Page 69 of Saddle and Scent
This is really, really bad.
How long has she been out here?
How long has she been unconscious in this heat?
I quickly check that she's breathing, pressing my ear to her chest to listen for the sound I need to hear more than anything else in the world.
There.
The soft whisper of air moving in and out of her lungs.
But it's weak.
Too weak.
Too shallow.
Like her body is conserving energy for the basic functions of staying alive.
The thunder of hooves gets closer, and then Wes is there, practically throwing himself off his horse before the animal has come to a complete stop. He hits the ground running, dropping to his knees beside us with the kind of focused intensity that transforms him from goofball veterinarian to medical professional in the span of a heartbeat.
He may be a vet for animals, but he has medical experience.
The dream of one day becoming a doctor got stalled like so many dreams do in Saddlebrush—by economics and family obligations and the weight of small-town expectations.
But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, he's exactly who we need him to be.
His hands move over Juniper with professional efficiency, checking her pulse, lifting her eyelids to look at her pupils, assessing her condition with the kind of calm competence that makes me want to shake him and thank him in equal measure.
"She's been out here for a hot minute," he says grimly, fingers pressed to the pulse point at her wrist. "This has to be heat stroke. We need to get her inside, now."
"Should we take her to the hospital?" I ask, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know what the answer will be.
Beckett reaches us now, dismounting with the kind of controlled urgency that speaks to years of handling crises.
His face is grim as he takes in the scene, already pulling his phone out to check for signal.
"The hospital by truck is still two hours out, remember?" he says, confirming my fears. "The clinic is out of doctors right now, and she needs an Omega doctor, which Saddlebrush doesn't have."
Fuck.
Of course it's not going to be that simple.
Nothing ever is in this godforsaken town.
We're two hours from real medical help, and she's unconscious from heat stroke in my arms.
"I know someone who can help," Wes says quickly, already moving to gather her legs as I support her torso. "But let's get her out of this heat first. We can figure out the rest once she's somewhere cool."
I have her in my arms and I'm on my feet in seconds, muscle memory and adrenaline combining to make her weight feel like nothing.
She fits against my chest like she was made to be there, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder with the kind of automatic trust that breaks my heart.
We're all rushing toward the house, moving with the kind of coordinated urgency that comes from years of working together. Wes is already on his phone, scrolling through contacts with one hand while using the other to steady Juniper's legs. Beckett is ahead of us, holding doors and clearing obstacles from our path.
The guilt hits me like a physical weight as we move.
