Page 131 of Saddle and Scent
I don't say anything during the remainder of our visit, maintaining professional composure while internally processing the unexpected surge of jealousy that Mrs. Thornfield's behavior triggered.
Because watching another woman flirt with Wes—especially someone with obvious advantages in terms of wealth and social position—awakened possessive instincts I didn't know I possessed.
The feeling is unsettling partly because it's so foreign, but mostly because it forces me to confront the extent of my growing attachment to all three of them. What started as cautious exploration of renewed connection has evolved into something much deeper and more complicated.
Something that apparently includes territorial responses to perceived threats.
The exotic animals turn out to be a collection of rare breeds that probably cost more individually than most people's cars.Alpacas with impossibly soft fiber, miniature horses with perfect conformation, and several species I can't even identify but that clearly represent substantial investment in genetic superiority.
Wes examines each animal with the same thorough professionalism he brings to standard livestock, but I can see him noting details about their care and conditioning that suggest expensive maintenance without necessarily optimal welfare. Everything looks perfect on the surface, but there's something missing in the animals' demeanor that speaks to the difference between expensive care and genuine attention.
The drive back to our ranch passes in comfortable conversation about the animals we examined and Wes's professional observations about their care and conditioning. But underneath the surface discussion, I'm grappling with questions about worthiness and suitability that the Thornfield visit has brought into sharp focus.
Because if I'm being honest with myself, Mrs. Thornfield represents everything I'm not.
Wealth, sophistication, the kind of polished confidence that comes from never having to worry about basic security.
She's the type of woman who could offer an Alpha like Wes the kind of lifestyle most people only dream about—exotic travel, unlimited resources, social connections that open doors in exclusive circles.
So what does it say about me that I'm sitting here in secondhand clothes, owner of a property that's more potential than reality, wondering if I'm actually good enough for any of them?
That night, I find myself unable to sleep despite the physical exhaustion that usually guarantees unconsciousness within minutes of my head hitting the pillow. My mind keeps cycling through images from the day—Mrs. Thornfield's perfect everything contrasted with my own obvious limitations, thecasual way she assumed I was just an apprentice rather than someone with my own legitimate place in Wes's professional life.
The nest that the guys created for me is comfortable beyond description, but even surrounded by their scents and evidence of their care, I can't quiet the voices that insist I'm not enough. Not sophisticated enough, not wealthy enough, not polished enough to deserve the kind of devotion they seem determined to offer.
After an hour of restless tossing, I give up on sleep and decide to check on the barn renovations.
We're close to finishing the major structural work, and there's something soothing about seeing tangible progress on a project that represents everything we're trying to build together.
The barn is illuminated by work lights that cast dramatic shadows across the partially completed interior, highlighting the bones of what will eventually be a fully functional space for animals and equipment. And there, bent over a workbench with his shirt draped over a nearby sawhorse, is Wes.
My breath catches at the sight of him. Shirtless, his skin gleaming with a light sheen of perspiration that catches the harsh light, every muscle defined by the play of shadow as he works. His hair is tousled from running his hands through it, and there's something almost artistic about the way he moves—economical, precise, completely absorbed in whatever task has claimed his attention.
He's sanding something, the rhythmic motion of his arms creating a hypnotic pattern of muscle and movement that speaks to both physical strength and careful attention to detail.
Wood shavings curl away from whatever he's crafting, and I can smell the sweet scent of cedar mixing with his own natural musk.
I should announce my presence or retreat before he notices me watching, but I'm frozen by the unexpected intensity of myphysical response to the sight of him. Because this isn't just appreciation for an attractive man going about his business.
This is visceral, possessive want that makes my skin feel too tight and my mouth go dry.
This is desire so sharp it borders on desperation, made worse by the day's reminder of all the ways I might not deserve what I'm craving.
"Enjoying the view, Junebug?"
His voice cuts through my stupor like a blade, and I realize he's straightened up and is now watching me with obvious amusement. The smile on his face is pure masculine satisfaction, like he's perfectly aware of the effect he's having and is enjoying every second of my obvious appreciation.
Heat floods my cheeks as I'm caught in the act of ogling him like some kind of starved teenager, and I scramble for dignity that's probably beyond salvage at this point.
"I couldn't sleep," I say, trying to sound casual instead of guilty as I emerge from the shadows where I'd been lurking like some kind of perverted barn ghost. "Thought I'd check on the progress."
"Uh-huh," he says, his grin widening at my obvious attempt to deflect attention from my creeper behavior. "And the fact that I happen to be here working without a shirt is just a coincidence?"
"Completely coincidental," I lie, though we both know he's not buying it for a second.
His laugh is rich and warm, the kind of sound that makes my stomach flutter with feelings I'm not ready to examine too closely.
He sets down the piece of sandpaper he'd been using and wipes his hands on a rag, his movements casual but somehow loaded with intention.
