Page 25 of Saddle and Scent
I grit my teeth.
"Last I checked, the only thing falling apart was your sense of decency," I say, not turning around.
There’s a pause.
The Beta mom snickers into her sleeve.
The Alpha turns red, then laughs, like he’s scored a point anyway.
I keep my eyes ahead, but my pulse is wild, skin prickling under my clothes. My own scent is intensifying—defiant, yes, but also edged with the kind of raw, involuntary heat that brings every Alpha in a three-block radius running.
I hate it, but I can’t stop it.
At the counter, I pay for my order and get the receipt, hands shaking.
The cashier—a wiry Beta in his sixties—gives me a knowing look.
"Just keep your head up," he says, voice low. "This town eats the weak."
"Good thing I’m not weak," I say, and even I can hear the lie in it.
Outside, the air is brighter, the tension already breaking up under the sun.
I slam the feed bags into the truck bed, climb in, and sit for a moment, breathing slow until my heartbeat calms.
It’s only then I realize: the whole gauntlet, the stares, the snide remarks, the scent games—it’s not about me.Not really.It’s about them, and the way this town is so desperate for entertainment they’ll turn anyone into the main attraction.
For a second, I feel almost sorry for the Alphas, with their pre-programmed desire to chase and claim, doomed to failure as long as I’m the quarry.
Then I remember the pie, waiting for me at home, and decide I’m winning this round after all.
One disaster at a time.
The bakery ismy last stop, and the one I dread most.
Not because I’m afraid of carbs—please, let’s not get dramatic—but because The Orchard is the undisputed nucleus of Saddlebrush Ridge social life.
If Main Street was the gladiator arena, this place is the viewing box, where everyone has an opinion and zero impulse control.
Inside, the smell is so rich it nearly floors me.Cinnamon, hot bread, burnt sugar from the honey sticks.The air is humid with steam, and the windows are fogged over, blurring the world into a watercolor of sunlight and movement. Wooden shelves line the walls, crowded with fresh loaves and pastry towers. There’s a chalkboard menu above the counter, written in perfect block letters, and an antique cash register that could crush a small dog if dropped.
Every table is full—cowboys in flannel, Beta couples, the occasional Alpha mother wrangling sticky-handed children. The bell over the door chimes like a fire alarm.
Instantly, the entire room zeroes in on me. It’s as if I’ve entered a party mid-punchline, and now everyone’s waiting for the next move.
The counter is manned by an Alpha I’ve never seen before: sharp-jawed, eyes like old ice, smile dialed up to "charm offensive."
He’s lean, maybe six feet, hair buzzed close to his scalp. He’s watching me, even as he fills orders and makes small talk.
I shuffle forward, feeling the weight of thirty pairs of eyes like spotlights.
I’m about three feet from the glass pastry case when the Alpha at the counter leans in, voice cutting through the din.
"Haven’t seen you here before," he says, scanning me up and down. "You new in town? Or just passing through?"
I blink, then go for honesty.
"Moved back. I’m the new owner of Bell Ranch."
