Page 54 of Saddle and Scent
She shrugs, following me toward the porch.
"I'm a bit of a night owl. Haven't actually been to bed yet, if I'm being honest. Insomnia's a bitch, you know? Some fun leftover trauma from... well, from before. Figured if I'm gonna be awake anyway, might as well get paid for it."
I want to ask what she means by trauma, but I recognize the careful way she skirts around it.
Some stories aren't meant for first meetings, no matter how instantly comfortable you feel with someone.
"Fair warning," I say as we navigate the obstacle course of boxes in the living room, "I just got here a couple days ago, so the place is a disaster. If you're the judgmental type, now's your chance to run."
Piper laughs again, that bright, infectious sound.
"Please. I'm from the streets of New York City. I once delivered mail to a guy who kept seventeen cats and a python ina studio apartment. Your boxes don't even register on my weird-shit-o-meter."
"New York?" I lead her to the kitchen, grateful I'd at least washed the mugs earlier. "That's a hell of a change from Saddlebrush."
"Tell me about it." She settles onto one of the creaky bar stools, looking around with curious eyes. "Went from dodging taxis to dodging pickup trucks. From pretentious coffee shops to... well, actually there's still pretentious coffee, it's just served by cowboys instead of hipsters."
I snort, pouring her a mug.
"Let me guess—The Orchard?"
"Oh my God, yes!" She accepts the coffee gratefully, wrapping both hands around it like a lifeline. "What is with that place? I went in once asking for a simple latte and the barista looked at me like I'd requested unicorn blood. Then he proceeded to lecture me about the superiority of their house blend for fifteen minutes."
"That would be Ray," I confirm. "He's... intense about coffee. And everything else, honestly."
"I'll stick to gas station coffee, thanks." She takes a sip, sighs contentedly. "Though this is good. Like, actually good. Not the tar I usually mainline."
"Thanks. It's about the only domestic skill I have." I lean against the counter, studying her over my own mug.
There's something refreshing about talking to another Omega, especially one who clearly takes no shit from anyone. Her whole energy is different from mine—where I bristle and fight, she seems to deflect with humor and strategic invisibility.
"So what brought you from NYC to the middle of nowhere Oregon?" I ask.
Her expression shutters slightly, that same careful sidestep from before.
"Needed a change of scenery. Sometimes you gotta get as far away from your old life as possible, you know? And they were hiring, so..." She shrugs. "Here I am, delivering mail to ranches that apparently require four-wheel drive and a death wish to reach."
"The road's not usually that bad," I say, though that's possibly a lie. "The storm really did a number on it."
"Yeah, I noticed." She glances around the kitchen, taking in the dated appliances and water-stained ceiling. "This place yours?"
"Inherited it from my aunt. Lucky me, right?" I gesture at the general chaos. "Came complete with a three-legged mule, more repairs than I can count, and the judgment of an entire town."
"The judgment's free with every small-town membership," Piper says sagely. "I swear these people have nothing better to do than gossip about everyone else's business. Last week, Mrs. Henderson cornered me for twenty minutes to discuss the scandal of the Baker's teenage daughter dying her hair black. Black! Can you imagine?"
"The horror," I deadpan.
"Right? Meanwhile, I'm walking around with traffic-cone orange hair and enough metal in my ears to set off airport security, but sure, let's panic about some teen's gothic phase."
We fall into easy conversation, trading stories about small-town absurdities and the culture shock of coming from bigger cities. Piper's got a gift for storytelling, painting vivid pictures of her NYC mail route that included everything from mob-adjacent businesses to avant-garde artists who paid in interpretive dance performances.
"I'm not kidding," she insists when I express skepticism about the dance thing. "This woman would come to the door in full body paint and insist on performing what she called 'kineticgratitude' instead of signing for packages. My supervisor just told me to go with it and mark it as received."
"That's..." I search for words. "Actually kind of beautiful?"
"It was something, all right. Definitely made the day interesting." She drains her coffee, checks her watch again. "Speaking of interesting, I should probably head out before my car decides to become a permanent part of your driveway. This mud's only gonna get worse once the sun really hits it."
I walk her back to the door, oddly reluctant to see her go.
