Page 9 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

FACING THE RIDGE

~JUNIPER~

T he next morning, I wake up inside my own personal episode of Hoarders: Rural Edition.

I’m sweating under a blanket that smells like a combination of dryer lint and lost hopes, pinned flat to the musty sofa by a box labeled "Aunt Lil's Kitchen Shit." There is, in fact, a sharp corner of a cast iron skillet making an indelible impression just under my left breast.

So much for the theory that a fresh start means waking up to sunbeams and birdsong.

Instead, it’s mildew and splintered pine paneling, the entire house suffused with a faint undertone of mouse piss and the over-sweet aroma of wilted peonies left to die on the table.

The air in here is thick, almost gummy, the humidity doing nothing to mask the persistent ache in my lower back.

I try to roll upright, but the box is winning the war of inertia.

For a minute, I just flop on the cushions, staring up at the ceiling fan’s slow, sickly orbit, and let the ache settle in.

There’s something comforting about this—being cocooned in evidence of prior failures, the material detritus of a life I never signed up for.

When I finally manage to lever myself upright, shoving the box off with a grunt, the scents outside hit me square in the nose: wild alfalfa and morning dew, and, like an unwanted party guest, the lingering ghost of Alpha pheromones from last night.

The air’s fresher out here than anywhere I’ve ever lived, and yet it’s already tainted.

I sniff the collar of my shirt.

Yeah, that’s definitely Wes and Callum and Beckett, still clinging on like a bad Tinder date.

It’ll take a decade to air out the house and a century to air out the memory.

I shuffle to the kitchen, bare feet slapping the sticky linoleum, and fumble for a mug.

Every cabinet is stuffed to maximum density: mismatched cups, orphaned Tupperware, a ceramic chicken so hideous it’s probably haunted.

The fridge groans when I pull it open, revealing a shelf of generic ranch milk, a Tupperware of what I think is gravy, and three cans of energy drink—leftover, no doubt, from Aunt Lil’s last go at self-improvement.

It’s not even eight and I’m already nostalgic for city life, where coffee comes from people who spell my name wrong and not from ancient drip machines that predate the Internet.

But this is my life now, and the only thing more pathetic than my breakfast options is the fact that I have no one to complain to.

So I step onto the porch, mug in hand, and survey the carnage.

From here, the Bell Ranch doesn’t look so much inherited as abandoned in a hurry.

The main house has a porch slouched at one end, the boards warped like a toddler’s smile.

The barn, visible past a stand of bone-dry lilacs, sags inward, its tin roof buckled and peppered with holes.

The fields are already surrendering to thistles, their purple heads waving above the yellow grass like a field of middle fingers.

There’s a brittle hush over everything. Not peaceful, exactly. More like the silence that comes after a car crash, when everyone is too shocked to move.

I take a sip of milk — no coffee, remember –and grimace at the texture.

Closer to yogurt than a beverage. Perfect…

This is the point in the day when a better person would make a plan.

Prioritize, delegate, problem-solve.

I toss the rest of the milk into the bushes and decide the best way forward is to walk the property, see how much of it is salvageable, and count up how many bones I’ll break trying to fix it.

The door slams behind me with a sound like an ultimatum.

The grass soaks my bare shins, and the damp morning sun burns off the last of last night’s regret.

For a second, I feel almost optimistic.

Then I round the corner and see the true state of the barn.

It’s worse up close: every plank is warped, the paint is so far gone it’s just a rumor, and the doors are hanging by literal threads of rusted hardware.

As I approach, the sweet, thick smell of rot and horse shit punches me in the face.

Inside, shadows press against each other in a silent, reeking standoff. There’s a pile of old tack in the corner—bits and stirrups and lead ropes coiled in a heap, like a snake pit for horses. Some of it might have value if I ever develop the fortitude to reach into the depths.

A sheet of blue tarp flaps, exposing a hay bale so moldy it’s got its own weather system. There’s an army of spiders in residence, stringing cobwebs from rafter to post with single-minded zeal. And on the far side, under the broken window, there’s Pickles.

Pickles the mule is, in theory, a rescue animal.

In reality, he’s a three-legged siege engine with a sense of humor darker than most serial killers. He’s missing a patch of hair over his left eye, which he rolls at me with maximum disdain as he kicks the wall for emphasis. The noise reverberates through the barn and right up my spinal cord.

“Don’t get up,” I mutter, stepping closer. He snorts and bares his yellowed teeth, then immediately sniffs at my hands for treats. When he discovers I’m empty-handed, he attempts to bite my thigh. I dodge— barely —and slam my shin on a splintered post.

My day is off to a blazing start.

At least he’s alive. Unlike the second stall, where the remains of a feed bag leak powdered grain into a mouse nest so elaborate I’m half-convinced the mice have a time-share agreement.

There’s evidence of raccoon activity, too, judging by the overturned water bucket and the scattered contents of a bin that used to house mineral blocks.

I make it to the rear of the barn and inspect the fence line.

