Page 30 of Saddle and Scent
But then the shape resolves, and I see it for what it is:
A herd, wild and feral, black and chestnut and dun, maybe two dozen strong, churning through the grass in a living wave.
Horses.
No—mustangs, untamed, driven by instincts older than the ranch and probably smarter than me.
They move as one, a rippling mass, manes flying, hooves throwing up loose stones and debris.
And behind them, flanking them with the deliberate precision of a pincer movement, are three riders.
For a moment, I don’t recognize them.
They’re bare-chested, sun-burnished, moving with that loose, predatory grace you only get from years of saddle and sweat and never giving a single fuck what people think. They’re not a trio of men so much as a pack of wolves, tanned and cut, riding like they were born on horseback.
For a split second, it’s almost mythic—three gods come to wrangle the world’s last wildness.
Then the wind shifts, and their scents hit me all at once: pine and citrus and smoke and the sticky, dangerous sweetness of unclaimed Alpha.
My skin goes electric, every nerve ending lighting up like a pinball machine.
Of course it’s them.
It’s always them.
Callum is in the lead, mounted on a horse so black it swallows light.
His hair is darker than the clouds above, sticking to his forehead in damp, angry spikes.
He’s got a look of focus so intense it could laser through sheet metal, and his arms—holy shit—are corded with muscle, veins standing out like riverbeds in a drought.
He handles the reins with one hand, the other resting loose at his thigh, ready to grab, to redirect, to control.
For a half second, I picture what those hands would do if turned on something smaller, something breakable.
My own brain supplies a high-def, slow-mo reel of those hands on me instead, and the mental image is so explicit I have to physically shake my head to clear it.
Goodness gracious, Juniper. Horny much?
Maybe a little, says the traitorous inner voice I’ve been cultivating since puberty, the one that never has a filter and always narrates the worst-case scenario in excruciating detail.
I try to focus on the horses, but the vision of Callum’s arms around my waist, pinning me with easy strength, derails every thought train I attempt to board.
Get it together, Bell.
I wipe at my face, pretend the rain is what’s making my cheeks hot, and force myself to scan the full field of play instead of hyperfixating on the Alpha in front.
Which is when I spot the second rider, flanking the herd on the left, all rawboned grace and hell-bent velocity.
It’s Wes, and of course he’s showboating, because if there’s anything he loves more than being the center of gravity in any given room, it’s stealing the spotlight from Callum.
Wes flanks the herd from the left, riding a rangy bay mare with a white splash down her face.
He’s the only one who looks even remotely like he’s enjoying himself—grinning like a kid with a stolen slingshot, hair wild in the wind, eyes squinted against the oncoming rain.
His torso is lean, tanned, the hint of an old tattoo peeking out from under his collarbone.
He doesn’t hold the reins so much as let them hang, steering with his legs and a whistle that pierces the air every few seconds, a sound that cuts through even the gathering storm.
