Page 6 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

His plaid shirt, immaculately pressed and buttoned up to the very top, contrasts starkly against the casual disarray favored by Wes.

There’s an understated elegance in Beckett’s attire—a nod to tradition perhaps, or maybe simply an ode to times past when decorum was a silent form of communication between men.

Starch stiffens each fiber like invisible armor, reinforcing the impression that Beckett hasn't merely dressed for practicality; he’s donned a uniform representing values rooted deep in family and community ties.

In his hands lies what could only be a masterpiece of culinary diplomacy: a tin from which curls of steam rise lazily into the cool air, promising comfort and coaxing smiles even before its contents are revealed.

Its presence demands respect as surely as any crafted speech or heartfelt apology might—a gesture of goodwill wrapped in flaky crust and sugared intent.

Beckett approaches with measured steps until he stands at the periphery of our gathering—a sentinel at ease yet attentive, his brown eyes surveying the scene with all the warmth and patience one might expect from someone used to witnessing life unfold with all its unpredictability.

Those eyes—a softer shade than Callum's piercing caramel or Wes's cerulean blue—seem capable of understanding more than they reveal, holding within them mysteries known only to those who’ve lived and loved deeply in their time.

And then there’s that scent—another layer woven into this tableau of olfactory encounters: earthy tones mingling seamlessly with hints of yeast and flour, undercut by something sweetly spiced —a reminder that even in chaos, there exists potential for harmony if only we reach out and grasp it.

“Brought you a peace offering,” Beckett calls, offering the pie tin like it’s a diplomatic contract.

I squint at it.

You got to be fucking kidding me…

“Is that…pie?”

Pie.

Out of all the things holy and freshly baked that could magically appear during this twisted class reunion in the muck, it's a pie, of all things, that Beckett presents as his peace offering—an absurdly domestic gesture in the middle of my automotive downfall.

I mean, seriously? Here I am, wrestling with a truck that's got more attitude than a mule with a vendetta, coated in mud and no shortage of regret over returning to this town.

Throw in Callum's irksome truth-bombs and Wes's charming indifference— it’s a veritable circus already —and now we’re adding pastry to the chaos.

Because why not? What’s a crisis without an inexplicably crumbly crust thrown into the mix?

Yet as absurd as it seems, there’s something endearing in its simplicity; a symbol that maybe not everything out here runs on complication or unspoken tension.

There's something both ridiculous and profound about standing ankle-deep in mud while a giant of a man offers you dessert like it’s the solution to some existential puzzle neither of us can entirely solve.

Beckett stands like an oak against the backdrop of tangled weeds and distant tractor hums—a steady presence who doesn’t seem fazed by much, least of all my hesitance.

The pie tin hovers between us like an olive branch adorned with golden-brown perfection, tempting with promises only forbidden fruit can claim: warmth on cold nights, comfort after long days battling ghosts from past lives unearthed once more.

And beneath that flaky surface lies sweetness mingling expertly with spice—a culinary blueprint for navigating not just taste but circumstance.

It proposes a truce—a silent agreement beneath layers of sugared understanding—as though by breaking bread together we might also tear apart whatever divides remain.

This unexpected intersection at the crossroad between familial history and personal revival carries weight far beyond mere ingredients or methodical preparation; it speaks to fellowship and nostalgia simmering under our collected skins—the kind capable of softening even hardened edges bristling at chance encounters.

For all my protests against small-town entanglements and burdensome kindnesses wrapped neatly in hospitality’s guise, I can't help but acknowledge this gesture holds depth beyond immediate consumption. Every escape route I plot dissolves under those watchful eyes—gentle insistence silently weaving itself into fragility’s fabric until resistance morphs into curiosity.

The whiff wafting toward me promises more than caloric appeasement; its aromas whisper tales shared across tables worn smooth by generations who’ve known struggle yet savored triumph alike—long evenings spent musing over half-empty plates while laughter danced amid candlelit truths exposed during twilight hours.

So there we are: Callum's gaze unwaveringly assessing each move I make; Wes watching silently as though logging observations for future analysis; Beckett patiently waiting for resolution—all they need is popcorn — or hell, perhaps another pie — to complete this odd little tableau vivant marking my return.

