Page 66 of Saddle and Scent
That Alpha instinct that's kept our species alive for millennia, the one that screams danger when everything looks normal but feels completely wrong.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Beckett mutters, echoing my own thoughts.
"You and me both," Wes agrees, his usual cheerfulness replaced by the kind of focused attention he gets when he's treating a sick animal. "She should've been out here by now, giving us hell for showing up unannounced."
I nod toward the back of the property.
"You two check around back. I'll take the house."
They nod, understanding passing between us without words.
We've done this dance before—split up, cover more ground, find whatever needs finding.
Usually, it's been about tracking down missing livestock or investigating strange sounds in the night.
This time feels different.
This time feels urgent in a way that makes my Alpha instincts scream.
I jog toward the house, noting that her truck hasn't been moved since yesterday. The keys are probably hanging on that little hook by the door where she's kept them since we were kids, which means she's here somewhere.
She has to be here.
The front door is unlocked—because this is Saddlebrush, where people still don't lock their doors despite all evidence suggesting they probably should. I push it open, calling out as I step into the cluttered living room.
"Juniper? Bell, you here?"
Silence.
The kind of silence that feels heavy, pregnant with absence.
I move through the house quickly but thoroughly, checking every room with growing urgency.
The kitchen shows signs of recent use—coffee mug in the sink, crumbs on the counter from what looks like one ofBeckett's cinnamon rolls. Her bedroom is empty, bed unmade in a way that suggests she got up this morning with plans and purpose.
But no Juniper.
No sign of where she might have gone or when she might be back.
The bathroom is empty, towels still damp from her morning shower. I can smell her everywhere—that honeysuckle sweetness mixed with soap and shampoo and the indefinable scent that's purely her.
But it's not fresh.
It's the ghost of her presence, lingering in spaces she's no longer occupying.
My panic is building now, systematic and methodical in the way that Alpha anxiety tends to be. I'm running through possibilities, calculating scenarios, trying to figure out where an Omega with trust issues and a stubborn streak might disappear to.
That's when I notice the equipment.
Tools scattered on the kitchen table, alongside what looks like a handwritten list.
I pick up the paper, recognizing her neat handwriting immediately. It's a list of repairs, organized by priority and complexity. Fencing is at the top, followed by barn roof repairs, gate hinges, and about twenty other items that would challenge a professional contractor, let alone one small Omega working alone.
She's been trying to do all of this herself?
Every single item on this list represents hours of backbreaking labor, and she's been attacking it solo with nothing but determination and whatever tools she could scrounge up.
It clicks in my brain—maybe she went into town to get materials?
