Page 65 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

A NIGHT OF EXPLORATION

~JUNIPER~

T he moon was nothing but a smear of lemon ice on the horizon when we pulled up to the lakeside.

I was the first to step out of the truck, my bare feet crunching on the pavers we’d set last week. They weren’t perfect—nothing was, out here—but there was a crooked beauty to the patchwork of smooth stones leading down to the water. I wiggled my toes against the cold grit, weirdly proud.

Wes followed, doing a little hop-skip off the tailgate and immediately howling, “Aaaand that’s a ten on the Frostbite Scale, folks. Balls retracted. Never having children now.”

Behind him, Beckett was already out of the passenger side with his usual quiet efficiency, hauling a big cooler and a patchwork blanket under one arm like he was about to host a family reunion for three dozen guests instead of just us.

Callum grunted as he killed the headlights, waited a beat, then joined us—he was slow getting out, moving like every joint ached, but his eyes were locked on the stone path and I knew he was just waiting to see if I’d approve of the night’s setup.

I let them all file past, trailing behind for the full effect. I wanted them to see what we’d made here. I wanted to see it, too—wanted to remember this stretch of evening before we did what we came to do and ended up a sweaty, sticky pile of regret and afterglow.

The path curved through a ring of aspens, which tonight were decked out in battery fairy lights and dotted with my not-entirely-shabby attempts at floral arrangements.

Last year’s wildflower seeds had exploded into blue and purple and orange, a little overgrown, but I liked it that way.

It felt alive, instead of staged. Some of the flowers were stuck in chipped mason jars from the ranch’s basement, some twisted around branches, and one particularly bold bunch (thanks, Beckett) was jammed right into a hollow log with a “Happy Fucking Anniversary” card poking out of it.

Wes whistled. “Hot damn, Junebug. You didn’t say you were putting Martha Stewart out of business.”

I snorted. “You’d better be impressed. I stabbed myself on, like, forty thistles for this.”

“Worth it,” Beckett said, all sincerity, and set down his picnic stuff at the edge of the little clearing. He stepped back to admire the fairy light effect. “This looks like a whole wedding proposal.”

Wes shot him a look. “Don’t you dare, Ford. I am not doing the ring-in-the-cupcake routine.”

Beckett’s ears went pink, which was somehow cuter than his usual cinnamon bun vibe. “No rings tonight. Just dessert.”

Callum was still standing in the path, surveying the swing chair that dominated the far end of the clearing.

He’d built it himself—maybe not as obvious as the one from the Town Center, but a thousand times sturdier.

It was suspended between two trees with some heavy-duty hardware, wide enough for three if you didn’t mind sitting close.

He prodded the seat with a hand and pronounced, “Should hold.”

Wes flashed me a sly grin. “So, Junebug. Gonna test the tensile strength with us?”

I considered giving them all a big, dramatic hair flip, but my hair was still too damp from my “just in case I get ruined” shower.

I’d spent a little too long prepping, maybe, but I wanted everything perfect.

Not just the sanctuary, but the night—the way it would smell, sound, look, taste, and god, if we’re being honest, the way it would feel to have three pairs of eyes on me and no distance left between any of us.

“I’ll go last,” I said, gesturing with both hands like a showgirl on TV. “But only after you guys make sure it’s safe for women and children.”

Wes bounded over and flopped into the chair with zero hesitation, then immediately started swaying it like a kid on a playground. “Bell, this is luxury. For real. You should charge by the hour.”

Beckett joined him, setting the cooler down so the drinks and food were within arm’s reach. He patted the empty space to his left. “You’re up, Callum.”

The big guy hesitated for half a second, then settled next to them, making the whole swing drop a solid three inches.

It held, of course—nothing Callum ever made was going to break on his watch—but his shoulders still relaxed once the cables didn’t snap and send them all tumbling into the bluebells.

I padded over and perched on the grass directly in front of them, like a schoolteacher waiting for chaos to die down.

There was a portable speaker buried in the flowers, playing that playlist Wes made for me in high school—heavy on the Taylor Swift, with a dose of acoustic covers for when things needed to get “emo and real.” Tonight it worked.

The breeze off the lake caught on the back of my neck, making the hairs there stand up.

