Page 55 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

Wes has opted for charcoal slacks and a deep blue shirt that brings out his eyes, with a sport coat that fits him like it was custom-made. His usual casual charm has been elevated into something that borders on devastating, and I can see several women in the crowd giving him appreciative looks.

Beckett is the most transformed of the three, wearing a full suit in deep navy that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine. His beard is trimmed to perfect precision, and his hair is styled in a way that emphasizes the red highlights I've always found attractive.

They all look put-together and mature and absolutely nothing like the men who spent this morning covered in sawdust and horse hair. The effect is so striking that I feel a flutter of nervous excitement in my stomach, like I'm seeing them for the first time all over again.

But what really catches my attention is the way Wes keeps turning his head, nostrils flaring slightly as he scans the crowd with obvious confusion. I recognize the behavior from watching him work with animals—he's caught a scent he recognizes but can't locate the source.

The realization makes me grin, and I decide to enjoy the moment a little longer before revealing myself.

I move closer to their group, staying just outside their direct line of sight while watching Wes's growing agitation with barely suppressed amusement.

He's definitely caught my scent, but the visual transformation is apparently complete enough that his brain can't make the connection between what his nose is telling him and what his eyes are seeing.

"Do you smell that?" he asks Callum, voice pitched low but still audible to someone standing close enough.

"Smell what?" Callum responds, though I can see him subtly scenting the air.

"Juniper," Wes says, frustration evident in his tone. "I can smell her, but I don't see her anywhere."

Beckett joins the conversation, his own confusion evident.

"Maybe she's running late? She said she'd meet us here after seeing Piper."

I can't contain my snicker at their obvious bewilderment, and the sound immediately draws Wes's attention. His head snaps in my direction with predatory focus, blue eyes scanning until they land on me.

For a moment, he just stares, his expression cycling through confusion, recognition, and something that looks like stunned appreciation.

"Holy shit," he breathes, apparently forgetting to modulate his voice. "Juniper?"

The other two follow his gaze, and I have the satisfaction of watching all three of them experience the same moment of cognitive dissonance. They know it's me— my scent confirms it— but the visual evidence seems to argue against the possibility.

"Hi," I say, moving closer with what I hope is casual confidence rather than the nervous energy that's making my hands shake slightly. "Sorry I'm late. Piper and I got a little carried away with the makeover."

Callum is the first to recover his composure, though I can see the way his eyes track over my appearance with obvious appreciation.

"You look..." he starts, then seems to run out of words.

"Different," Beckett finishes, but there's warmth in his voice that makes it clear he means it as a compliment.

"Good different?" I ask, suddenly needing their approval more than I want to admit.

"Devastating different," Wes says, his voice rough with something that might be desire. "Jesus, Junebug, you're going to cause heart attacks looking like that."

The compliment sends warmth flooding through my chest, and I find myself smiling with genuine pleasure rather than nervous energy.

"Piper deserves all the credit," I say. "I had no idea what I was doing. She basically used my face as a canvas to show off her skills."

"Remind me to send her a thank-you note," Callum says, his eyes still tracking over my appearance like he's memorizing every detail.

"Or a fruit basket," Beckett adds. "A really expensive fruit basket."

The band transitions into a slower song, something sweet and romantic that seems designed to encourage couples to move closer together on the makeshift dance floor that's been set up in front of the stage.

"Dance with me?" Callum asks, offering his hand with the kind of old-fashioned courtesy that makes my heart flutter.

I take his hand without hesitation, letting him lead me onto the dance floor where other couples are already swaying to the gentle rhythm. His arms come around me with careful reverence, like he's holding something precious that might break if he's not sufficiently gentle.

"You really do look incredible," he murmurs as we move together, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "I mean, you always look beautiful, but tonight... tonight you look like something out of a dream."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than he probably realizes. "I wasn't sure about the dress, but Piper convinced me to take the risk."

