Page 30 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The careful way she'd held herself, like someone afraid to take up space.
Like someone used to making herself small, insignificant, unworthy.
It struck him as wrong, fundamentally wrong, for an Omega like her to seem so diminished.
Still, as he pulls on clean jeans and a simple henley, his thoughts refuse to release her. He remembers the careful wayshe'd held herself when he caught her —like someone afraid to take up space, someone used to making herself small.
It struck him as wrong, fundamentally wrong, for an Omega like her to seem so diminished.
"She was a dancer," he murmurs, thinking of what little he knows about her, about the world she came from.
A world of discipline and poise, so different from his own. Her graceful way of moving, even when she seemed unsure, spoke of years of intense training. The stiff set of her shoulders and the determined line of her jaw revealed a mind unwilling to surrender, even under immense pressure.
She carried herself with a dignity that seemed at odds with the shadows in her eyes, and Meadow felt something twist inside him at the thought of what she might have endured. The weight she bore would have crushed someone without her strength.
Meadow runs a hand through his damp hair, brushing it back from his forehead. His chest is still tight with feeling, his muscles still tense with the pent-up need for action.
"What happened to youlittle sunshine?" he asks the empty room. Recollections of her wary, haunted eyes fill his mind.
Had she loved and lost like he had? Or was it worse than that? Had someone broken her spirit, taken her trust, and used it against her?
His jaw clenches at the thought of another Alpha leaving scars so deep. The protective anger roars up again, nearly drowning out the reason.
He wants to find whoever hurt her, wants to?—
"No," he says, cutting off the possessive, dangerous thoughts. "Not your place." His hands are shaking, and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to focus, to be calm.
He sits on the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots with deliberate, steady movements. The tasks of the day are waiting, needing his attention.
The ranch won't run itself, and the fence in the north pasture still needs repair.
But even as he makes his mental list of chores, even as he stands and reaches for his hat, Marigold is still there on the edge of his thoughts.
The grace in her movements, the resilience beneath her reserved exterior — they call to him, awakening parts of him he thought long dead. Parts that want to protect, to nurture, to heal.
The tension within him builds, a war between his desire to help her and the temptation to become involved. He's a complication she doesn't need, a complication he shouldn't allow himself to be.
"She might not even come back," he reminds himself, speaking the words aloud as if to convince his own stubborn heart. But even as he says it, he knows it isn't true. Some instinct tells him their paths are meant to cross again — whether either of them is ready for it or not.
He leaves for the ranch, unsure how to handle his attraction to her.
The early morning air greets Meadow with a crisp bite as he steps out onto the weathered porch of his cabin.
The land stretches before him, bathed in the golden light of dawn, the silhouettes of his horses visible in the distance. He breathes deeply, letting the scent of dew-soaked grass and pine fill his lungs, willing it to wash away the lingering traces of her scent from his memory.
"Just another day," he murmurs to himself, adjusting his worn leather gloves as he strides toward the barn.
Inside, the familiar sounds and smells of the stable wrap around him like an old blanket — hay rustling, the soft nickering of horses, the earthy scent of animals and feed.
Whiskey, his chestnut gelding, pokes his head over the stall door, ears perked forward in greeting.
"Morning, old friend," Meadow says, his voice gentler than it ever is with people. He runs a calloused hand down the horse's velvety nose. "Got a full day ahead of us."
He works methodically through his morning routine — feeding, mucking stalls, checking each animal with careful attention. The physical labor is a welcome distraction, muscles working in familiar patterns that require little thought, leaving his mind dangerously free to wander.
"Focus," he growls to himself, pitchfork stabbing into fresh hay with more force than necessary.
His ranch hand, Eli, arrives mid-morning, whistling as he enters the barn.
