Page 58 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
CONFRONTATION IN THE SQUARE
~JUNIPER~
T he town has been buzzing with nervous energy for the past three days, ever since word spread that some wealthy developer from the city has been making inquiries about local properties and "development opportunities.
" Coffee shop conversations have taken on an undercurrent of anxiety, and I've caught more than one worried glance exchanged between longtime residents who remember what happened to neighboring communities when outside money decided their way of life needed "improvement. "
Saddlebrush Ridge has always prided itself on being the kind of place that changes slowly, organically, in response to the actual needs of the people who live here rather than the profit margins of distant investors.
The idea of some stranger rolling into town with plans to modernize everything that makes this community special has everyone on edge.
I'm walking through the town square with Callum, Wes, and Beckett, enjoying the kind of peaceful Saturday afternoon that's become precious to me since returning home.
We'd spent the morning at the farmers market, collecting fresh produce and catching up with neighbors, and now we're heading to Murphy's hardware store to pick up supplies for the next phase of ranch improvements.
The town square is busy but not crowded, filled with the comfortable mix of locals running errands and families enjoying the playground that sits at the heart of our small downtown area.
Children shriek with laughter on the swing set while their parents chat on nearby benches, and there's a group of teenagers playing pickup basketball on the court that the town council installed last summer.
It's the kind of scene that represents everything good about small-town life—community connections, multigenerational relationships, the sense that everyone belongs and has a place in the larger fabric of local society.
Which is why the sleek black SUV parked in front of the courthouse stands out like a predator among sheep.
The vehicle is expensive, obviously new, and completely at odds with the practical trucks and well-worn sedans that typically occupy downtown parking spaces.
Everything about it screams money and power and the kind of urban sophistication that views small towns as quaint obstacles to profit rather than communities worth preserving.
"That's not a local car," Callum observes, his voice carrying the kind of tension that suggests his protective instincts are already on high alert.
"Definitely not," Wes agrees, studying the vehicle with obvious suspicion. "Question is whether it belongs to our mysterious developer or just some lost tourist with expensive taste in transportation."
Before anyone can speculate further, the courthouse doors open and a man emerges who makes my blood freeze in my veins.
Marcus Steele.
Even at a distance, there's no mistaking his distinctive combination of aggressive confidence and calculated charm.
He's tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of polished appearance that comes from expensive grooming and custom-tailored clothing.
His dark hair is styled with precision, his teeth are professionally whitened, and everything about his presentation is designed to project success and dominance.
He's also the Alpha who made my life miserable during the brief period when I was naive enough to think his pack might offer the stability and security I was desperately seeking.
The same Alpha who thought appropriate accommodation for a disobedient Omega was a tent in the backyard during winter.
"Shit," I breathe, instinctively moving closer to Callum without conscious thought.
"What's wrong?" Beckett asks immediately, his baker's intuition picking up on my distress before I've even fully processed the situation myself.
"That's him," I say quietly, hoping my voice doesn't carry to where Marcus is glad-handing what appears to be several members of the town council. "Marcus Steele. The Alpha I told you about."
The reaction from all three of them is immediate and intense. Callum's entire body goes rigid with barely controlled fury, Wes's hands clench into fists, and Beckett moves to position himself between me and Marcus with the kind of protective instincts that speak to deeper biological imperatives.
"The tent asshole?" Wes asks, his voice dropping to the dangerous register that usually precedes violence.
"The tent asshole," I confirm, watching with growing dread as Marcus schmoozes with local officials who clearly have no idea what kind of man they're dealing with.
From this distance, I can see him working his charm with practiced ease, no doubt spinning whatever story will best serve his development plans. He's always been good at reading people and telling them exactly what they want to hear, at least until he gets what he needs from them.
"What's he doing here?" Beckett asks, though something in his tone suggests he already suspects the answer.
"My guess? He's our mysterious developer," I say, pieces clicking together with horrible clarity. "The threatening letter about the ranch, the sudden interest in buying up local properties—it all makes sense if he's the one behind the development push."
"Son of a bitch," Callum mutters, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
We watch from across the square as Marcus concludes his conversation with the council members, shaking hands and exchanging business cards with the kind of professional courtesy that suggests negotiations are progressing exactly as he'd hoped.
Several of the officials look genuinely excited about whatever he's proposing, their body language suggesting they see opportunity rather than threat.
Which means he's been more successful at selling his vision than any of us would have liked.
"We should go," I say quietly, hoping we can retreat before he notices our presence. "I don't want to deal with him right now."
But even as I'm suggesting escape, I know it's too late. Because Marcus has always had predatory instincts when it comes to sensing vulnerability, and the way I've unconsciously positioned myself behind my three Alphas probably registers as exactly the kind of weakness he enjoys exploiting.
His head turns in our direction with the kind of casual sweep that suggests he's simply surveying his surroundings, but when his gaze lands on our group, his entire expression transforms. Surprise gives way to recognition, then to the kind of predatory satisfaction that makes my skin crawl with remembered fear.
"Well, well," he says, his voice carrying easily across the square as he begins walking in our direction. "Look what the cat dragged in."
There's no escape now, no graceful way to avoid the confrontation that's been inevitable since the moment I decided to make Saddlebrush Ridge my permanent home.
Because Marcus Steele doesn't let go of things he considers his property, and despite the disastrous end to our relationship, some part of him has apparently never accepted that I'm no longer available for his entertainment.
"Juniper," he says when he reaches conversational distance, his tone carrying the kind of false warmth usually reserved for old friends. "I have to say, I'm surprised to find you in this dump. When we offered you such a luxurious life in the city, I never imagined you'd choose... this."
He gestures dismissively at the town square around us, his expression suggesting he's looking at something distasteful rather than a thriving community full of people I've come to care about.
"Hello, Marcus," I say, proud that my voice remains steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. "I didn't realize you were expanding your business interests to include small-town development."
"Oh, I'm full of surprises," he says with the kind of smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious about your... companions."
His gaze moves over Callum, Wes, and Beckett with obvious assessment, the kind of look usually reserved for livestock being evaluated for purchase. There's dismissal in his expression, condescension that suggests he finds them lacking by whatever standards he's applying.
"Let me guess," he continues, his tone taking on a mocking quality. "The strong, silent type who thinks grunt work makes him impressive. The pretty boy who probably thinks veterinary medicine is a real profession. And the baker who plays at being domestic."
Each description is delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit insecurities and provoke reactions. It's a technique I remember from our time together—his ability to identify weaknesses and exploit them for his own amusement.
But if he's expecting my three Alphas to rise to his bait, he's seriously underestimated the kind of men he's dealing with.
Callum's response is a slight tightening around his eyes, but his expression remains controlled and unimpressed.
Wes actually grins, the kind of expression that suggests he finds Marcus more entertaining than threatening.
And Beckett just looks bored, like he's listening to someone explain a particularly uninteresting recipe.
"I'm sorry," Wes says with exaggerated politeness. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. Though from what I understand, you're the charming fellow who thought telling your Omega to sleep outside in a tent was appropriate behavior."
The direct challenge catches Marcus off guard, his practiced smile faltering for just a moment before reasserting itself.
"That wasn't punishment," he says with a laugh that sounds forced. "That was privilege. Getting to sleep in the same radius as me, even if it's outside in the depths of winter—she should have been grateful for the opportunity."