Page 39 of Saddle and Scent
"Callum!" Wes's voice cuts through the rain and memory alike. "You planning on sitting in that truck all day, or you gonna help us figure out what to do about this shitstorm?"
I blink, realizing I've already made it to the sanctuary's gates. The truck idles in park, and through the rain-streaked window, I can see Wes and Beckett approaching on horseback.
They look like drowned rats, but Wes is grinning despite it all, because that's Wes—finding joy in the chaos like it's his personal mission.
I kill the engine and step out, rain immediately plastering my hair to my skull.
The cold is a relief after the suffocating heat of my thoughts.
"Mustangs are back where they belong," Beckett says, voice steady despite the water running down his face. "Neighbor's grateful, though he's reinforcing that fence line tomorrow. That storm came out of nowhere."
"Fucking insane is what it was," Wes adds, shaking his head like a dog. Water flies everywhere. "One minute clear skies, next minute we're herding spooked horses through a goddamn monsoon. You get the truck sorted?"
I nod, but my attention drifts to the house. One window glows with lamplight, a beacon in the grey afternoon.
She's in there, probably peeling off my soaked flannel, and the image that conjures has me clenching my jaw hard enough to crack teeth.
"She inside?" Beckett asks, following my gaze.
Another nod.
The rain picks up, if that's even possible, turning the world into a watercolor painting left in the rain.
"We should check on her," Beckett continues, ever the caretaker. "Make sure she's okay before we head out. Weather like this, she could catch her death if she's not careful."
Wes snorts.
"When has Juniper Bell ever been careful about anything?"
But he's already turning his horse toward the house, because for all his joking, Wes worries just as much as the rest of us.
Maybe more, because he hides it behind smiles and smart-ass comments.
We tie the horses under the barn's overhang—what's left of it, anyway—and trudge toward the house. The porch groans under our combined weight, a warning that this place needs more work than any of us want to admit. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of her. She's changed into dry clothes—an oversized sweatshirt that might've been her aunt's, pajama pants with cartoon cats on them. Her hair is toweled dry but still damp, falling in waves around her shoulders.
She looks soft.Touchable.Like the girl we used to know before the world taught her to armor up.
Beckett knocks, three solid raps that echo in the rain-soaked quiet. There's shuffling inside, then the door cracks open.
Juniper peers out, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"What now?" she asks, and there's exhaustion in her voice that makes my chest tight.
"Just checking you made it inside okay," Beckett says, gentle as always. "Storm's getting worse."
She opens the door wider, revealing the disaster zone that is the Bell house.
Boxes are stacked haphazardly from the entryway to the far wall like a barricade against forward progress. A thin layer of grime dulls the windows, giving the afternoon light a jaundiced, underwater quality. The furniture—what there is of it—sits beneath ancient drop cloths, their shapes rendered unfamiliarand ghostly, as if the house is actively resisting being lived in again. On the scratched hardwood floor, warped by years of condensation and neglect, a few brave tufts of dog hair still wander like tumbleweeds, remnants of whatever animal last called the Bell house home. A single battered bookshelf, half-collapsed, groans under the weight of old paperbacks and Aunt Birdie's collection of ceramic horses, all painted with the obsessive detail of a woman who only trusted her own two hands.
The kitchen is visible in the background, a galley-style corridor of yellowed linoleum and appliances at least as old as me. The fridge hums a nervous, overcompensating tune. The oven door is missing its handle, replaced with a piece of baling twine tied in a sad little knot. Empty beer cans and half-dismantled moving crates crowd the kitchen table, a graveyard of projects started and abandoned midstride.
The whole place smells like must and memory, undercut with a sharp tang of lemon cleaner where Juniper’s tried to wrestle the scent of emptiness into submission.
She stands guard at the threshold in her oversized sweatshirt and pajama pants, arms folded like a bouncer at the world’s most exclusive pity party. Her feet are bare, toes curled against the cold, and she’s got that look—the one that says she’s going to let us inside only because it’s raining so hard we might die otherwise, and she doesn’t want the paperwork.
"I'm fine," she says, but she's shivering despite the dry clothes. "Truck's here, I'm here, crisis averted. You can all go home now."
Wes pushes past her before she can protest, dripping water all over the ancient hardwood. He can pick out a lie faster than the three of us, and he certainly doesn’t stop himself from acting out.
