Page 12 of Saddle and Scent
Besides, in this moment of solitary contemplation —interrupted rudely by Callum’s intervention, obviously— there’s more at stake than figuring out how to express myself through metal and flesh. The ground beneath us feels like common territory strewn with remnants of unresolved teenage rivalry.
To him, I’m still that stubborn Omega who chose gardening over giggling at school dances; to me, he’s still the Alpha whose presence loomed like a shadow even when his gaze never lingered longer than necessary.
But here we are—standing among echoes of youthful skirmishes—a past silent competition that neither acknowledged, yet both participated in with vigor unmatched by any classroom debate. A reluctant ally at best today, Callum appears unchanged except for being more carved from stone; his eyes are keen and calculating.
It’s this unspoken history that casts its own shadows between us now.
I find myself wondering if all these years have shifted anything within him—or within me—that might crack the veneerof indifference. Yet there’s no time to dwell on these what-ifs when reality remains stubbornly present before us: his carefully sculpted facade juxtaposed against my own chaotic existence.
“What do you want, Callum?”
He gestures vaguely down the road.
“Heard your truck from the house. Figured you were stuck.” There’s a pause, then, “You smell like a damn flare. Figured you’d also try to do this on your own, like always.”
The words come out low, almost a growl, but there’s no judgment behind them.Just fact.
It’s the Callum special:say the quiet part out loud and pretend it’s no big deal.
.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath, turning my attention back to the truck that waged its war against gravity and mud with all the tenacity of a toddler throwing a tantrum. But no amount of my internal protest could change the fact: word on this one-way country road spread faster than molasses on a summer’s day. In the time it took for me to hit that rut and lose my balance spectacularly amid swirling aromas, Callum had already heard about my return—news transported to him by some unseen herald when I wasn't even halfway back into town.
There hadn’t been time to prepare for this ambush—not from him or the scent storm engulfing us both—and definitely not from whatever preconceived notions he’d carried since those schoolyard days when everything we said was either brashly honest or veiled behind teasing half-truths.
The notion added another layer of annoyance to what was already shaping up as a day worthy of infamy. That word reached him so fast—it grated against every nerve I had left standing after fighting off nostalgia and navigational errors.
We stood there in that tension-filled space between past missteps and present realities—a duo forced together by circumstances neither asked for nor acknowledged willingly.
Yet here we were;two people whose paths diverged once before now finding themselves entangled again amid cracked windshield reflections and shifting dynamics that mirrored stubborn skies close to dusk.
Each heartbeat seemed louder than the last as silence spun fine threads around us until they knotted into something more substantial than words—something forged from shared history yet fraying at edges where new encounters reshaped old boundaries.
“I can handle it,” I snap. “Was just…pacing myself.”
He gives me a look that’s both a challenge and a eulogy for my remaining pride.
“You almost faceplanted into the saddle.”
A second scent arrives, sweet and wild, edged with lemon zest and the unmistakable brine of high-octane testosterone.
“No way she’s letting you help, man,” a voice calls. “She’d rather push the truck out with her bare hands and die of a hernia than owe you a favor.”
Wes Carter.
He saunters up the ditch, every movement relaxed and lazy, as if he’s out for a pleasant stroll and not about to insert himself into my personal disaster.
Wes Carter meanders toward our impromptu roadside assembly with the kind of swagger that suggests nothing short of a nuclear disaster could ruffle his feathers. He’s a textbook study in calculated nonchalance, every step a deliberate blend of grace and carelessness. The man’s frame is sculpted from years working on animal farms, yet he carries himself like he’s just strolled off a golden beach rather than trudged through the muck and mire of ranch life.
His presence is like a burst of sunlight cutting through the overcast tension funneling between Callum and me. Unlike Callum's looming solidity, Wes embodies motion—an ocean breeze that teases without breaking stride. His blond hair seems almost alive, quivering with energy as it catches the wind in playful rebellion against gravity. Of course, there’s an art to his apparent dishevelment; those sun-streaked locks are always one defiant gust away from becoming their own weather system.
He wears his relaxed charm as effortlessly as that threadbare tee hugging him with familiarity, each fray and rip more intentional than accidental, whispering secrets of adventure and mischief. And those jeans? They’re practically a museum exhibit—holed relics that might’ve once been whole but now bear testament to escapades unknown. Together, they announce him to be effortlessly sexy in a manner so brazenly natural it feels like an affront to my own carefully constructed defenses.
As if aware of his effect—and no doubt reveling in it—Wes approaches with the confident ease of someone who knows their place in any given scenario. His blue eyes meet mine, vibrant pools that manage both innocence and devilish intent within their crystalline depths. They glint under the fading afternoon light, challenging reality itself by daring anyone to call them anything but genuine.
He pauses when he reaches us, standing at the edge of our tension-laden triangle like a diplomat sent to broker peace—or perhaps merely enjoy the show. Everything about him screams relaxation; shoulders unburdened by worries not worth carrying, hands shoved casually into pockets as though pocketing experiences is just another pastime for him.
In this tableau we’re painting, he stands as both contrast and complement: where Callum offers quiet strength rooted firmly in earthiness and I provide volatility sparking amidst half-formed plans, Wes presents levity—a buoyant air lifting spirits even amid mud-caked boots.
