Page 13 of Saddle and Scent
Yet beneath that insouciant exterior lies layers unexplored; I suspect mysteries lurking behind those mischievous grins masking truths perhaps only revealed under starlit confessionals or shared laughter over late-night tales spun around tavern tables sticky with spilled beer.
But here and now?
There’s only Wes Carter—part-time peacemaker, full-time troublemaker—armored not with steel but charm honed sharper than any blade forged by fire’s kiss.
He flashes a grin at me, all teeth and mischief. “Hey, Junebug.”
I flinch.
Eww. Nicknames.
It’s not like I’m not fond of them.
The problem is they can become permanent and nothing seems to “remain” in my life for long.
Guess my Aunt is a good example…
“Don’t call me that.”
Wes holds up both hands.
“Sorry. Force of habit.”But he’s not sorry. Not even close.
That’s when a third scent seems to enter the chat:
Behind them, like an apparition conjured from the heart of Saddlebrush Ridge itself, a third figure appears with the effortless grace of someone accustomed to nature's uneven pathways.
This is Beckett Ford—known not just for his towering stature and formidable strength, but for the warmth that seems to emanate from him in waves, much like the aromatic goodness wafting from the tin he cradles as though it were a precious artifact.
As he moves forward, each step deliberate and assured, it’s impossible not to notice how the afternoon light catches on his rich, dark hair—woven through with hints of red that glow like embers under a layer of ash. The sun dances across his shoulders, highlighting the meticulous care given to his neatly trimmed beard and the gentle curve of his lips set in a knowing smile.
His plaid shirt, immaculately pressed and buttoned up to the very top, contrasts starkly against the casual disarray favored by Wes. There’s an understated elegance in Beckett’s attire—a nod to tradition perhaps, or maybe simply an ode to times past when decorum was a silent form of communication between men. Starch stiffens each fiber like invisible armor, reinforcing the impression that Beckett hasn't merely dressed for practicality; he’s donned a uniform representing values rooted deep in family and community ties.
In his hands lies what could only be a masterpiece of culinary diplomacy: a tin from which curls of steam rise lazily into the cool air, promising comfort and coaxing smiles even before its contents are revealed. Its presence demands respect as surely as any crafted speech or heartfelt apology might—a gesture of goodwill wrapped in flaky crust and sugared intent.
Beckett approaches with measured steps until he stands at the periphery of our gathering—a sentinel at ease yet attentive, his brown eyes surveying the scene with all the warmth and patience one might expect from someone used to witnessing life unfold with all its unpredictability. Those eyes—a softer shade than Callum's piercing caramel or Wes's cerulean blue—seem capable of understanding more than they reveal, holding within them mysteries known only to those who’ve lived and loved deeply in their time.
And then there’s that scent—another layer woven into this tableau of olfactory encounters:earthy tones minglingseamlessly with hints of yeast and flour, undercut by something sweetly spiced—a reminder that even in chaos, there exists potential for harmony if only we reach out and grasp it.
“Brought you a peace offering,” Beckett calls, offering the pie tin like it’s a diplomatic contract.
I squint at it.
You got to be fucking kidding me…
“Is that…pie?”
Pie.
Out of all the things holy and freshly baked that could magically appear during this twisted class reunion in the muck, it's a pie, of all things, that Beckett presents as his peace offering—an absurdly domestic gesture in the middle of my automotive downfall.
I mean, seriously? Here I am, wrestling with a truck that's got more attitude than a mule with a vendetta, coated in mud and no shortage of regret over returning to this town. Throw in Callum's irksome truth-bombs and Wes's charming indifference—it’s a veritable circus already—and now we’re adding pastry to the chaos.
Because why not? What’s a crisis without an inexplicably crumbly crust thrown into the mix?
Yet as absurd as it seems, there’s something endearing in its simplicity; a symbol that maybe not everything out here runs on complication or unspoken tension. There's something both ridiculous and profound about standing ankle-deep in mud while a giant of a man offers you dessert like it’s the solution to some existential puzzle neither of us can entirely solve.
Beckett stands like an oak against the backdrop of tangled weeds and distant tractor hums—a steady presence who doesn’t seem fazed by much, least of all my hesitance. The pie tin hovers between us like an olive branch adorned with golden-brown perfection, tempting with promises only forbidden fruit canclaim: warmth on cold nights, comfort after long days battling ghosts from past lives unearthed once more.
