Page 121 of Saddle and Scent
These men have been paying attention to every word I've said since I returned, cataloging information, building a complete picture of everything that's happened to me during our years apart.
"I don't understand why this is happening now," I admit, wrapping my arms around myself for comfort. "I made sure there was no way for them to track me when I left. I changed my name, moved across the country, started over completely. How did he find me? And why does he suddenly care about this property?"
Callum reads through the letter again, his frown deepening with each word.
"Real estate development," he says grimly. "The town's been getting pressure from outside investors who want to capitalize on our 'rural charm.' Turn Saddlebrush into some kind of boutique destination for city people who want to play at country life on the weekends."
The thought makes my stomach turn.
Because I know exactly what that means—property values skyrocketing, local families pushed out by gentrification, the tight-knit community that defines Saddlebrush scattered to the winds.
And my sanctuary, Aunt Lil's legacy, turned into condos or shopping centers or whatever other soulless development Marcus has in mind.
"We'll keep an eye on this for now," Callum says, folding the letter with careful precision. "I'll talk to Beckett's dad and a few others, see if other property owners are getting similar pressure. If this is part of a larger campaign, we need to know about it."
The 'we' in that sentence hits me harder than it should.
Because for so long, it's just been 'I' and 'me' and the lonely weight of handling everything alone.
Having someone automatically include themselves in my problems feels like a gift I'm not sure I deserve.
"I don't want to lose the ranch," I admit, the words coming out smaller than I intended. "It's really becoming a space I can envision growing into something thriving for the community. Something that could help animals and bring people together and honor what Aunt Lil always wanted this place to be."
And maybe, if I'm being completely honest, something that could be our future.
A place where we could build something lasting and meaningful together.
But I'm not ready to say that part out loud yet.
Callum's expression softens at my admission, and when he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture is infinitely gentle.
"We'll fight it," he says simply. "Whatever it takes, whoever we have to face, we'll protect what's yours. That's why we're in your life, Juniper. To make things as smooth as possible, to handle the shit that tries to hurt you."
He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, the contact warm and reassuring and full of unspoken promises.
"Go eat your breakfast," he says, his voice returning to its normal register. "I'll handle this. You shouldn't have to stress about assholes from your past when you're trying to build something new."
The casual way he takes responsibility, the assumption that my problems are now his problems, should probably trigger my independence reflexes.
Instead, it makes me feel cherished in a way that's both foreign and absolutely right.
Like this is how partnerships are supposed to work—not one person carrying all the weight, but two people choosing to face whatever comes together.
Or in this case, four people.
Because I know without asking that Wes and Beckett will react to this threat with the same protective fury that's radiating from Callum right now.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than he probably realizes. "For... all of it. For caring enough to get involved, for not making me handle this alone."
His smile is soft and genuine, transforming his usually stern features into something almost boyish.
"Always," he says simply. "Now go eat before that food gets cold and Beckett lectures us both about proper nutrition."
I head back toward the house, feeling lighter despite the weight of Marcus's letter.
Because for the first time in years, I'm not facing my problems alone.
I have people who care enough to fight for me, to protect what matters to me, to stand between me and whatever threatens the life I'm trying to build.
