Page 106 of Saddle and Scent
This is what I've been missing.
This connection, this perfect fit, this feeling like coming home.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are dark and stunned, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that has nothing to do with the cold rain.
"Juniper," he breathes, my name like a prayer on his lips.
I grin up at him, feeling powerful and reckless and completely in control.
"Just so we're clear," I say, my voice steady despite the way my heart is racing, "I'm planning to make you suffer the most out of the three of you."
He blinks, clearly trying to process what I just said.
"What do you mean, suffer?"
My grin widens, taking on a decidedly wicked edge.
"You'll see."
"Juniper," he starts, and I can hear the beginning of an argument in his voice.
But I just give him my most defiant smile—the one that used to drive him crazy when we were kids and still seems to have the same effect—and he stops mid-sentence.
Because he knows that look.
He knows what it means when I set my mind on something.
He knows his fate is sealed.
The rain continues to pour around us, but neither of us moves to seek shelter. We just stand there, staring at each other, the taste of that kiss still lingering between us like a promise of things to come.
And I can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what kind of trouble he's in.
Which is exactly how I want it.
21
VETERINARY LESSONS
~JUNIPER~
The foal is breech.
Wes's voice cuts through the barn's humid air with clinical calm, but I can see the tension radiating from every line of his body. His hands disappear elbow-deep inside the trembling mare, his brow furrowed in the kind of intense focus that transforms him from charming troublemaker into the skilled veterinarian he's become.
Sweat beads at his temples despite the cool morning air filtering through the barn's open doors, and his shirt—a faded blue button-down that's seen better days—clings to his shoulders with effort and determination.
This isn't like helping Pickles with a stubborn hoof or brushing down some cranky gelding.
This is life and death.
This is blood and instinct and the kind of raw, primal experience that strips away all pretense and leaves you face-to-face with what really matters.
I hover beside him in the sterile gloves he insisted I wear, feeling completely out of my depth. The mare is enormous—abeautiful chestnut draft horse with kind eyes that are currently wide with pain and fear—and every muscle in her body is taut with the effort of bringing new life into the world.
I've never been present for anything like this.
The closest I've come to veterinary medicine is bandaging my own scraped knees.
