Page 68 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
THE LAST ROUTE
~JUNIPER~
T he morning air carries the promise of another beautiful autumn day as I settle into the old porch swing with my coffee, watching the sun paint golden streaks across the fields that stretch toward the horizon.
The ranch has taken on an almost magical quality in the early light—fences gleaming with dew, the newly renovated barn standing proud against the sky, and wildflowers nodding in the gentle breeze that carries the scent of earth and growing things.
It's the kind of morning that makes you grateful to be alive, the kind that reminds you why people fight to preserve the places they love.
Which is why the sound of Piper's mail truck approaching at what seems like excessive speed immediately sets off alarm bells in my mind.
She's usually such a careful driver, taking her time on the rural routes and stopping to chat with anyone who happens to be outside when she makes her deliveries.
The hurried pace suggests something is seriously wrong.
When she climbs out of the truck, her usual bright smile is nowhere to be seen. Instead, her face is drawn with the kind of misery that comes from receiving devastating news, and her normally cheerful demeanor has been replaced by something that looks dangerously close to despair.
"Good morning, Piper," I call out, setting down my coffee cup and moving to the porch railing. "Everything okay?"
The simple question seems to break something inside her, and I watch in horror as her face crumples and tears begin streaming down her cheeks. She stands there by her truck for a moment, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, before seeming to pull herself together enough to approach the porch.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick with tears. "I didn't mean to fall apart on you like this. It's just... today is my last route."
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I feel my stomach drop with sudden understanding.
"What do you mean, your last route?" I ask, though I'm beginning to suspect I already know the answer.
"They're laying off all the rural mail carriers," she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "As of tomorrow, mail delivery to properties outside the main town limits will be suspended indefinitely. We got the notice yesterday afternoon."
"But why?" I ask, though even as the question leaves my mouth, I can feel the pieces clicking together in my mind.
"The new development plans," she says bitterly.
"Apparently, maintaining rural delivery routes isn't cost-effective when the long-term vision involves consolidating everything into centralized shopping and residential areas.
Why waste money delivering mail to properties that won't exist in five years? "
The casual cruelty of the decision makes my blood boil.
Because this isn't just about mail delivery—it's about systematically dismantling the infrastructure that supports rural life, making it increasingly difficult for people to maintain their connection to the land and the communities they've built here.
It's about forcing change through attrition rather than honest persuasion.
"They can't just do that," I say, though I know how naive the statement sounds even as I'm making it. "There have to be regulations, federal requirements about mail service..."
"There are," she agrees, "but there are also loopholes when communities are classified as 'economically non-viable' or 'scheduled for development consolidation.
' The postal service can suspend rural routes temporarily and then extend those suspensions indefinitely if they can demonstrate that maintaining them conflicts with broader economic development plans. "
The bureaucratic language makes my head spin, but the underlying message is crystal clear: Marcus Steele has found a way to use government regulations to make rural life increasingly unsustainable, forcing people to accept his vision for the future by making their current situation untenable.
The sound of footsteps on gravel announces the arrival of Callum, Wes, and Beckett, who emerge from behind the barn where they've been working on some kind of fencing project since dawn.
Their conversation dies mid-sentence when they see Piper's obvious distress, and all three immediately shift into protective mode.
"What's wrong?" Callum asks, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of handling crisis situations.
"They're shutting down rural mail delivery," I explain quickly. "Starting tomorrow. Piper's losing her job."
The reaction from all three men is immediate and intense. Wes curses under his breath in a language that would make a sailor blush, Beckett's hands clench into fists, and Callum's expression goes deadly calm in the way that usually precedes very bad decisions for the people who've crossed him.
"This is about more than mail delivery," Beckett says grimly. "This is about making rural life impossible to maintain."
"It's about forcing people to accept his development plans by eliminating the infrastructure that supports alternative choices," Wes agrees, his voice tight with barely controlled fury.
But while the guys are processing the broader implications of the decision, I'm focused on Piper herself, who's standing there looking like her entire world has just collapsed around her.
"I know it probably sounds stupid," she says, her voice breaking on the words, "but this job meant everything to me. I deal with anxiety, especially around talking to people, because of bullying I experienced as a kid. Most social situations make me want to crawl into a hole and disappear."
She pauses to wipe her eyes again, struggling to find the words to explain something that clearly goes much deeper than employment concerns.
"But this route, getting to know the families and check in on people and be part of the community in this small way—it helped me so much. It gave me a reason to practice social skills, a safe way to build relationships with people who actually seemed to like having me around."
The raw honesty in her admission makes my chest ache with sympathy, because I can hear the years of struggle beneath her words. The kind of childhood trauma that leaves lasting scars, making simple human connections feel dangerous and complicated.
"And now I finally found a group of people I actually feel comfortable with," she continues, looking directly at me with eyes that are bright with unshed tears.
"Alphas who don't make me feel anxious or intimidated, who treat me like a friend instead of a potential conquest or someone to be managed.
And I have to give that up just because some rich asshole decided our community isn't worth preserving? "
Her voice rises with each word until she's almost shouting, years of suppressed frustration and fear finally finding expression in righteous anger.
"What about the families who've built their lives here? What about the community connections and the history and the fact that some of us actually chose this place because we love what it represents? Does none of that matter?"
The passion in her voice, the genuine love for this community that underlies her distress, transforms her from the quiet mail carrier I've gotten to know into someone fierce and determined. Someone worth fighting for.
"It matters," I say firmly, moving down from the porch to wrap her in a hug that I hope conveys even a fraction of the support she's offered me over the past few weeks. "It all matters, and we're not going to let him take it away."
She clings to me for a moment, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, before pulling back with obvious effort to compose herself.
"How can we stop him?" she asks, though there's hope in her voice that suggests she wants to believe it's possible. "He's got money and political connections and legal resources that none of us can match."
"We stop him by standing together," I say with more confidence than I actually feel. "By making it clear that this community won't be bullied or bought or bureaucratically maneuvered into submission."
"Juniper's right," Callum says, moving to stand beside us with the kind of solid presence that makes difficult things seem manageable. "Steele's counting on people feeling isolated and powerless. He wins when we start believing we don't have choices."
"But we do have choices," Wes adds, his voice carrying the kind of quiet determination that suggests plans are already forming. "And we have something he doesn't understand—people who actually care about each other and this place."
"For now, you should finish your route," Beckett suggests gently. "Give us time to figure out our next move. Don't let him take away your last day of doing something you love."
Piper nods slowly, wiping away the last of her tears with the kind of resolution that suggests she's decided to channel her grief into action rather than despair.
"You're right," she says, her voice steadier now. "If this is my last run, I want to do it properly. Say goodbye to everyone, make sure they know what's happening."
She starts to head back toward her truck, then pauses and turns back to look at me directly.
"I really hope we get to hang out more," she says, her voice soft but sincere. "After all this is over, I mean. I really like the idea of being your friend, Juniper. That's not something I say to many people."
The admission touches something deep in my chest, because I recognize the courage it takes for someone with her background to openly express desire for friendship. It's a vulnerability that deserves protection and nurturing.
"I'd like that too," I say, meaning every word. "Whatever happens with all this other stuff, we're going to stay friends. I promise."
Her smile is the first genuine one I've seen from her this morning, bright and hopeful despite everything that's happening.
"I'll hold you to that," she says, climbing back into her truck with renewed purpose.