Page 122 of Saddle and Scent
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to face whatever comes next.
Even if what comes next is a confrontation with the kind of Alpha who thinks he can take whatever he wants through intimidation and force.
Marcus Steele has no idea what he's up against.
Because he's not just threatening me anymore.
He's threatening us.
And that's a mistake he's going to regret.
24
BUILDING SOMETHING TOGETHER
~JUNIPER~
The old barn stands before us like a challenge written in weathered wood and rusted nails, its skeletal frame reaching toward the cloudless sky with the kind of stubborn determination that speaks to decades of surviving weather.
What was once Aunt Lil's pride and joy now looks more like the aftermath of a particularly vindictive tornado, but there's good bones underneath all the decay.
At least, that's what Callum keeps insisting as he surveys the structure with the critical eye of someone who's spent his life coaxing function from broken things.
"Foundation's solid," he announces, kicking at one of the support posts with his steel-toed boot. "Most of the frame is salvageable. We'll need new siding, obviously, and about half the roof needs to be replaced, but it's not as hopeless as it looks."
I'm perched on the tailgate of his truck, swinging my legs and trying to look like I'm paying attention to his architectural assessment instead of admiring the way his shoulders move under his worn flannel shirt. The morning sun is alreadypromising another scorcher, and all three of them have that focused intensity that men get when they're about to embark on a project involving power tools and the opportunity to show off their competence.
"You sure about this?" I ask, gesturing at the collection of lumber, hardware, and equipment they've assembled. "Because it looks like you're planning to rebuild the entire thing from scratch."
"That's because we basically are," Wes says cheerfully, hauling a circular saw out of the truck bed with practiced ease. "Difference between rebuilding and building from scratch is we get to keep the parts that aren't completely fucked."
Beckett emerges from behind the barn carrying what appears to be half the contents of a hardware store, his arms loaded with boxes of screws, brackets, and various metal implements whose purposes I can only guess at.
"It'll be worth it when we're done," he says, setting his burden down with a grunt. "This barn has good bones. With some love and attention, it could last another fifty years."
The way he says 'we' and 'our' sends a warm flutter through my chest that I'm not quite ready to examine too closely. Because there's an assumption in those words, a casual possessiveness that suggests he's already thinking of this project—this property, this life—as something that belongs to all of us.
Which should probably concern me more than it does.
Instead, I find myself imagining what the barn will look like when they're finished. Clean white siding catching the afternoon light, new red roof gleaming like something out of a postcard, wide doors thrown open to reveal organized space instead of the chaotic jumble that currently occupies the interior.
A real working barn, the kind that could house animals and equipment and serve as the heart of an actual functioning sanctuary.
"So what's my job in all this?" I ask, hopping down from the truck. "Because I'm warning you now, my construction experience is limited to putting together IKEA furniture, and even that usually ends with leftover screws and creative interpretations of the instructions."
Callum's lips twitch in what might be the beginning of a smile. "You're going to learn. Can't have you living on a ranch without knowing basic construction skills."
"Besides," Wes adds with a grin that promises trouble, "we promised you lake time if you help with the barn. No work, no swimming."
The lake. Right.
I'd almost forgotten about their promise to take me to the swimming hole once we finished the morning's work. The same swimming hole where we'd spent countless summer afternoons as teenagers, diving off the rope swing and sprawling on sun-warmed rocks until the mosquitoes drove us home.
The thought of cool water and afternoon sunshine is appealing enough that I'm willing to endure a few hours of manual labor. Even if my idea of appropriate work attire is probably going to drive them all to distraction.
"Fine," I say, tugging at the hem of my oversized white t-shirt. "But if we're going swimming later, I came prepared."
I peel off the shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing the simple black bikini underneath. It's nothing fancy—just basic triangle top and boy-short bottoms—but judging by the way all three of them go very still, it might as well be lingerie.
