Page 8 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

WELCOME BACK TO THE ROOT OF IT ALL

~JUNIPER~

T urns out, in Saddlebrush Ridge, the only thing more persistent than a late-spring mud is an Alpha with a superiority complex.

I barely have the truck in neutral before the three of them are flanking me, this time with all the subtlety of a homecoming parade.

Having three Alphas decide to tail me back to my ranch was as surprising as a mule in a ballroom gown, but I suppose this is par for the course when you’re in a town where the most riveting event of the day is the local bakery running out of flour.

They hovered like sentries, their vehicles trailing behind mine in a faithful convoy, as if they were escorting royalty—or a terribly unbalanced truck.

In Saddlebrush Ridge, small-town hospitality sometimes masquerades as overbearing watchfulness, and these three seemed intent on embodying that spirit to its fullest.

I could practically hear them plotting from behind me: Callum with his calculating silence, Beckett with his gentle hums, and Wes’s upbeat chatter peppering the airwaves like some radio show host desperate to fill dead space.

It would be charming if it weren’t so suffocating.

Charming in that way you can’t help but find annoying because it’s entirely disarming, stripping away defenses you didn’t realize were already half-dismantled by their earlier intervention.

Truth be told, I should be grateful.

And maybe a part of me is.

But mostly, I bristled at their persistent presence—like being shadowed by three overgrown puppies who’ve decided I’m their new object of fascination.

The joke’s on them; this Omega comes with more baggage than their combined horsepower could ever hope to pull free of a ditch.

Their reasons were simple enough: keep an eye on the new gal until she was safely ensconced in her domain—a run-down farmhouse surrounded by fields more weed than crop and an army of querulous hens who somehow survived Aunty Bell’s less-than-tender care.

Yet there’s something else beneath their camaraderie: an underlying thread knotted with concern for someone they barely know but instinctively feel responsible for.

It was infuriatingly endearing and flat-out maddening all at once.

Now here we are, parked in the wide-open expanse of my aunt's ranch driveway like some impromptu council meeting called to discuss the terrible state of affairs regarding an independent Omega’s inability to manage her affairs without Alpha intervention.

Beckett has somehow scrounged up a thermos of what I suspect is black market coffee, which he passes around like it’s communion wine.

The cup is small in his hands, almost delicate.

Wes, true to form, immediately spikes his with a suspicious squeeze bottle labeled “lemon energy.” I’m half tempted to dump it in the ditch, but the scent— bright and sharp and utterly unhinged —makes me feel alive again, like maybe I won’t dissolve into a puddle of Omega defeat before I reach the end of the driveway.

We start the walk up together, four-wide across the scrubby road, my boots sinking into last week’s tire tracks.

The Bell Ranch property is just visible at the top of a low rise: house, barn, fields, all in desperate need of attention and at least six miracles.

The mailbox is a battered tin affair, so sun-faded you’d never guess it was once fire-engine red. It lists to one side, as if even the post knows I’m a lost cause.

Wes sidles up, matching my stride without a hint of effort.

“You know, rumor is the old house is haunted.”

I shoot him a look.

“If the ghosts pay rent, they can stay.”

He grins, unbothered by my sarcasm.

“Could be worse. Could be Ford’s family place. I heard they’ve got a poltergeist that steals pies off the windowsill.”

Beckett, trudging just behind, raises an eyebrow.

“That was you, Wes.”

Wes’s teeth flash, unrepentant.

“Still counts.”

Callum walks on my other side, eyes fixed dead ahead, posture ramrod straight.

If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was bored, but there’s a tension in the set of his jaw, a barely-contained energy that reads as a dare. His woodsmoke scent is especially sharp now, layered with the tang of cold air and his own version of stubborn.

I catch his glance, and for a moment, we lock stares.

There’s a history there—most of it unspoken, all of it tangled up in too many years and not enough closure.

“You really gonna stay out here alone?” he asks, voice so low it feels like a direct line to my nervous system.

“I don’t see a lot of alternatives,” I say, chin up.

He lets the silence stretch, then: “Could ask for help.”

