Page 47 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Third time this month," Gus replies, straightening up with a black bunny secure in his hands. "I swear they're organizing these escapes. I found their tiny revolutionary manifesto written in carrot tops last week."
Flint snorts.
"Says the man who can't keep his own clinic filing system organized."
"Patient records and rabbit revolutions are entirely different domains of expertise," Gus retorts, depositing his captive into the pen with exaggerated ceremony.
Meadow steps closer, and Marigold feels a subtle shift in the air — not tension, but something more like an awareness that passes between the two Alphas.
There's history here. Years of friendship have weathered whatever challenges came their way.
"At least they didn't make it to my vegetable garden this time," Meadow says, reaching out to help secure the pen's gate. His sleeve pulls back slightly, revealing the strong line of his forearm, and Marigold finds herself unexpectedly tracking the movement. "Last time, they decimated an entire row of carrots. I think they were sending a message."
"The message being'your fencing needs work'?" Flint chimes in.
"The message being'we prefer farmers who don't play country music to their crops,'"Gus counters with a grin.
Meadow's quiet laugh surprises Marigold, low and genuine.
"The tomatoes appreciate Johnny Cash," he says with conviction.
It strikes her how different this is from the hierarchical posturing she's witnessed among Alphas in the city. These men tease each other freely, their bond evident in every exchanged glance and casual touch.
It feels... safe.
A pack in the truest sense of the word.
"You've got a knack for this," Meadow says suddenly, and Marigold realizes he's addressing her. His eyes —steady and observant— rest briefly on the rabbit still cradled in her arms. "Most newcomers don't have the patience."
She feels a blush rise to her cheeks at the simple compliment.
"They remind me of my younger students," she says softly. "You have to be still to earn their trust."
"Speaking of trust," Gus says, brushing his hands off on his jeans, "I think we've earned ourselves a decent meal after this rescue operation." He turns to Marigold, his expression warm and inviting. "You should join us for dinner. It's pack night — everyone contributes something."
"Oh, I—" she begins, uncertainty momentarily overtaking her.
"Meadow's making his famous honey bread," Gus adds as if this is the most persuasive argument possible.
Meadow shakes his head, but Marigold catches the pleased look that crosses his face.
"It's just bread," he says, but there's pride beneath the modesty.
"It's not 'just' anything," Flint tells Marigold conspiratorially. "Worth staying for, trust me."
The invitation hangs in the air, and Marigold feels something unfurling inside her chest — a cautious opening, like a flower turning toward unexpected sunlight.
The ballet company had called themselves a family, but there had always been an undercurrent of competition, of calculated alliance. This feels different —genuine in a way that makes her throat tighten with emotion.
"I'd like that," she says finally, carefully passing the rabbit she's holding to Meadow. Their fingers brush in the exchange, and the brief contact sends a surprising warmth through her veins. "If you're sure I won't be intruding."
"Pack dinners are open territory," Gus says with an easy smile that somehow makes her believe him. "Besides, anyone who can charm both rabbits and horses in a single day belongs at our table."
"Do I..." Marigold hesitates, smoothing her hands over her work jeans, suddenly aware of hay dust and horse hair clinging to her clothes. "Should I change first?"
August laughs, gesturing to his own dirt-smudged attire.
"We're ranchers, not the Royal Ballet. Come as you are."