I thought I’d be nervous. Instead, I felt giddy and a little wild. All that old fear was… not gone, but drowned out by something hotter, bigger, and harder to ignore.

I’d chosen pajamas for the occasion—a pair of loose, slouchy pants and a borrowed sweatshirt of Beckett’s that still smelled like his hands.

But underneath, I had the surprise: black lace, slinky and see-through, with a silk ribbon holding the back together.

It was a lingerie set I’d impulse-bought years ago and never dared to wear.

Tonight, I wanted it to matter. I wanted them to see me, really see me, not as a project or a problem or even a “pack Omega,” but as their girl. As someone worth trying for.

I dropped to my knees on the blanket, grabbing a soda out of the cooler and popping the tab with a flourish. “You guys like it?”

Three voices in rough unison: “Love it.”

Wes added, “I mean, could use a disco ball, but I’ll let it slide.”

“I’ll order a disco ball for next time,” I said, “if you ever finish the steps for the dock.”

He covered his heart, wounded. “My labor gets no respect.”

Beckett had already started unpacking: strawberries, finger sandwiches, a carton of brownies that probably weighed a pound.

He poured sparkling water for everyone, even though there was a bottle of whiskey in the cooler that would 100% get opened before midnight.

“You really want to get on that dance floor, don’t you? ”

“I want to do something dumb,” I admitted, taking a sip. “Something that makes me laugh.”

“Now that I can deliver,” Wes said. “Name your poison.”

I went for broke. “You guys ever slow-danced outside before?”

They stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

Wes shrugged. “Once. Homecoming. Got caught with a flask, ended up with three weeks’ detention.”

Beckett lifted a hand. “Sixth grade. Made it three steps before I stepped on her foot.”

Callum just grunted. “Nope.”

“Well,” I said, ignoring the leap in my chest, “you’re doing it tonight.”

I handed my soda off to Beckett and stood, making a show of stretching. The sweatshirt rode up, just a little, and I caught three pairs of eyes zero in on the triangle of bare skin above my waistband. I walked to the speaker, scrolled through the playlist, and picked the sappiest song I could find.

“Who’s first?”

Wes leapt up, over-eager. “Junebug, you don’t know what you’re asking for. My hips are dangerous weapons.”

He seized my hand and pulled me into a dramatic twirl, then immediately started humming along, not even on key.

He held me the way he handled everything: with showmanship and a hint of self-mockery, but also with a core of gentleness that melted me.

He led in a big circle, careful never to step on my toes, spinning us past the edge of the blanket, through the carpet of bluebells and right back to the circle of fairy lights.

When the song ended, he dipped me so low I was looking up at the sky, then laughed and whispered, “You can let go, you know. You don’t have to do the thing where you make sure it’s still funny for everyone.”

The words, spoken so soft, found the part of me I’d tried to lock away. He was right, of course. I was so used to being the one with the joke at the ready, the one who called herself a disaster before anyone else could. I didn’t need to, not with them.

I righted myself, nodded. “Thanks, Doc.”

Wes grinned. “Anytime, Junebug.”

Beckett was next. He didn’t even try for fancy moves.

He just held me close, both arms around my waist, slow and steady.

I could feel his heart through the fabric, its rhythm a counterpoint to the music.

The smell of yeast and cinnamon clung to his shirt; I realized I’d never wanted a bakery more than I wanted him, right now, just like this.

He said nothing, just pressed his cheek to mine and swayed, and it was more comforting than a hundred well-meant speeches.

When he released me, there was a shine in his eyes that made my throat tight. He just whispered, “You’re killing it,” and nudged me toward Callum.

Callum didn’t move. I was about to tease him for being scared when he just stood, all at once, like a mountain choosing to take a walk.

He loomed over me for a second, a playful taunt in his eyes as teases “Don’t know how to dance,” he hums, and its amusing to say the least because we danced the night away at the festival before.

“I don’t care,” I said, and slipped both my hands into his. “Just follow my lead, cowboy.” I say with a saucy wink, playing too his foreplay as if this is the first time we’re dancing in public.

We moved in a stilted half-step, our bodies out of sync at first, but I didn’t let him back off.

I kept my eyes on his, guiding him around the clearing.

At first, I thought he was mortified, but after the third pass he relaxed.

His hands settled at my hips, not tentative, but like he was learning the way my body fit against his.