Page 51 of Saddle and Scent
She doesn't respond immediately, standing rigid in my arms like she's afraid to move. But slowly, incrementally, she relaxes. Her weight settles back against me, and one of her hands comes up to rest lightly on my forearm.
"Guess..." she starts, then stops. Takes a breath that I feel through my whole body. "Guess it's good to be back home."
The words are so quiet I almost miss them, but they hit me like a lightning strike.
Home.
She called this place home, despite everything that drove her away — despite the walls she's built so high we need a ladder just to see over them.
I want to turn her around, want to kiss her until she remembers why we were inevitable. Want to tell her about the dreams that have haunted me for a decade, about the way noother woman has ever smelled right or felt right or laughed at my dumb jokes the way she does.
But this moment is fragile, precious.
One wrong move and she'll retreat back behind those walls, and I'm not sure we'd survive losing her again.
So I just hold her, memorizing the feeling of her in my arms, the way her breathing syncs with mine, the tentative trust in how she's letting herself lean into me.
Outside, Pickles lets out his morning bray, shattering the spell.
Juniper steps forward, breaking the embrace, and busies herself with the coffee maker. But there's something different in the set of her shoulders, something that might be hope if I'm not imagining it.
"So," she says, not looking at me. "How about that coffee?"
"Sounds perfect," I reply, and mean it.
We don't talk about the embrace, about the admission that slipped out, or the way the air between us feels charged with possibility. But as she hands me a mug and our fingers brush, I see it in her eyes—the same recognition that's been dogging me since she drove back into town.
We're not over yet...not by a long shot.
The morning sun finally crests the trees, flooding the kitchen with golden light. It catches in her hair, turns her eyes to silver, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like tell her I've been in love with her since before I knew what love was.
Instead, I dig into the bag and pull out Beckett's offerings—cinnamon rolls, apple turnovers, and what appears to be some kind of experimental croissant situation.
"Beck's really going through it, huh?" Juniper observes, eyeing the haul.
"You have no idea," I confirm. "Yesterday he made three different kinds of bread before noon. Callum's running out of freezer space."
She snorts, reaching for a cinnamon roll.
"The horror."
We eat in companionable silence, and I try not to watch the way she licks icing off her fingers.
Try not to remember the sounds she made in the shower.
Attempt to not imagine how different this morning could be if we hadn't fucked everything up ten years ago.
But mostly, I just enjoy being here with her.
My Junebug, back where she belongs, even if she doesn't know it yet.
The sun climbs higher, and I know I should go. I've got appointments starting at eight, and she's got a ranch to wrangle into submission. But I'm reluctant to break this fragile peace we've found.
"Thanks for breakfast," she says finally, walking me to the door. "And for... well. Thanks."
"Anytime," I tell her, and mean it. "I'm serious, Juniper. Anything you need."
She nods, not quite meeting my eyes.
