Page 17 of Saddle and Scent
Instead, I nod, and he nods back, as if we’ve reached an understanding.
Callum calls over his shoulder, “You passed out standing up, Bell. You don’t got anything under control.”
Mother fucking bully.
I roll my eyes, giving a begrudging stare.
Wes hoots with friendly laughter, Beckett chuckles, and I’m left with pie, a working truck, and the knowledge that, despite my best efforts, I’m still the girl who needs saving.
Goddamn it.
2
WELCOME BACK TO THE ROOT OF IT ALL
~JUNIPER~
Turns out, in Saddlebrush Ridge, the only thing more persistent than a late-spring mud is an Alpha with a superiority complex.
I barely have the truck in neutral before the three of them are flanking me, this time with all the subtlety of a homecoming parade.
Having three Alphas decide to tail me back to my ranch was as surprising as a mule in a ballroom gown, but I suppose this is par for the course when you’re in a town where the most riveting event of the day is the local bakery running out of flour. They hovered like sentries, their vehicles trailing behind mine in a faithful convoy, as if they were escorting royalty—or a terribly unbalanced truck. In Saddlebrush Ridge, small-town hospitality sometimes masquerades as overbearing watchfulness, and these three seemed intent on embodying that spirit to its fullest.
I could practically hear them plotting from behind me: Callum with his calculating silence, Beckett with his gentle hums, and Wes’s upbeat chatter peppering the airwaves like some radio show host desperate to fill dead space. It wouldbe charming if it weren’t so suffocating. Charming in that way you can’t help but find annoying because it’s entirely disarming, stripping away defenses you didn’t realize were already half-dismantled by their earlier intervention.
Truth be told, I should be grateful.
And maybe a part of me is.
But mostly, I bristled at their persistent presence—like being shadowed by three overgrown puppies who’ve decided I’m their new object of fascination.
The joke’s on them; this Omega comes with more baggage than their combined horsepower could ever hope to pull free of a ditch.
Their reasons were simple enough: keep an eye on the new gal until she was safely ensconced in her domain—a run-down farmhouse surrounded by fields more weed than crop and an army of querulous hens who somehow survived Aunty Bell’s less-than-tender care.
Yet there’s something else beneath their camaraderie: an underlying thread knotted with concern for someone they barely know but instinctively feel responsible for.
It was infuriatingly endearing and flat-out maddening all at once.
Now here we are, parked in the wide-open expanse of my aunt's ranch driveway like some impromptu council meeting called to discuss the terrible state of affairs regarding an independent Omega’s inability to manage her affairs without Alpha intervention.
Beckett has somehow scrounged up a thermos of what I suspect is black market coffee, which he passes around like it’s communion wine. The cup is small in his hands, almost delicate. Wes, true to form, immediately spikes his with a suspicious squeeze bottle labeled “lemon energy.” I’m half tempted to dump it in the ditch, but the scent—bright and sharp andutterly unhinged—makes me feel alive again, like maybe I won’t dissolve into a puddle of Omega defeat before I reach the end of the driveway.
We start the walk up together, four-wide across the scrubby road, my boots sinking into last week’s tire tracks.
The Bell Ranch property is just visible at the top of a low rise:house, barn, fields, all in desperate need of attention and at least six miracles.
The mailbox is a battered tin affair, so sun-faded you’d never guess it was once fire-engine red. It lists to one side, as if even the post knows I’m a lost cause.
Wes sidles up, matching my stride without a hint of effort.
“You know, rumor is the old house is haunted.”
I shoot him a look.
“If the ghosts pay rent, they can stay.”
He grins, unbothered by my sarcasm.
