Page 40 of Saddle and Scent
"Jesus, Junebug, it's freezing in here." Wes's voice ricochets through the entryway, louder than necessary, like he’s trying to shake the cold from the air by sheer force of personality. He flings his arms out, performing a full-body shiver for the audience, and stomps theatrically on the mat. Water splotches the floor in a growing Rorschach pattern. He gives Juniper a look of mock betrayal, accusing like she's personally responsible for global climate patterns. "What, you planning to turn us into popsicles for dinner, or do you have heat in this crypt?"
Juniper's lips twitch around a smile she tries to swallow, but the tiny betrayal of amusement is there. She crosses her arms tighter, chin up, and narrows her eyes at Wes as though daring him to complain again. Beckett ducks his head, hiding a soft grin as he wipes rain from his brow with the back of his hand, and I pick my way around the mud-trail Wes has left like a crime scene behind him.
Wes keeps up his running commentary while dropping his wet jacket unceremoniously over the nearest chair—something Juniper's glare says she notices and will remember for later. "You know, some people," he announces to the room, "believe in insulation. Or central heating. Maybe even a little hospitality—hot cider or whiskey, if you want to get fancy." He rubs his hands together for effect, breath fogging in the chill.
"Not all of us have a high tolerance for suffering, Junebug," he says, and for a second his voice gentles, less teasing and more the plea of someone who aches for comfort and doesn’t know how to ask for it straight.
Juniper’s eyes flick from Wes to Beckett and then, cautiously, to me. Her posture softens just a fraction, and I see her weighing whether to keep up the armor or let us inside a little further. The decision is visible in the way her shoulders slacken, the half-step back that invites us out of the storm and into the chaos of her world.
"The furnace is..." She waves vaguely toward the basement. "Complicated."
I follow Wes inside, Beckett close behind. The house smells like mildew and memories, with an undertone of Juniper's scent that makes it hard to think straight.
She backs up as we crowd into the living room, arms crossed defensively over her chest. I’m trying not to admire her, but it’s hard with that defiant glow in her eyes that are narrowing our way.
I keep telling myself to look away, keep my hands and my eyes to myself, but it’s like trying to ignore an electrical storm when it’s crawling under your skin. She catches each of us sizing her up with the kind of glare you’d use to freeze a rattlesnake mid-strike, but the effect only makes her impossible not to notice. Most people, when they’re cornered, get smaller, shrink into themselves and hope to weather it out.
Juniper does the opposite.
She expands to fill the room with her wrath and glory, chin high, arms barring her ribs as if daring us to try and get closer.
There’s something about the way she stands there—barefoot, hair dripping onto her collar, pajama pants pooled around her ankles like she’s forty percent housecat and sixty percent outlaw—that makes my jaw ache with want. I can’t help it. Even when she’s glaring daggers at me, my body straightens up, my senses tuning to every flicker of movement in case she suddenly flings something at my face. Half the time I’m not sure whether I want to throttle her or pin her to the wall and kiss her until the fight escapes her lungs.
She knows it, too.
I can tell because the more I try to avert my gaze, the more fiercely she plants her feet, as if to say,Go ahead, look.
I’m stuck—admiring her, defiance and all, and wondering how we ever thought we could handle her leaving. She’s the onlyperson I’ve ever met who could make a room feel too small and too empty at the same time.
"I didn't invite you in," she points out.
"You didn't tell us to leave, either," Wes counters, already poking at the ancient radiator like he knows what he's doing.
Spoiler: he doesn't.
"I'll look at the furnace," I say, because standing here drowning in her scent while she glares at us is not sustainable. "Beckett, check the windows. Wes, stop breaking things."
"I'm helping!" Wes protests, but he steps away from the radiator, hands raised in surrender.
Juniper looks like she wants to argue, but another shiver runs through her, and she just nods. "Basement door's through the kitchen. Try not to die down there—I haven't checked for structural damage yet."
The basement is exactly what I expected:dark, damp, and full of shit that should've been thrown out decades ago.
The furnace squats in the corner like a medieval torture device, all rust and suspicious sounds.
It takes me twenty minutes of swearing and skinned knuckles, but I get it running. The ancient beast coughs to life, sending the sweet promise of heat through the vents.
When I emerge, covered in cobwebs and probably tetanus, the living room has transformed. Beckett's got a fire going in the fireplace I didn't even notice was there, Wes has somehow produced hot coffee from the disaster of a kitchen, and Juniper is curled in an armchair, hands wrapped around a mug, looking smaller than I've ever seen her.
"Furnace will hold for now," I report, brushing dust from my hair. "But it needs replacing. Soon."
She nods, not meeting my eyes.
"Add it to the list."
The silence stretches, filled with the pop of burning wood and the distant rumble of thunder.
Finally, Wes can't stand it anymore.
