Page 38 of Saddle and Scent
But focusing is a joke when her scent is still clinging to the cab—that intoxicating blend of honeysuckle and frustration, undercut with something darker, something that screams need even as she fights tooth and nail against it.
Ten years.
It's been ten fucking years since we pushed her out of this town, and the whispers still haven't died.
That's Saddlebrush for you—memories longer than the winter, grudges nursed like newborns.
When you leave, you're marked. Branded a traitor, an outsider, someone who thought they were too good for the roots that made them.
But Juniper?
She was never just another townie with wanderlust. She was the only Omega in a town full of Alphas who didn't know how to keep their hands to themselves. Keeping her here would've been like leaving a lamb in a wolf den and expecting it to end well. We knew what would happen—hell, we were already living it, the three of us circling her like satellites, unable to stay away but knowing that claiming her would destroy everything.
So we did what we thought was right.We pushed.Hard.
And she ran.
The truck lurches over a pothole, jarring me back to the present.
Rain hammers the roof, a steady percussion that matches the throbbing in my temples. I navigate the familiar roads by muscle memory alone, every turn etched into my bones from years of late-night drives trying to outrun the ghost of her.
The thing is, I'd imagined her return a thousand different ways.
Sometimes she came back with a pack of city Alphas, all pressed suits and soft hands, the kind who'd worship the ground she walked on without understanding the first thing about what made her wild. Other times, she'd have kids clinging to her legs, proof positive that we'd fucked up our chance at something real.
Each scenario was its own special brand of torture, but at least in those fantasies, she was happy.
Whole. Complete without us.
Instead, she came back alone, walls so high you'd need a fucking ladder just to see over them.And the worst part?She's dimmed somehow.
That fire that used to burn so bright it could light up the whole valley—it's still there, but banked, controlled, like she's afraid of what happens if she lets it rage.
I hate it.
Hate the careful way she measures her words now, the way she bites back responses that would've flown free before.
My Rebel Bell used to be loud, opinionated, ready to fight the whole world if it meant standing up for what she believed in. She'd argue with me about everything from the proper way to shoe a horse to whether the town council was full of corruption —it was, still is.Those arguments usually ended with us pressed against the barn wall, her hands fisted in my shirt, both of us breathing hard for reasons that had nothing to do with anger.
But that was before…
Before we realized what we were doing to her.
Until that last night when everything went to hell.
The memory hits like a sucker punch, vivid and merciless.
Her face in the moonlight, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. The way her voice cracked when she asked why we kept pushing her away, pulling her close only to shove her back again. And me, standing there like a goddamn coward, telling her it was for her own good. That she needed to leave, find a life somewhere that wasn't poisoned by small-town politics and Alpha posturing.
I'd watched her chin come up, that stubborn tilt that meant she was about to tell me exactly where I could shove my opinions.
But instead, she'd just nodded.
Turned around and walked away without another word.
By morning, she was gone…
No goodbye, no forwarding address, just an empty room at her aunt's place and the lingering scent of heartbreak.
