Page 36 of Saddle and Scent
For a second, he’s just a silhouette against the silver sky, all coiled energy and patience.
“Let’s get you home, Bell,” he says, and it’s not a question.
I want to protest, to tell him I can walk, that I’m not a charity case, that I don’t need a damn rescue.
But the warmth of the shirt and the coffee are already doing things to my resolve that feel suspiciously like surrender.
He waits while I clamber up behind him, the horse shifting under my weight but otherwise unbothered.
I sit awkwardly, clutching the flannel to my chest, aware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between us.
The shirtless, rain-soaked Alpha in front of me is radiating heat, and despite every good intention I’ve ever had, my hands find their way to his waist just to stay upright.
The ride is silent except for the storm. The horse’s gait is smooth, and Callum’s back is a wall of steady strength. I try not to dwell on the fact that my thighs are pressed to his, that the flannel is a permeable boundary at best, that the wind is taking our scents and weaving them together in a way that makes my whole body shiver with the wrong kind of anticipation.
The sanctuary is a mile off, maybe less, but it feels like forever. Every hoofbeat is a drum, every drop of rain a new reason to forget how much I hate this. I’m not sure if I’m angry, grateful, or just desperately tired of being so alone.
When we reach the battered front gate, Callum swings off, then offers a hand to help me down. I take it without thinking, and for the briefest second, our palms meet—warm, solid, a flash of static that leaves me gasping.
He steadies me as I hit the ground, then releases me like I’m radioactive.
He watches while I fumble with the gate, with the flannel, with my own inability to form words.
“You’ll be okay,” he says, not as a question but as a verdict. Then, softer: “If you need anything, you know where to find me. We’ll get the truck back here and figure what’s wrong with it after the storm, okay?”
I nod, the action barely making it from my brain to my neck.
He mounts up again, rain sluicing down his arms, the water beading and running like he’s been carved from the storm itself. He rides off without another word, silhouette shrinking against the bruised sky, taking the brunt of the weather with him.
I stand there, in the ruins of my pride and staring back at where we left my truck, clutching the flannel so tight it leaves an impression on my skin. The scent is everywhere—overwhelming, inescapable—and for the first time since I landed back in this dead-end town,
I don’t know if I want to run from it or crawl inside and never come out.
The storm howls, but the inside of the shirt is a hush, a lull, a promise that I don’t have to do this alone.
I trudge up the path to the house, feet heavy, heart heavier, and try not to think about how much the world has changed in a single, rain-soaked afternoon.
But the scent lingers, and the warmth lingers, and the memory of his hand on mine lingers most of all.
Could this be what it means to be claimed—not all at once, but in increments, until one day you look down and realize you’ve been wearing someone else’s shirt for years and never once wanted to take it off.
Who fucking knows…
6
THE WEIGHT OF LETTING GO
~CALLUM~
The truck's engine turns over on the third try, coughing to life like it's got a personal vendetta against the rain.
I ease it out of the muddy rut, wheels spinning before finding purchase, and the whole time I can't stop thinking about how she looked standing there—soaked through, defiant as hell, wearing my flannel like armor against the world.
My Rebel Bell, even if she doesn't know that's what I've called her in my head for the better part of a decade.
The wipers screech across the windshield, fighting a losing battle against the downpour, but I barely notice.
I don't make it more than a hundred yards down the drive before my brain does that thing where it replays every nanosecond of the last ten minutes in high-def, slow motion, refusing to let me focus on the present crisis for even a second.
