Page 47 of Saddle and Scent
Because what's the alternative?
Give in?
Let them back into my life, my bed, my heart?
I know how that story ends.
We've already written that tragedy once, and the ending nearly killed me.
But the stubborn truth remains:my body recognizes theirs on a molecular level.Every cell in me screamsminewhen they're near, even as my brain shouts warnings about history repeating itself.
I finally drag myself up, turning off the water and wrapping myself in a towel that's seen better days. The bathroom mirror is fogged, mercifully hiding my reflection.
I don't need to see the look on my face to know what's written there—want, frustration, and the bone-deep exhaustion of fighting a war against my own nature.
The sunrise is painting the sky purple and gold by the time I'm dressed and somewhat human again. I stand at the kitchen window, coffee mug warm in my hands, and watch the storm clouds retreat toward the mountains. The ranch looks even worse in the growing light—fences down, debris scattered everywhere, puddles the size of small ponds dotting the yard.
But it's mine.
This disaster, this responsibility, this chance to build something without anyone's help or interference—it's mine.
I just have to survive the three Alphas, determined to remind me of everything I left behind.
"You can dream," I tell my reflection in the window. "Dreams are free. Dreams are safe. Dreams don't require you to risk everything you've worked to rebuild."
The reflection doesn't look convinced, but I raise my mug in a mock toast anyway.
"Here's to cold showers and self-sufficiency," I say. "May they be enough to get me through whatever fresh hell today brings."
Outside, Pickles brays his morning greeting, loud and demanding.
At least someone around here has their priorities straight.
The dream clings to me like cobwebs, whispers of what could be if I were brave enough—or stupid enough—to try again.
But I'm neither.
I'm just a woman with a broken ranch and a body that won't stop craving what it can't have.
Story of my fucking life.
8
MORNING CONFESSIONS
~WES~
The thing about being an early riser is that you catch people at their most vulnerable—and sometimes, that's exactly what breaks your heart.
I'm standing at Juniper's front door at 6:30 AM like some kind of lovesick teenager, shifting the paper bag of Beckett's baked goods from hand to hand. The storm passed through overnight, leaving everything washed clean and sparkling in the pre-dawn light.
Puddles reflect the purple-pink sky, and the air smells like wet earth and new beginnings.
Or it would, if I wasn't drowning in my own cocktail of nerves and determination.
The bag crinkles as I raise my fist to knock, but something stops me.
A sound, faint but unmistakable, coming from around the side of the house. Water running. The shower.