"Good risk," he says, spinning me gently before pulling me back against his chest. "Though I have to say, I'm going to have to keep an eye on every other Alpha here tonight. You're going to attract attention."

The possessive note in his voice sends a thrill through me that I don't even try to analyze. Because there's something deeply appealing about the idea of belonging to someone who considers you worth protecting, worth claiming, worth keeping close.

When the song ends, Wes is there to claim the next dance, his approach more playful but no less reverent. He spins me with unnecessary flourishes that make me laugh, but when the music slows, he holds me close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear.

"I almost didn't recognize you," he admits, his voice carrying a note of wonder. "For a second there, I thought some gorgeous stranger had crashed our little town festival."

"Just me," I say, though I'm still adjusting to the way the transformation makes me feel—more confident, more feminine, more aware of my own power to affect the people around me.

"Not 'just' anything," he corrects, his arms tightening around me. "Never 'just' anything. But especially not tonight."

Beckett claims the final dance of the set, his approach the gentlest of the three but no less affected by my appearance. He holds me like I'm made of spun glass, his large hands careful against the fabric of my dress.

"You know," he says as we sway together, "I used to dream about dancing with you at town festivals when we were kids. Never imagined it would actually happen."

"Really?" I ask, surprised by the admission.

"Really," he confirms, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Used to practice in my room, trying to make sure I wouldn't embarrass myself if I ever got the chance."

The sweetness of the confession makes my chest tight with emotions I'm not sure how to process. Because the idea of teenage Beckett practicing dance moves in private, hoping for a chance that must have seemed impossible at the time, is almost unbearably endearing.

"Well," I say, leaning closer so my words are meant for him alone, "I'd say the practice paid off."

As the evening winds down and the crowd begins to thin, I find myself reluctant to let the magic of the night end. There's something about the combination of the music, the lights, and the way all three of them have been looking at me that feels like a dream I don't want to wake up from.

But eventually, the band plays their final song and people begin gathering their things for the drive home. The guys walk me to where I parked, their conversation easy and comfortable despite the underlying tension that's been building all evening.

"Thank you for tonight," I say when we reach my truck. "For the dances, for making me feel beautiful, for... everything."

"Thank you for letting us share it with you," Callum says, stepping forward to pull me into a hug that's meant to be goodbye but lingers longer than necessary.

When he leans down to press a soft kiss to my temple, he also nuzzles against the curve of my neck, breathing in deeply before pulling away. The gesture is subtle enough that anyone watching might mistake it for simple affection, but I can feel the deliberate way he's marking me with his scent.

Wes is next, his hug more enthusiastic but equally calculated. His face finds the other side of my neck, and I feel the warm press of his breath against my skin as he leaves his own scent signature.

Beckett's goodbye is the gentlest, but when he wraps me in his arms, he takes his time, his face buried in my hair as he breathes in my scent while leaving his own.

By the time they've each said goodnight, I'm dizzy with the combined effect of their pheromones mixing with my own. The careful layering of their scents creates a cocktail that speaks to every Omega instinct I possess, leaving me feeling claimed and cherished and desperately aroused.

"Drive safe," Callum says, though his voice is rougher than usual.

"Text when you get home," Wes adds.

"Sweet dreams," Beckett finishes, though something in his tone suggests he knows exactly how unlikely peaceful sleep is going to be.

I manage to get myself into the truck and start the engine, though my hands are shaking slightly from the sensory overload. The drive home passes in a haze of their combined scents and the memory of strong arms and careful touches.

By the time I reach the ranch, I'm fairly certain that whatever careful boundaries we've been maintaining just got completely obliterated by three innocent goodnight hugs and one dress that apparently has the power to rewrite the rules of engagement.

But as I make my way up to my room, still wearing the wine-red dress and carrying the lingering scents of three Alphas who've just made their intentions unmistakably clear, I find I don't mind the change as much as I probably should.

In fact, I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next.