Here’s where the true horror reveals itself: the posts are so rotted they’re standing only by force of habit, and the wires are festooned with tuffs of last year’s fur and enough burrs to knit a sweater.

On the horizon, a neighbor’s herd—mostly sheep, some goats—stares over with the blank disinterest of seasoned spectators.

If they’re impressed, they’re not showing it.

I yank at the gate. It doesn’t move, but my shoulder pops in a way that suggests immediate surgery.

I mutter a string of curse words my mother would have been proud of, then start a running tally in my head.

Needed: fencing, new posts, a week’s worth of painkillers, a tetanus booster.

Pickles observes this with the critical eye of a livestock judge. When I bend to check his hoof, he farts directly into my face.

Which, honestly, feels like a benediction at this point.

“What a grand welcome gift, Pickles.”

It’s going to be a long morning…

I do a lap around the paddock, trying to count the places where repair is needed.

I run out of numbers before I make it halfway around.

By the time I’m back at the barn, my feet are soaked and my mood is circling the drain.

The sun has found a gap in the clouds, and the barn’s shadow stretches across the field like a threat.

It’s now that I realize I am not ready for this.

Not in any sense.

The enormity of what I’ve taken on is not some vague, motivational-poster abstraction.

It’s literal, physical: the thousands of hours it’ll take to get this place back into working order, the money I don’t have, the lack of experience, the fact that I’ve only ever managed to keep succulents alive through willful neglect.

I drop onto the top rail of the corral, feet swinging in the dirt, and let my head trunk against the post. Above me, a red-tailed hawk circles, probably waiting for my inevitable demise. I flip it off with both hands, then pull my phone from my back pocket.

There’s no service. Of course.

For a while, I just sit.

The breeze picks up, rustling the weeds and sending the tarp into fits. Pickles shuffles in his stall, snorting at the intrusion. There’s a peace to this, in the way that sitting in the aftermath of a natural disaster is peaceful: everything ruined, nothing left but the certainty of the mess.

It’s about then that the sound of the world’s loudest bray splits the air. Pickles, apparently bored with silent judgment, lets loose a full-throated demand for attention.

The effect is immediate: a murder of crows erupts from the tree by the barn, their wings beating like frantic applause.

I hop off the rail, startled into action. There’s no room for breakdowns here.

If I lose it now, I’ll never get it back together.

I march back to the house, stepping over a discarded horseshoe and a sun-bleached beer can that predates my birth.

Once inside, I kick off my muddy boots, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and root through the boxes on the kitchen table.

Under "Aunt Lil's Kitchen Shit," I find a battered spiral notebook and a stub of pencil.

The cover is stained with something green and alarming.

I open to the first blank page and write, in block letters:

DAY ONE: REPAIRS

- FENCING (ALL)

- BARN ROOF (LEAKS IN MULTIPLE SPOTS)

- FEED (REPLACE ASAP, CHECK EXPIRY)

- TOOLS (MOSTLY brOKEN, SOME RACOONED)

- WATER (TASTES LIKE METAL, FILTER?)

- PICKLES (GET VET TO LOOK AT LEG???)

- CALL MOM (DO NOT)

I stare at the list. Underline "DO NOT" twice for emphasis.

Then I add a line: COFFEE. UNDERLINED THREE TIMES.

This is how you survive, I guess. Small steps, even if the next one is over a cliff.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that going into town is non-negotiable. I’ll need tools, lumber, feed, and a truly industrial amount of sugar if I’m going to last even a week.

I look down at myself: old pajama pants, a tee shirt advertising a defunct punk band, hair in a state best described as "feral raccoon chic." I briefly consider changing, but the odds of impressing anyone in Saddlebrush are, frankly, less than zero.

I toss the notebook onto the pile, grab my wallet and the keys, and jam my feet back into the boots. They’re still damp. There’s a family of earwigs living in the left toe. I shake them out onto the porch and apologize to the universe.

The air outside is different now—sharper, as if it’s waiting to see if I’ll come apart before I hit the highway.

I walk past the barn again, because, of course, Pickles is at the gate, waiting. He pins his ears and attempts to bite my elbow as I pass. He misses, and I give him a pat for effort.

"I’ll bring you something good," I promise, then regret it.

Promises are easy to break.

The truck starts on the third try, coughing black smoke into the blue sky.

The road to town is lined with wild roses, their scent more subtle than the aggressive perfume of the Alphas from yesterday, but just as persistent.

The drive is short—Saddlebrush is only five miles from the ranch—but in those five miles, my resolve hardens.

I don’t know how to fix a ranch.

I certainly don’t know how to fix Pickles, or myself, or the legacy that clings to every warped floorboard of the old house.

But I do know how to make a list and show up.

For today, that will have to be enough.

By the time I reach Main Street, I’m ready.

Not for the gossip, or the stares, or the inevitable parade of helpful Alphas who will try to rescue me from myself. But for the store, for the list, for the next item to check off.

This is how you win: one disaster at a time.