Page 16 of Saddle and Scent
Saddlebrush Ridge has a way of clinging to you even when you try to shake it off. Its traditions are sticky as honey, binding in ways both sweet and suffocating. When I left, there was hope mingled with the horizon; now, there's only this persistent riddle—the question of whether one can truly leave and still belong.
I glance at Callum, who stands stoically like he’s weighing these truths himself—or perhaps just contemplating the mud splatter pattern currently decorating his boots. There's an unspoken understanding in his caramel eyes—a shared recognition of this town’s spellbinding grip where dreams often go to settle into comfort rather than soar.
It's not just about leaving; it's about daring to return with dreams intact without them being stripped bare by pragmatic hands urging conformity over curiosity.
Callum stands, brushing grit from his hands.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, you know.”
I bristle.
“I’m not proving anything. I just…want to be left alone.”
Beckett gives me a sad, knowing smile.
“That’s not really how it works out here.”
But they don’t push.
That’s the one thing I’ve always respected about these three. They respected one’s boundaries. Both the ones spoken and the unspoken.
Most Alphas don’t give a shit about what an Omega likes or doesn’t approve of.
And boundaries? To most, they’re meant to be run over and further stomped upon if it means free fuckathons and heightened power dynamics.
They finish un-stucking the truck in record time. It doesn’t even take all three of them, but they work in tandem anyway, as if the idea of leaving one man out is physically painful.
I watch from a safe distance, arms folded, trying not to breathe in the dense cocktail of pheromones and masculine competence. When they’re done, the truck sits level and ready, the only evidence of my earlier humiliation a muddy divot and a faint imprint of my ass on the driver’s seat.
Wes grins.
“Told you we’d get you sorted, Junebug.”
I consider correcting him, but I’m tired, and the nickname is almost bearable when delivered with pie and a smile.
Callum wipes his hands on a rag and fixes me with that intense, gold stare.
“Next time, call.”
As if I still have this stubborn Alpha’s number…
Which, truthfully, I probably do somewhere.
I meet his gaze, unblinking.
“There won’t be a next time.”
He shrugs, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.
“Sure.”
The three of them start to leave, but Beckett hangs back, setting another tin—this one covered—on the tailgate.
This sneaky Alpha and his sweet goodness!
“For the road,” he says. “Apple this time. In case you run into another crisis.”
I want to say thank you.I do.But the words jam in my throat, blocked by years of self-sufficiency and a childhood spent dodging handouts.
