Page 31 of Saddle and Scent
Beckett rides the anchor position, behind and to the right, his horse a hulking chestnut gelding with a face like a Roman senator.
Beckett is bulkier than the other two, all shoulders and arms and a chest that seems too broad for the saddle.
He’s got a line of sweat running down his sternum, and he’s not even breathing hard.
His face is set, jaw locked, eyes scanning the herd, the road, everything.
He doesn’t miss a thing, never has.
They’re close now, the herd funneled between the road and the sagging fence.
The sound is seismic—hooves, snorts, the deep, wet inhale of horses running at full tilt.
For a second, the wind brings the smell of them:dirt, hair, salt, the hot metallic reek of living muscle.
It’s the most alive thing I’ve sensed in months.
I stand there, frozen, as the first raindrops hit.
They’re cold, stinging, and immediately soak through the fabric of my tee and the cheap sports bra underneath.
Within seconds, I’m drenched, hair plastered to my neck, shirt stuck so tight it feels like a second skin.
The mustangs sweep past in a blur, every animal’s eye rolling white, every mouth open and gasping for air. The three men follow, and in the space of a heartbeat, all three look my way.
Wes is the first to react, flashing me a grin so wide it borders on feral. He raises one hand, tips an imaginary hat, and lets out a whoop that’s one part greeting, two parts dare.
Beckett nods, barely perceptible, but there’s something in his eyes—recognition or the start of a laugh.
Callum just stares, and in that stare is a universe: disapproval, concern, a challenge so naked it makes my stomach flip.
Then they’re gone, thundering down the road, herding the mustangs away from the open stretch and into the safety of the side pasture.
I’m left standing, cold and dripping, my pulse thrumming in every inch of my skin.
I want to scream, or cry, or throw something heavy at the truck just for the pleasure of watching it break.
Instead, I stand there, shivering, as the rain comes down harder and the scent of Alpha lingers in the churned-up air.
I’m not cut out for this…
Was that why I left in the first place?
But for a second—just a second—I feel more alive than I have since the day I left.
I wipe my face, flick water from my hair, and trudge back to the truck. Settling inside, I can’t help but look at the second cinnamon bun that’s still on the passenger seat, untouched. I dread not taking the offer for more free goodness, but now the sight simply makes me feel hungrier.
I open the wrapper and, ignoring the rain and the world, eat it with my hands, licking the sugar from my fingers and letting the storm wash everything else away.
The rain doesn’t somuch fall as detonate.
It comes down in sheets, as though the sky finally snapped and dumped everything it had. Within seconds, the world is noise: the rattle of water on metal, the shiver of wind through wire, the slap of fat drops on bare arms and upturned faces.
I don’t realize how soaked I am until my shirt sticks to my ribs and the cotton underlayer starts sliding south in defeat.
My white tank top, a relic from better, braless days, goes translucent instantly.
Every inch of me is on display: hard points, soft curves, the kind of high-contrast show that would’ve had my high school principal calling for an immediate dress code intervention.
