Page 128 of Saddle and Scent
The promise in his words, combined with the whiskey and the intimate atmosphere of his workshop, finally breaks through the last of my resistance to what's been building between us all evening.
I slide off my stool and move to stand between his knees, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. He goes very still, but his eyes never leave mine.
"Is this okay?" I ask, though I think I already know the answer from the way his breathing has changed.
"More than okay," he says, his voice rough with want.
I lean down and kiss him, soft and exploratory at first, then deeper as he responds with the kind of controlled passion that speaks to years of wanting. His hands settle on my waist, spanning almost the entire width of my torso, and the solid strength of his touch makes me feel delicate and cherished in ways I've never experienced.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
But instead of escalating, I find myself drawn to the simple intimacy of being close to him.
I settle myself on his lap, back against his chest, and reach for my abandoned carving project.
"Show me how to do the 'P'," I say, offering him the knife.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where it's pressed against my back. "The 'P'?"
"For permanence," I say. "Seems like something worth carving."
His arms come around me as he guides my hands through the careful curves of the letter, and I let myself sink into the comfort of being held while creating something lasting. The combination of whiskey, gentle concentration, and the solid warmth of his body creates a perfect bubble of contentment that I never want to burst.
"This is nice," I murmur as we work together on the final flourish.
"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. "It really is."
We finish the letter in comfortable silence, then set the tools aside and just hold each other as the lantern light flickers around us. My eyes are growing heavy with the combined effects of alcohol, physical exhaustion, and the bone-deep relaxation that comes from feeling completely safe.
"I'm going to fall asleep," I warn him, already feeling my body going boneless against his.
"That's okay," he says, adjusting his position to better support my weight. "I've got you."
The simple promise in those three words is the last thing I hear before sleep claims me, surrounded by the scent of wood shavings and whiskey and the man who's just proven that permanence doesn't have to be a cage—sometimes it can be exactly the foundation you need to build something beautiful.
26
WEALTH AND WANT
~JUNIPER~
"Come with me today," Wes says over his morning coffee, already dressed in his professional veterinarian attire—clean khakis, polo shirt with the clinic logo embroidered in neat blue thread, and the kind of confident demeanor that inspires trust in both animals and their owners. "I've got a house call to the Thornfield estate, and after watching you handle that foaling last week, I think you'd find it interesting."
The invitation surprises me, though it probably shouldn't.
Ever since the incident with the breech birth, Wes has been more intentional about including me in his work when schedules allow. Not as a formal apprentice or anything that official, but as someone whose genuine interest and natural aptitude deserve encouragement.
I'm sitting across from him at the small kitchen table, wearing one of Callum's flannel shirts over yesterday's jeans, my hair still messy from sleep. The domestic intimacy of sharing morning coffee feels both natural and revolutionary—like something I've been craving without realizing it.
"What kind of animals are we talking about?" I ask, already mentally rearranging my day to accommodate the trip.
"Standard ranch livestock mostly, but they've also got some exotic breeds that require quarterly health checks." He grins over his coffee cup, blue eyes dancing with the kind of mischief that usually means trouble. "Plus, the Thornfields pay premium rates for house calls, so it's worth the drive even if Mrs. Thornfield can be... a lot."
There's something in his tone that suggests 'a lot' might be an understatement, but I'm curious enough about his work—and eager enough for any excuse to spend time with him—that potential personality challenges don't deter me.
"Sounds educational," I say, taking another sip of coffee that's perfectly strong and somehow tastes better when shared. "And I promise to stay out of the way if things get complicated."
"You're never in the way, Junebug," he says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. His fingers are warm and slightly rough from years of handling animals, and the casual affection in the gesture sends warmth spreading through my chest. "Besides, I like having you there. Makes the job more enjoyable when I've got someone to share it with."
