Page 7 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)
“I said, I’ve got it,” I repeat, but there’s no heat in it anymore. I lean against the truck, pie in hand, and try to ignore how the three of them have bracketed me in, leaving no escape route that doesn’t involve a sprint through ankle-deep mud.
Wes elbows Callum, stage-whispering, “He gets cranky when he hasn’t trimmed a hoof in twenty-four hours.”
“Shut up,” Callum says, but there’s a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Beckett offers me a fork he produced from a shirt pocket. “You, uh, don’t have to eat with your hands.”
I accept it, because I am nothing if not adaptable.
There’s a moment where none of us speak.
The world goes quiet, save for the wind and the steady, comforting clank of Beckett untangling the winch.
Wes fiddles with the chains, singing some country song under his breath.
Callum inspects the undercarriage, his hands moving with the practiced assurance of someone who’s rebuilt more engines than he’s eaten hot dinners.
I polish off the pie and set the tin on the hood. My stomach is settling, and the adrenaline is finally ebbing out of my system.
It’s hard to stay angry with a full belly and three Alphas doing their best not to be assholes.
Wes is the first to break the silence.
“So, you’re coming to the Old Mill tonight? Whole town’s talking about the new Bell in town.”
“Only Bell left, technically,” I say, sharper than intended.
That’s the thing with Saddlebrush Ridge.
It's like a cocoon spun tight and unyielding, insisting that you stay nestled in its familiar confines.
It's a place where the roots run deep, so deep that any attempt to stretch beyond its borders is seen as an affront to its carefully maintained equilibrium.
To venture out, to seek the unknown, is to risk the whispers of betrayal tagging along your shadow.
In this close-knit community, everyone knows everyone's business, and your ambitions become public property.
It's a double-edged sword—a comforting cradle of constancy on one side and a daunting barrier against aspirations on the other.
The second you yearn for more than what this quaint corner offers, you're labeled an outsider trying to outrun your own skin, perceived as someone who thinks they're too grand for this modest expanse of safety.
I've seen it in their eyes—a flicker of suspicion mingled with curiosity, a silent calculation of what my return might mean.
Does it signal defeat or an opportunity to reclaim something lost?
Perhaps they wonder if I am running back tail-between-legs from some grand adventure gone awry, or if I'm here to disrupt the peaceful rhythm they've polished over generations.
Saddlebrush Ridge has a way of clinging to you even when you try to shake it off.
Its traditions are sticky as honey, binding in ways both sweet and suffocating.
When I left, there was hope mingled with the horizon; now, there's only this persistent riddle—the question of whether one can truly leave and still belong.
I glance at Callum, who stands stoically like he’s weighing these truths himself—or perhaps just contemplating the mud splatter pattern currently decorating his boots.
There's an unspoken understanding in his caramel eyes—a shared recognition of this town’s spellbinding grip where dreams often go to settle into comfort rather than soar.
It's not just about leaving; it's about daring to return with dreams intact without them being stripped bare by pragmatic hands urging conformity over curiosity.
Callum stands, brushing grit from his hands.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, you know.”
I bristle.
“I’m not proving anything. I just…want to be left alone.”
Beckett gives me a sad, knowing smile.
“That’s not really how it works out here.”
But they don’t push.
That’s the one thing I’ve always respected about these three. They respected one’s boundaries. Both the ones spoken and the unspoken.
Most Alphas don’t give a shit about what an Omega likes or doesn’t approve of.
And boundaries? To most, they’re meant to be run over and further stomped upon if it means free fuckathons and heightened power dynamics.
They finish un-stucking the truck in record time. It doesn’t even take all three of them, but they work in tandem anyway, as if the idea of leaving one man out is physically painful.
I watch from a safe distance, arms folded, trying not to breathe in the dense cocktail of pheromones and masculine competence. When they’re done, the truck sits level and ready, the only evidence of my earlier humiliation a muddy divot and a faint imprint of my ass on the driver’s seat.
Wes grins.
“Told you we’d get you sorted, Junebug.”
I consider correcting him, but I’m tired, and the nickname is almost bearable when delivered with pie and a smile.
Callum wipes his hands on a rag and fixes me with that intense, gold stare.
“Next time, call.”
As if I still have this stubborn Alpha’s number…
Which, truthfully, I probably do somewhere.
I meet his gaze, unblinking.
“There won’t be a next time.”
He shrugs, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.
“Sure.”
The three of them start to leave, but Beckett hangs back, setting another tin— this one covered —on the tailgate.
This sneaky Alpha and his sweet goodness!
“For the road,” he says. “Apple this time. In case you run into another crisis.”
I want to say thank you. I do. But the words jam in my throat, blocked by years of self-sufficiency and a childhood spent dodging handouts.
Instead, I nod, and he nods back, as if we’ve reached an understanding.
Callum calls over his shoulder, “You passed out standing up, Bell. You don’t got anything under control.”
Mother fucking bully.
I roll my eyes, giving a begrudging stare.
Wes hoots with friendly laughter, Beckett chuckles, and I’m left with pie, a working truck, and the knowledge that, despite my best efforts, I’m still the girl who needs saving.
Goddamn it.