Page 162 of Saddle and Scent
"We stop him by standing together," I say with more confidence than I actually feel. "By making it clear that this community won't be bullied or bought or bureaucratically maneuvered into submission."
"Juniper's right," Callum says, moving to stand beside us with the kind of solid presence that makes difficult things seem manageable. "Steele's counting on people feeling isolated and powerless. He wins when we start believing we don't have choices."
"But we do have choices," Wes adds, his voice carrying the kind of quiet determination that suggests plans are alreadyforming. "And we have something he doesn't understand—people who actually care about each other and this place."
"For now, you should finish your route," Beckett suggests gently. "Give us time to figure out our next move. Don't let him take away your last day of doing something you love."
Piper nods slowly, wiping away the last of her tears with the kind of resolution that suggests she's decided to channel her grief into action rather than despair.
"You're right," she says, her voice steadier now. "If this is my last run, I want to do it properly. Say goodbye to everyone, make sure they know what's happening."
She starts to head back toward her truck, then pauses and turns back to look at me directly.
"I really hope we get to hang out more," she says, her voice soft but sincere. "After all this is over, I mean. I really like the idea of being your friend, Juniper. That's not something I say to many people."
The admission touches something deep in my chest, because I recognize the courage it takes for someone with her background to openly express desire for friendship. It's a vulnerability that deserves protection and nurturing.
"I'd like that too," I say, meaning every word. "Whatever happens with all this other stuff, we're going to stay friends. I promise."
Her smile is the first genuine one I've seen from her this morning, bright and hopeful despite everything that's happening.
"I'll hold you to that," she says, climbing back into her truck with renewed purpose.
As soon as she drives away, the three men exchange a look that speaks to years of communication that goes beyond words.
There's something in their collective expression that suggests decisions have been made, plans have been formed, and action is imminent.
"Town hall?" Callum asks simply.
"Town hall," Wes confirms.
"Let's go make our position clear," Beckett adds grimly.
Twenty minutes later,we're walking through the town square toward the courthouse where an impromptu gathering seems to be taking place.
Word travels fast in small communities, and it appears that news of the mail delivery suspension has already spread through the local network of concerned citizens.
A crowd has gathered on the courthouse steps, their voices rising in the kind of animated discussion that suggests people are sharing information and trying to make sense of rapidly changing circumstances. I can see familiar faces throughout the group—neighbors, business owners, families who've been part of this community for generations.
But dominating the scene, standing at the top of the courthouse steps like he owns the building, is Marcus Steele.
He's dressed in another expensive suit, his posture radiating the kind of confidence that comes from believing you hold all the cards. There's something theatrical about the way he's positioned himself above the crowd, using the physical elevation to reinforce his sense of superiority over the people he's addressing.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he's saying as we approach, his voice carrying the practiced authority of someone accustomedto public speaking. "I understand there's been some confusion about recent changes to local services, and I wanted to take this opportunity to clarify the situation."
The crowd listens with varying degrees of skepticism and hostility, but they listen. Because even people who disagree with him want to understand exactly what they're dealing with.
"The suspension of rural mail delivery is just the beginning of a comprehensive modernization plan that will bring real economic opportunity to this region," he continues, his tone suggesting he's offering generous gifts rather than imposing unwanted changes. "Within five years, Saddlebrush Ridge will be transformed into a premier destination for shopping, dining, and residential development that will create hundreds of jobs and millions of dollars in revenue."
A murmur runs through the crowd, but it's not the kind of excitement he's probably hoping for. It's the sound of people who understand that his vision of success doesn't include them.
"Of course, change is always challenging," he acknowledges with fake sympathy. "Some adjustments will be necessary as we transition from an outdated agricultural economy to a modern service-based model. But I assure you that everyone who's willing to embrace progress will find their place in the new Saddlebrush Ridge."
"What about the people who don't want to embrace your version of progress?" calls out a voice from the crowd.
Marcus's smile takes on a harder edge, and when he locates the source of the question, his expression becomes almost predatory.
"Well," he says, his tone suggesting he's been waiting for exactly this opening, "that brings me to a specific situation I'd like to address. Ms. Bell, would you mind joining me up here?"
