Page 67 of Saddle and Scent
But the truck is still here, and knowing Bell, she isn't going to ask for help from anyone.
She'd rather break her back trying to muscle a fence post into place than admit she might need assistance.
Stubborn, independent, beautiful, infuriating woman.
I decide to check out back, moving through the house with purpose now. If she's working on the list, she'd be outside somewhere, probably wrestling with equipment that's too heavy and too complicated for one person to handle safely.
The back door is propped open, and I can feel the heat rolling in like a physical force.
Jesus, it's got to be pushing a hundred degrees out here.
No one should be working in this heat, especially not someone who forgot to eat breakfast and probably didn't think to bring water.
I step onto the back porch, scanning the property with eyes that are trained to notice details. The barn, the paddock where Pickles usually holds court, the fields beyond where the really intensive repair work would need to happen.
That's when I hear it.
A sound from my left, sharp and demanding.
Pickles.
The mule is standing near the fence line, stomping his foot and huffing in that particular way that suggests extreme annoyance. He sees me looking and increases the volume of his complaints, stamping and snorting like he's trying to communicate something urgent.
At first, I think he's just being his usual cranky self.
Pickles has opinions about everything, and he's never shy about sharing them.
But there's something different about this tantrum.
Something that feels less like general irritation and more like...
Panic?
Urgency?
Like he's trying to tell me something important and getting frustrated that I'm not understanding.
The mule keeps making huffing noises and stomping his feet, looking directly at me with an intensity that's impossible to ignore. He's not just annoyed—he's agitated in a way that suggests something is very, very wrong.
And then the wind picks up.
Just a small gust, but enough to carry scents across the property.
Enough to bring me Juniper's scent, stronger than it should be if she were safely inside the house.
Her scent is everywhere, to be fair—this is her property, her territory, marked with her presence in a thousand subtle ways.
But this is different.
This is immediate, intense, concentrated in a way that only happens when...
When she's here.
Right here.
Somewhere close.
I frown, following the invisible trail of her scent as the wind shifts again.
