Page 14 of Saddle and Scent
And beneath that flaky surface lies sweetness mingling expertly with spice—a culinary blueprint for navigating not just taste but circumstance. It proposes a truce—a silent agreement beneath layers of sugared understanding—as though by breaking bread together we might also tear apart whatever divides remain.
This unexpected intersection at the crossroad between familial history and personal revival carries weight far beyond mere ingredients or methodical preparation; it speaks to fellowship and nostalgia simmering under our collected skins—the kind capable of softening even hardened edges bristling at chance encounters.
For all my protests against small-town entanglements and burdensome kindnesses wrapped neatly in hospitality’s guise, I can't help but acknowledge this gesture holds depth beyond immediate consumption. Every escape route I plot dissolves under those watchful eyes—gentle insistence silently weaving itself into fragility’s fabric until resistance morphs into curiosity.
The whiff wafting toward me promises more than caloric appeasement; its aromas whisper tales shared across tables worn smooth by generations who’ve known struggle yet savored triumph alike—long evenings spent musing over half-empty plates while laughter danced amid candlelit truths exposed during twilight hours.
So there we are: Callum's gaze unwaveringly assessing each move I make; Wes watching silently as though logging observations for future analysis; Beckett patiently waiting for resolution—all they need is popcorn — or hell, perhaps another pie — to complete this odd little tableau vivant marking my return.
In defiance or acceptance—perhaps both—I find myself reaching forward despite every instinct screaming retreat:toward surrendering pride born not just of survival but necessity too often mistaken for virtue alone when roots become anchors pulling freedom from heels dug stubbornly deep within ground long abandoned yet unforgotten.
He nods, solemn as a funeral.
“Peach cobbler. Just out of the oven.”
I want to hate him for this, but my stomach has other ideas.
My stomach growls like it’s time to call the land of her people for a sweet offering to appease my obvious hunger.
Should my stomach get any louder, it’d probably demand its own Social Security number and title deed. Its guttural rumble reverberates through me like a call to arms—an undeniable plea to the culinary gods, imploring an offering worthy of the history between Bell women and their bakery repertoire. I can almost see a grand council of aproned pastry chefs in some celestial kitchen, conspiring to grant me succor by way of Beckett’s peach cobbler, presently occupying a diplomatic space between us.
And oh, how the scent taunts me.
Its sweetness cascades over my senses with all the subtlety of an avalanche, peach notes mingling with buttery undertones that conjure up visions of sunlit porches and lemonade afternoons. It's a siren’s song daring me to resist when all instincts scream capitulation.
The pie sits there like an edible peace treaty, its golden-brown crust glistening with promise—a battlefield where pride and appetite prepare for their own private skirmish. One whiff of those sugary seductions would topple even the most fortified resolutions.
Beckett stands unwavering, an impassive baker-ambassador extending his treatise in hand like it’s the Holy Grail itself—while Callum remains as stone-faced as ever beside him andWes watches with amusement twinkling in azure eyes. This trio—each in their own way—serves as gatekeepers to this rite of passage: accepting aid from those living within tight-knit community bonds that threaten to unravel all my carefully constructed defenses.
So here I am: part dignitary representing fractured pasts, part famished wanderer seeking sustenance from familiar comforts offered freely at crossroads. In this moment of possibilities unspoken yet acknowledged among those gathered here today— three Alphas observing quietly while one Omega, aka me, contemplates choices beyond mere survival—I give in.
I snatch the tin and take an ungainly bite.
The moan that leaves me should lead to an arrest warrant with how the sound justifies how fucking delicious this is.
I know I should maintain some dignity here; I’m keenly aware of that need to uphold boundaries etched into my very being since arriving at Saddlebrush Ridge. But every fiber of resistance crumbles beneath this symphony of taste—a harmony constructed with love and legacy transcending generations past. Somewhere between history and present lies understanding—a bridge connecting us through shared indulgence.
It’s criminally good, the kind of good that ruins all subsequent food for the next month.
The sugar hits my bloodstream, and for a moment, all is right in the world.
The three Alphas assemble around me like a jury. The air is thick with their scents: Callum’s woodsmoke, Wes’s citrus and ozone, Beckett’s cinnamon sugar.
I am swimming in it, and I can feel the part of my brain that handles rational thought shutting down in self-preservation.
Wes leans in, voice lowered conspiratorially.
“You really gonna try and get out of here solo, Junebug? You’re gonna tear the transfer case clean off.”
I glare at him over the rim of the pie tin.
“Unlike some people, I don’t need an entourage to do basic maintenance.”
Beckett hums, gently, like he’s talking to a frightened horse.
“We can get you out. If you want. After you finish the pie, of course.”
I pout my lips as my eyes narrow at him.
