Page 61 of Saddle and Scent
Which, let's be honest, is never.
I groan hopelessly, staring at the useless rectangle of plastic and false promises.
I wonder if I can afford to get a new one, something that might actually connect to the modern world instead of existing as an expensive paperweight with a camera that takes pictures like it's perpetually 2005.
Probably not.
Not with the ranch hemorrhaging money and my savings account looking like a rounding error.
I think about all the books I've read about girls texting their Alphas for assistance or just leisure commentary—those perfect fictional relationships where communication flows as easily as breathing, where a simple "thinking of you" message can brighten an entire day.
Meanwhile, I can't even get signal, let alone make a 911 call if I needed it.
The irony isn't lost on me.
Here I am, supposedly living in the age of connection and instant communication, and I'm more isolated than a pioneer woman on the frontier. At least pioneer women had neighbors who checked on them. All I have is Pickles, and he's made it clear that my problems are my own.
With a huff, I slide the phone back into my pocket, deciding I should take a break. Aside from the sweet goodness Wes brought earlier—those perfect cinnamon rolls that tasted like comfort and complicated feelings—I haven't really eaten anything substantial.
When did I become the kind of person who forgets to feed herself?
Or dismiss how basic self-care becomes a luxury I can't afford to prioritize?
I wonder what time it is, squinting at the sun's position like some kind of pioneer timekeeper. Based on the angle and the fact that my shadow has gotten significantly shorter since I started this morning, I'm guessing it's almost eleven.
Four hours.
I've been out here for four fucking hours, achieving nothing but a spectacular case of heat exhaustion and enough frustration to power a small city.
I should have brought sunscreen. The thought hits me like a revelation, though it's about three hours too late to be useful. The sun is blazing overhead with the intensity of a small star, and I can feel my skin tightening and burning despite the hat.
I'm going to blister up or at least get five shades darker.
Assuming I don't just spontaneously combust first.
I look up again, trying to gauge just how much damage I've done to myself, and immediately regret the decision. The world tilts sideways for a moment, and I feel a familiar dizziness that takes me back to being a kid, sprawled along the riverside with nothing but a towel and misplaced confidence in my ability to handle the sun.
I can almost hear Callum's voice, that particular tone he'd get when he was trying to scold me while also being worried. The way he'd lecture me about sun safety and proper hydration while helping me apply aloe vera to shoulders that were red as lobsters.
Fun times.
The memory makes me groan, but even as I do, the dizziness doesn't fade.
If anything, it's getting worse, the edges of my vision starting to blur like someone's adjusting the focus on a camera.
This is bad.
This is really, really bad.
I try to take a step toward the house, toward shade and water and the basic common sense I should have employed four hours ago, but my legs have apparently decided they're done cooperating.
The ground rushes up to meet me, and the last thing I see before everything goes black is Pickles' judgmental stare.
Even unconscious, I can feel him rolling his eyes.
The voices come first,filtering through the haze like radio signals from a distant station.
"—always stays in the sun when she probably has sun deficiency or something equally stupid."
