Page 86 of Saddle and Scent
Every time I close my eyes, my brain kicks into overdrive, replaying the events of the day. The heat stroke, the revelation about the threats, the doctor's blunt assessment of our situation, Callum's vulnerable confession. It's too much to process, too many years of hurt and hope colliding at once.
And underneath it all, the persistent awareness of their presence downstairs.
I know they're probably sleeping on the couch or, even worse, the floor. The thought makes me cringe with guilt and something that might be domestic concern. This house wasn't designed for hosting three large Alphas, and the furniture reflects that reality in its small scale and delicate construction.
Callum's probably got his feet hanging off the end of whatever surface he's claimed.
Wes is likely twisted into some impossible position that will leave him complaining about his back for days.
And Beckett... God, Beckett probably insisted the other two take the marginally more comfortable spots while he makes do with whatever's left.
The guilt gnaws at me until I can't stand it anymore.
I slide out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood with a soft whisper of sound. My current pajamas—an old tank top and shorts that have seen better days—feel inadequate for venturing downstairs where three Alphas are sleeping. Not because I'm worried about modesty, exactly, but because the last thing I need is to add sexual tension to an already complicated situation.
I dig through my limited wardrobe until I find a different set of pajamas—soft cotton pants and a long-sleeved shirt that covers more skin—and pull a cardigan over my shoulders for good measure. The sweater is one of Aunt Lil's, oversized and worn soft with age, smelling faintly of lavender and old memories.
It feels like armor, in the best possible way.
Something to hide behind if this venture downstairs goes sideways.
I move quietly through the house, placing each step carefully to avoid the creaky floorboards I've mapped out over the past few days. The stairs are the biggest challenge—every third step groans like it's personally offended by the weight—but I manage to navigate them without causing too much noise.
The living room is bathed in moonlight streaming through the large windows, creating a patchwork of silver and shadow across the mismatched furniture. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, I have to suppress a laugh at what I find.
Callum is sprawled across the couch, completely out.
His long frame is folded awkwardly to fit the limited space, one arm hanging off the edge, the other thrown across his face. But it's the sound that really gets me—he's snoring like an old man, deep rumbling snores that would probably rattle the windows if they were any louder.
I'm absolutely going to use this against him.
The mental ammunition alone is worth the sleepless night.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling, already imagining the look on his face when I casually mention his impressive sleep soundtrack. For someone who projects such an image of controlled Alpha perfection, he sure doesn't sleep pretty.
Wes is in the rocking chair by the fireplace, which has long since gone cold. His head is tilted back against the worn cushion, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even in sleep. There's a book balanced precariously on his chest—something with horses on the cover, which seems fitting—and his reading glasses are sliding down his nose in a way that's both endearing and ridiculous.
He looks younger when he's sleeping.
Less like the charming troublemaker and more like the boy I used to know, the one who would fall asleep reading veterinary textbooks and wake up with print marks on his cheek.
I look around for Beckett but don't see him anywhere in the living room. He's probably using the washroom, or maybe he stepped outside for some air. The man has always been a bit of a night owl, more comfortable with late hours than early mornings.
Unlike his stress-baking schedule would suggest.
The thought of fresh air suddenly seems appealing. I've been cooped up inside all day, first unconscious from heat stroke and then trapped in heavy conversations that required all my emotional energy. The idea of cool night air and open space calls to something restless in my chest.
I slip out onto the porch, careful not to let the screen door slam behind me. The night is absolutely perfect—clear skies, gentle breeze, the kind of temperature that makes you want to stay outside until dawn just because you can. Above me, the stars are out in all their glory, a blanket of twinkling lights that you can only see properly when you're far enough from city lights to remember how vast the universe really is.
I can't help but walk out into the field.
My bare feet sink slightly into the cool grass, and I can smell everything—wildflowers and night-blooming jasmine, the green scent of growing things, the distant hint of the river that runs along the back of the property. It's a symphony of natural aromas that makes my Omega senses sing with contentment.
This is what peace smells like.
This is what home is supposed to feel like.
I find myself wondering if Aunt Lil had the chance to experience this level of tranquility before she departed this earth. Did she stand in this same spot, breathing in this same combination of scents, feeling this same sense of rightness? Or was she too busy with the daily grind of ranch management, too focused on survival to appreciate the beauty she was surrounded by?
