Page 119 of Saddle and Scent
Or maybe a challenge.
Definitely something that will get a reaction when he sees me.
Downstairs, I expect to have to figure out breakfast for myself—maybe toast and whatever fruit hasn't gone bad, or cereal if I can find any that isn't stale.But when I reach the kitchen, I discover that Beckett has once again anticipated my needs.
There's a plate waiting in the microwave with a note stuck to the front:
"Scrambled eggs with herbs from the garden, turkey sausage, and hash browns. Heat for 90seconds. Coffee's fresh. Try to eat before noon this time. - B"
The fact that he's been paying attention to my terrible eating habits makes my chest tight with gratitude.
And something deeper that I'm not ready to name.
The coffee pot is indeed fresh and hot, which means Callum must have been here earlier to start a new batch. The kitchen still carries faint traces of his scent, mixed with the lingering aromas of whatever Beckett made for breakfast.
It's domestic in a way that feels both foreign and perfectly natural.
Like this is how mornings are supposed to be—surrounded by evidence that people care enough to make sure you're fed and caffeinated and taken care of.
Wes is at the clinic today, so I don't expect to see him until evening. Which is probably for the best, considering what happened in that alley yesterday and the way my body is responding to Alpha proximity this morning.
I need some space to process everything that's been happening.
Some time to figure out what I actually want versus what my biology is demanding.
After heating up breakfast and pouring a generous cup of coffee, I decide to check on Pickles and collect the mail. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scents of blooming wildflowers and the promise of another beautiful day.
Pickles is in fine form, eyeing me with his usual combination of judgment and grudging affection.
He approves of the flannel shirt, apparently, because he doesn't try to bite me when I scratch behind his ears.
Progress.
The walk to the mailbox gives me time to appreciate how much the property has improved in just the past few days.The guys have been busy—fences repaired, debris cleared, the barn looking less like a disaster zone and more like an actual functional building.
It's starting to look like the sanctuary Aunt Lil always dreamed it could be.
The kind of place that could actually help animals and serve the community in meaningful ways.
I'm hoping to see Piper's mail truck, but she's not due for another day or two. The woman has become a bright spot in my week—someone to talk to who doesn't have a decade of complicated history with me, someone who understands the particular challenges of being an unmated Omega in a small town.
Maybe next week we can actually sit down for coffee and a real conversation.
Away from work schedules and veterinary emergencies and the chaos that seems to follow me everywhere lately.
The mailbox contains the usual assortment of bills and advertisements, but there's one piece that makes my blood run cold. An official-looking envelope with my name written in unfamiliar handwriting, no return address, and the kind of weight that suggests important documents inside.
My hands are shaking as I tear it open.
And what I find inside makes my worst fears seem optimistic in comparison.
It's a letter from Marcus Steele, an Alpha I'd hoped never to encounter again. The same Alpha who'd thought it was appropriate to make me sleep in a tent outside when I didn't comply with his demands. The same pack leader who'd made my life miserable for the brief time I'd tried to make things work with his group.
But that was years ago, in a different state, and I'd made sure there was no way for them to track me when I left.
So how the hell did he find me?
And why is he suddenly interested in Aunt Lil's property?
