Page 107 of Saddle and Scent
But Wes asked me to come with him this morning, said he could use an extra pair of hands, and something in his voice made it impossible to refuse.
"Juniper," he says without looking up, his voice maintaining that steady, professional tone that somehow manages to be both commanding and reassuring. "I need you to apply pressure to her belly. Right here—" He gestures with his chin toward a specific spot on the mare's swollen side. "Not too hard, just steady, consistent pressure."
I nod even though he can't see me, placing my hands where he indicated. The mare's skin is hot and slick with sweat, and I can feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing beneath my palms. My arms tremble slightly from the unfamiliar effort, but I hold steady.
The responsibility is terrifying.
One wrong move, too much pressure, and I could hurt both mother and baby.
But Wes trusts me to do this.
That has to count for something.
The mare groans—a low, guttural sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in her soul—and shifts her weight, causing her enormous body to sway slightly. I adjust my position, maintaining the pressure Wes requested while trying not to think about how small and fragile I feel next to this magnificent creature.
We work in tense silence broken only by the wet, organic sounds of Wes manipulating the foal's position and the laboredbreathing of the mare. Occasionally he murmurs something—words of encouragement for the mother, clinical observations for his own reference, quiet curses when something doesn't go as planned.
The air in the barn is thick with the scents of hay and horse and the metallic tang of blood.
But underneath it all is Wes's scent—warm cedar and clean sweat and something that's purely him.
It should be comforting, but instead it's doing things to my nervous system that have nothing to do with veterinary procedures.
"Almost there," he says, his voice threading with relief. "Come on, baby... that's it... just a little more..."
I watch his face as he works, noting the way his jaw clenches with concentration, the furrow between his brows that appears when he's thinking through a complex problem. There's something incredibly attractive about seeing him in his element like this—confident, capable, completely in control of a situation that would leave most people panicking.
This is Wes at his most Alpha.
Not the charming flirt who makes jokes to deflect serious conversations, but the skilled professional who holds life and death in his capable hands.
The foal slips free with a wet, squelching sound that turns my stomach and tugs at something deep in my chest all at once. Wes eases the tiny creature to the ground with infinite gentleness, his large hands suddenly tender as he clears fluid from its airway.
For a moment that feels like eternity, there's complete silence.
Then a sharp, indignant cry pierces the air.
Alive.
The foal is alive.
My heart stutters in my chest, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. The little creature is all legs and wet fur, kicking weakly against the clean hay Wes has prepared. Its mother immediately begins the instinctive process of cleaning and bonding, long tongue rasping gently over her baby's coat.
"Oh," I breathe, staring at the miracle unfolding before me. "Oh my God, she's—is she okay?"
"She's perfect," Wes says, grinning now as he strips off his bloody gloves and reaches for a clean towel. "You did incredible, Junebug. Couldn't have done it without you."
But I can't respond.
Because something is happening to my body that I have absolutely no control over.
The adrenaline, the intensity of the experience, the overwhelming relief of seeing new life successfully brought into the world—it's all combining into a perfect storm of hormonal chaos that's making my Omega biology go absolutely haywire.
My scent is pouring off me in thick, uncontrolled waves.
I can feel it happening, can smell the sweet honeysuckle undertones mixing with something sharper, more primal.
It's the scent of an Omega who's been pushed to her emotional limits and is struggling to regain control.
