Page 120 of Roulette Rodeo
"She seems to really like you. That's actually perfect—Luna's excellent with new riders. She knows every trail in town by heart, could probably run them blindfolded."
"Really?" Red's eyes light up. "She's that smart?"
"Smarter than most people I've treated," I say, reaching up to help her down. "Let me?—"
She puts her hands on my shoulders, trusting me to lift her from the saddle. The moment my hands span her waist, that scent hits me full force—cherries and honey and something uniquely her that makes my medical brain shut down entirely.
I lift her down slowly, but instead of setting her on her feet immediately, I hold her close, her body sliding against mine until her boots touch the ground.
"You really do smell nice," I murmur, echoing Shiloh's earlier observations. "He wasn't exaggerating."
She tilts her head, curious rather than uncomfortable with our proximity.
"What do I smell like to you? Everyone seems to experience it differently."
"Sweet," I say, trying to find words for something that transcends language. "Incredibly sweet, but not cloying. Like... summer fruit and wildflower honey and something warm, like cinnamon or nutmeg. Can’t forget the cherries."
The sound of approaching hooves signals Shiloh and Talon's arrival, but I don't step back yet.
"The thing is," I continue, needing her to understand this oddity about me, "I don't usually notice omega scents. Or most scents, really."
She frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"
"It's a genetic quirk, inherited from my father. My olfactory processing is... selective. I can only detect certain scent molecules, and they're not the usual ones." I watch her process this, her sharp mind already working. "In medical service, it made me incredibly valuable. I could smell infection before it presented symptoms, detect internal bleeding by the metallic tang it leaves in sweat, and identify specific diseases by their chemical signatures."
"That's... actually amazing," she says, eyes widening. "On a battlefield, that would be?—"
"A superpower," I confirm. "I could find wounded soldiers faster than trained dogs sometimes. The scent of someone dying is very specific—sweet rot and metal and something like ozone. I could track it through smoke, through chemical weapons residue, through everything else that should have masked it."
"That's a hell of a genetic gift," she says, then laughs self-consciously. "Better than what I got from my mom, for sure."
"What do you mean?"
She shifts her weight, and I catch the slight tremor in her left leg.
"My legs sometimes don't work right. Circulation issue, probably genetic since Mom had something similar. It's actually been happening more often lately, but..." She shrugs. "Couldn't exactly get it properly checked at the casino."
Concern floods through me, my medical training immediately cataloging possible conditions.
"Next week, I'll take you to the clinic. We have an omega specialist who comes once a week for checkups. Dr. Sarah Chen—she's excellent, trained at Johns Hopkins before she decided small-town medicine was more her speed."
"Won't I need an appointment? I don't want to be a hassle?—"
"Not at all," I cut her off gently. "You're vitally important, Red. Your health is our priority. We need to make sure you're okay, that whatever's happening with your legs isn't something serious."
She looks down, and I can see the vulnerability in the set of her shoulders.
"I'm scared, though. What if it's... what if it's what killed my mom?"
My heart clenches at the admission.
Without thinking, I reach out to fix a strand of her wild hair, then pull the spare cowboy hat I'd brought from my saddlebag. It's cream-colored to match her blouse, with a band decorated with small silver stars.
As I settle it on her head, I whisper, "Finding out about your health is scary. But preventing further damage is better than avoidance, don't you think?"
She nods slowly, the hat shadowing her eyes.
"Can I do something rather invasive?" I ask.