The words land like a challenge.

I hate that he’s right.

I hate even more that the idea— of someone else sharing the load —makes my heart flip in my chest, just for a second.

Wes throws a companionable arm around my shoulders, dragging me into a jostling half-hug.

“She won’t ask, Cal. Never has, never will.”

I twist free, pie tin tucked like a shield between us.

“I’m fine.”

Beckett’s voice floats in, gentle.

“Nobody said you weren’t, Sweetpea.” I’m surprised with his sudden chosen nickname. “But if you need anything, anything at all, just holler. Pie’s a specialty, but I do a mean sourdough.”

I try to respond with a smile, but it comes out more like a wince.

My Omega scent— normally so contained it might as well be a wall— slips, broadcasting discomfort like a radio gone static.

I wonder if they notice…if they even care.

We reach the property line, and the three Alphas halt in unison, as if it’s a force field they’re not allowed to cross.

Wes tips an imaginary hat.

“Well, Junebug. It’s been a treat.”

Callum just nods, arms crossed, gaze heavy on me.

“Take care.”

Beckett gives a little wave, his goodbye so soft it echoes in my chest.

“See you around, Bell.”

I want to say thank you… goodness, I should… but the words don’t make it past my teeth.

Instead, I stare at the mailbox, the pie tin, the future lined up like a row of old, empty stalls.

The three of them retreat as a unit, Wes already giving Callum shit about his “hero complex,” Beckett laughing under his breath.

I watch them until they’re gone, the air slowly clearing of their scents.

It feels…lonelier than I expected.

The house is still half a field away.

I set my jaw and march the rest of the distance, the pie tin heavier in my hands than any saddle.

If this is what starting over looks like, I’m going to need a bigger fork.

The mailbox isn’t the only thing dying of neglect.

The front gate of the Bell Ranch—if you can call a pair of rusted cattle panels zip-tied to sagging posts a gate—creaks open under the barest pressure, scraping a groove in the brittle dirt.

Someone once painted the arch above it, but the lettering is mostly flakes and bird shit now.

Underneath the ruin, I make out the name: SADDLEbrUSH SANCTUARY.

Sanctuary. That’s a laugh.

The house sits a hundred yards off, hunched and wind-battered, its roof patchy as a mangy dog.

Every window is different: some boarded, some shattered, one or two intact but clouded with years of grime.

The porch sags so badly on the left side that it looks like it’s bracing for an earthquake, even though we’re a good thousand miles from any fault line.

The barn, visible just beyond the paddock, is even worse—paint peeling, the doors barely clinging to their hinges, fences gone wild with creeper vines and invasive willow.

I drag my duffel through shin-high grass, boots snagging on burrs and nettles every third step.

The air out here is less scented with testosterone, more with dust, dried manure, and the faintest undernote of honeysuckle—like the land is trying to remember something soft.

The wind cuts across the paddock, rattling the brittle remains of last summer’s weeds.

On cue, a sound like the world’s angriest trombone blares from behind the barn.

Pickles, the resident mule, comes barreling into view, ears laid flat, mouth open in a braying scream.

“Nice to see you too, asshole,” I mutter. The mule slams to a halt at the fence line, glaring at me as if to say, You. Again.

I drop my duffel by the porch and square up, hands on hips.

The sensation of being watched is intense, but this time, it’s not the Alphas. It’s the house, the barn, the land itself. The oppressive weight of legacy and expectation, all of it bearing down on me with the gravity of a small black hole.

“Not going to break me,” I say, to no one in particular.

The wind answers, snapping a shingle loose from the barn roof. It hits the dirt with a sound like a starter pistol.

I roll up my sleeves, ignoring the goosebumps that race down my arms.

My hands shake, just a little, but I ball them into fists and stare down the property like it’s my oldest enemy.

“Let’s try this again,” I say, and for the first time all day, I almost believe it.

Pickles brays, loud enough to scare off a murder of crows from the skeletal tree in the front yard.

I grin, just a little.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

The porch groans under my weight, but it holds.

The pie tin is still warm.

The future, for once, feels wide open.