Page 65 of Saddle and Scent
"You're probably just having a shitty day because Beckett’s Dad called you out for being a coward jerk, and not fixing shit with Juniper," Wes observes with that particular brand of brutal honesty that makes him both invaluable and insufferable as a friend.
"Why do I have to fix shit?" I snap, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know how pathetic they sound. "We all fucked up. We all pushed her away. Why is it my responsibility to unfuck everything?"
"Duh?" Wes's voice carries a note of exaggerated patience, like he's explaining basic math to a particularly slow child. "You're the Alpha leader in our pack. Plus, you're the moststubborn, so it only makes sense for you to be the one to swallow your pride and do something about it."
Alpha leader.
The title sits heavy on my shoulders, weighted with expectations I never asked for but somehow inherited anyway.
It's not like we ever sat down and voted on it. It just happened organically—situations would arise, and everyone would look to me to make the call. Fights would break out, and I'd be the one stepping in to settle them. Plans needed to be made, and somehow, I became the default decision-maker.
With Juniper, though, the title feels more like a burden than a privilege.
Because being the Alpha leader means I was the one who made the choice to push her away.
I was the one who convinced Wes and Beckett that it was for her own good.
The one who broke all our hearts in the name of protecting her.
And look how well that turned out.
"Do you think she's home?" Beckett asks as we turn the final corner toward the ranch, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty that matches the growing unease in my gut.
I frown, looking ahead at the property.
Something feels off.
The truck is parked in its usual spot near the porch, so she hasn't gone anywhere. But there's no movement around the house, no sign of life beyond the ancient wind chimes clanging discordantly in the hot breeze.
She should have heard us by now.
The truck's not exactly subtle, and Wes and Beckett's horses have been making enough noise to wake the dead.
She should be walking out onto the porch, probably wearing some baggy clothes that I suspect she chooses specifically to avoid drawing attention.
Though she doesn't realize she could be wearing a garbage bag and still look hot as fuck.
There's something about the way she moves, the tilt of her chin when she's annoyed, the flash of fire in her eyes when she's gearing up for a fight—it doesn't matter what she's wearing or how much fabric she hides behind.
She's magnetic in a way that has nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with the fierce spirit burning just beneath the surface.
We wait in silence for a moment, all of us holding our breath like we're expecting her to materialize out of thin air. The heat shimmers off the metal roof of the barn, creating waves of distortion that make everything look slightly unreal.
But there's no movement.
No Juniper emerging to demand what we're doing on her property.
No sarcastic commentary about uninvited visitors.
Nothing.
The unease in my stomach coalesces into something sharper, more urgent. I shift the truck into park and turn off the engine, the sudden silence feeling oppressive in the heat.
Something's wrong.
I hop out of the cab, boots hitting the dusty ground with a thud that seems too loud in the stillness. Behind me, I hear Wes and Beckett dismounting, their voices low as they tie off their horses.
The feeling in my gut is getting stronger.
