waves that I've spent an embarrassing amount of time curling into what I hope are effortless-looking spirals.

The purple ends catch the light when I move, creating flashes of color that feel both familiar and entirely new.

And then there's the makeup.

The collection of cosmetics spread across my vanity— the beautiful wooden piece that appeared in my room like everything else the guys thought I might need —represents an investment in femininity that feels both exciting and slightly overwhelming.

Foundations and concealers, eyeshadows in shades I can't even name, lipsticks that promise everything from subtle enhancement to dramatic transformation.

I have no idea how to use any of it.

Which is why I'm meeting Piper in town before the festival, hoping her offer to help was genuine rather than polite small talk.

The woman strikes me as someone who might know her way around a makeup brush, and I'm desperate enough to risk embarrassment if it means avoiding the kind of makeup disaster that becomes local legend.

The drive into town gives me time to second-guess every decision I've made in the past few hours.

The dress feels different when I'm actually wearing it—more substantial somehow, like it's announcing intentions I'm not sure I'm ready to own.

But there's also something liberating about the way the fabric moves when I walk, the way it makes me feel graceful in a way that jeans and flannel never quite manage.

I find Piper waiting outside the post office, and the grin that spreads across her face when she sees me is worth every moment of self-doubt.

"Holy shit, Juniper," she says, eyes wide with genuine appreciation. "You look amazing. That color is perfect on you."

"Thanks," I say, fighting the urge to tug at the hem self-consciously. "I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's clothes."

"Trust me, you're not," she assures me, then gestures toward the collection of shopping bags at her feet.

"I brought everything you ordered, plus a few extras I thought you might like.

Are you sure you want me to do this? Because I should probably warn you that I get a little carried away with makeup. "

"I'm counting on it," I admit. "I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'd rather look overdone than like I tried and failed spectacularly."

Her laugh is bright and infectious, the kind that makes you want to join in even if you don't know what's funny.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you don't recognize yourself when I'm done. I may have missed my calling."

We set up in the small bathroom behind the post office, Piper spreading her supplies across the counter with the kind of organizational efficiency that speaks to serious skill.

She's got brushes and sponges and tools I can't even identify, all arranged with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a complex procedure.

"You know," she says as she begins assessing my face with professional focus, "if I wasn't delivering mail, I probably would have tried to be a makeup artist. Or maybe one of those online tutorial gurus in the big city. But I was always too scared to really go for it."

"Why?" I ask, trying to hold still as she begins the mysterious process of 'priming' my skin with products that feel luxurious and foreign.

"Same reason most people don't chase their dreams, I guess," she says with a shrug. "Fear of failure, fear of not being good enough, fear of starving while trying to make it work. It's easier to stick with steady employment than risk everything on something that might not pan out."

There's wistfulness in her voice that makes my chest ache with sympathy, because I recognize the tone of someone who's talked themselves out of something they genuinely wanted.

"It's not too late," I say carefully. "You could start small, maybe do some freelance work on weekends, build up a portfolio. Test the waters before making any major life changes."

"You think?" she asks, pausing in her application of something that makes my skin feel impossibly smooth.

"I think you're incredibly talented, and talent like yours deserves to be shared with the world," I say, meaning every word. "Even if it starts as a side hustle, it could grow into something bigger if that's what you want."

"Maybe," she says, but there's something thoughtful in her expression that suggests the idea is taking root. "Though right now, I'm more interested in making you look so gorgeous that those three Alphas forget how to speak."

The next hour passes in a blur of brushes and colors, Piper working with the kind of focused intensity that transforms her from friendly mail carrier into serious artist. She explains each step as she works, teaching me techniques and sharing tips that suggest years of practice and study.

"The key is enhancing what you already have rather than trying to create something completely different," she says as she works on my eyes with shades that somehow make the purple in my hair pop without overwhelming my features.

"You've got amazing bone structure and naturally beautiful features.

I'm just making sure they catch the light properly. "

By the time she's finished, I'm almost afraid to look in the mirror. Because there's something about the way she's been working, the small sounds of satisfaction she's made throughout the process, that suggests the results might be more dramatic than I'm prepared for.

"Ready?" she asks, turning me toward the mirror with the kind of theatrical flourish that suggests she's proud of her handiwork.

The woman looking back at me is recognizable but transformed.

My eyes appear larger and more dramatic, framed by lashes that seem impossibly long and lips that are the perfect shade of red to complement the dress. My skin looks flawless, with a subtle glow that suggests health and vitality rather than obvious makeup.

"Oh my God," I breathe, unable to look away from my reflection. "Piper, this is incredible. I look like... like a different person."

"You look like yourself, just amplified," she corrects with obvious pride. "This is who you always were underneath. I just helped bring her to the surface."

The transformation is so complete that I almost don't recognize the woman in the mirror.

The combination of the dress, the hair, and Piper's artistic skill has created someone who looks confident and sophisticated and absolutely nothing like the woman who collapsed from heat stroke in her own front yard just weeks ago.

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than she probably realizes. "This is... I don't even have words."

"Just promise me you'll enjoy every second of tonight," she says, beginning to pack up her supplies with efficient movements. "And maybe consider letting me practice on you again sometime. I'd love to try some different looks."

"Absolutely," I agree without hesitation. "And seriously, think about what I said. You're too talented to keep this hidden."

The harvest festival is already in full swing by the time I arrive, the town square transformed into something magical by strings of lights and the kind of organized chaos that only comes from genuine community celebration.

There are booths selling everything from homemade crafts to kettle corn, a small stage where a local band plays country classics, and enough people to make the gathering feel festive without being overwhelming.

I scan the crowd for familiar faces, but the combination of evening light and my dramatically altered appearance seems to have created a kind of anonymity I wasn't expecting. People I know well enough to wave to pass by without recognition, their eyes sliding over me like I'm a stranger.

It's both liberating and slightly unnerving.

I'm lingering near the apple cider booth, trying to decide whether to announce my presence or enjoy the anonymity a little longer, when I catch sight of three familiar figures near the bandstand.

Even at a distance, there's no mistaking Callum, Wes, and Beckett, though they're dressed more formally than I've ever seen them.

Callum is wearing dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, topped with a black blazer that somehow manages to look both sophisticated and ruggedly masculine.

His hair is styled differently, swept back from his face in a way that highlights the strong lines of his jaw.