Page 23 of Saddle and Scent
Not for the gossip, or the stares, or the inevitable parade of helpful Alphas who will try to rescue me from myself. But for the store, for the list, for the next item to check off.
This is how you win: one disaster at a time.
4
A GLIMPSE OF SADDLEBRUSH
~JUNIPER~
I’m wondering whether wearing the clothes I am was a good idea.
I mean, on the one hand, nothing says “I am a functioning adult” quite like pajama bottoms with tiny, grumpy cats embroidered on them, paired with a tee shirt declaringI SURVIVED THE BOURBON COUNTY CHILI COOK-OFF. Why I decided to switch to this tee instead of the simplistic band one that surely no one in the heart of this town would know about is beyond me, but sometimes its good to follow your instincts.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the town of Saddlebrush is the sort of place where people wear “real pants” before nine a.m. and scorn outsiders who don’t.
The second I step out of the truck, I feel eyes on me—not in the predatory way of the Alphas at the gas station, but in the judgy, careful way of people who have never seen a person under sixty wearing a bandana as a hair accessory.
Main Street is already alive with people, even though it’s barely ten.
I park the truck in front of the post office, ignoring the glares from the blue-haired matriarchs on the bench and the cluster of grade schoolers whizzing by on battered bikes. The second I step out, the entire block seems to take note.
Heads pivot. Conversation pauses, fractures, resumes in lowered tones.
The first wave hits before I even make it to the hardware store.
Scent trails, fine as spider silk, reach out from every open door: citrus and honey from the salon, sawdust and metal shavings from the lumberyard, cigarette smoke and mint from the law office.
Underneath it all, the sharp tang of Beta and Alpha, each scent tagged to its owner like a signature on the wind.
I duck into the hardware store, greeted by a windchime and a sudden, intense hush. The place hasn’t changed since I was a kid: two aisles, ancient pegboard walls, cash register so old it probably has a rotary dial.
Behind the counter, two Betas—man and woman, both in identical green aprons—are already whispering behind their hands.
I grab a basket and make a beeline for the fencing supplies. The inventory is picked over, but I find the heavy-duty gloves, a spool of baling wire, and a coil of orange survey tape. I can feel eyes on me the entire time, drilling through the shelves like I’m under surveillance.
At the counter, the Beta woman—Arlene, according to her pin—looks me over with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
"Back for good?" she asks, voice pinched.
No hi, hello, are you enjoying our little sweet town…
"Depends on your definition of good," I say, setting my haul on the counter.
She sniffs, not subtle about it.
"Heard you inherited the Sanctuary. That’s a lot of work for one girl."
Am I surprised? Nope. Word loves to spread fast here.
"Guess I’ll have to work twice as hard, then," I reply, flashing teeth in a way I hope is not a snarl.
She rings me up in silence, her eyes softening a fraction at the edges.
The man with her leans in as I pay, his voice pitched low.
"If you need extra hands, the town hires out day labor. Not all of us are Alpha." He winks, like this is the punchline to a joke.
"Thanks," I say, already moving for the door.