In defiance or acceptance— perhaps both —I find myself reaching forward despite every instinct screaming retreat: toward surrendering pride born not just of survival but necessity too often mistaken for virtue alone when roots become anchors pulling freedom from heels dug stubbornly deep within ground long abandoned yet unforgotten.

He nods, solemn as a funeral.

“Peach cobbler. Just out of the oven.”

I want to hate him for this, but my stomach has other ideas.

My stomach growls like it’s time to call the land of her people for a sweet offering to appease my obvious hunger.

Should my stomach get any louder, it’d probably demand its own Social Security number and title deed.

Its guttural rumble reverberates through me like a call to arms—an undeniable plea to the culinary gods, imploring an offering worthy of the history between Bell women and their bakery repertoire.

I can almost see a grand council of aproned pastry chefs in some celestial kitchen, conspiring to grant me succor by way of Beckett’s peach cobbler, presently occupying a diplomatic space between us.

And oh, how the scent taunts me.

Its sweetness cascades over my senses with all the subtlety of an avalanche, peach notes mingling with buttery undertones that conjure up visions of sunlit porches and lemonade afternoons. It's a siren’s song daring me to resist when all instincts scream capitulation.

The pie sits there like an edible peace treaty, its golden-brown crust glistening with promise—a battlefield where pride and appetite prepare for their own private skirmish. One whiff of those sugary seductions would topple even the most fortified resolutions.

Beckett stands unwavering, an impassive baker-ambassador extending his treatise in hand like it’s the Holy Grail itself—while Callum remains as stone-faced as ever beside him and Wes watches with amusement twinkling in azure eyes.

This trio— each in their own way —serves as gatekeepers to this rite of passage: accepting aid from those living within tight-knit community bonds that threaten to unravel all my carefully constructed defenses.

So here I am: part dignitary representing fractured pasts, part famished wanderer seeking sustenance from familiar comforts offered freely at crossroads.

In this moment of possibilities unspoken yet acknowledged among those gathered here today— three Alphas observing quietly while one Omega, aka me, contemplates choices beyond mere survival—I give in.

I snatch the tin and take an ungainly bite.

The moan that leaves me should lead to an arrest warrant with how the sound justifies how fucking delicious this is.

I know I should maintain some dignity here; I’m keenly aware of that need to uphold boundaries etched into my very being since arriving at Saddlebrush Ridge.

But every fiber of resistance crumbles beneath this symphony of taste—a harmony constructed with love and legacy transcending generations past. Somewhere between history and present lies understanding—a bridge connecting us through shared indulgence.

It’s criminally good, the kind of good that ruins all subsequent food for the next month.

The sugar hits my bloodstream, and for a moment, all is right in the world.

The three Alphas assemble around me like a jury. The air is thick with their scents: Callum’s woodsmoke, Wes’s citrus and ozone, Beckett’s cinnamon sugar.

I am swimming in it, and I can feel the part of my brain that handles rational thought shutting down in self-preservation.

Wes leans in, voice lowered conspiratorially.

“You really gonna try and get out of here solo, Junebug? You’re gonna tear the transfer case clean off.”

I glare at him over the rim of the pie tin.

“Unlike some people, I don’t need an entourage to do basic maintenance.”

Beckett hums, gently, like he’s talking to a frightened horse.

“We can get you out. If you want. After you finish the pie, of course.”

I pout my lips as my eyes narrow at him.

Damn him…no damn all of them, except for this amazing heaven scent pie.

I hate that, for a second, I consider just letting them muscle my truck out while I eat Beckett’s entire pie and watch from a safe, non-Omega distance.

But there’s principle.

And then there’s pride.

I square my shoulders.

“I’m not helpless. I’ve got a winch and a plan.”

Wes eyes the winch cable, which is, in fairness, tangled around the bumper in a way that suggests I have at best a theoretical understanding of winching.

“Looks like you got a knot, too.”

He starts to reach for it, but I swat his hand away with the pie tin. Cobbler splatters onto his sleeve. He laughs, genuinely delighted.

Callum just sighs.

“Bell, let us help. You’re burning daylight, and it’s going to rain.”

He’s not wrong: the wind has picked up, biting through my flannel, carrying the smell of wet grass and distant electricity.

Overhead, the clouds are clustering with a purpose.