Page 129 of Saddle and Scent
The simple honesty in his words makes me smile for no particular reason except that he wants my company and isn't afraid to say so.
After years of relationships where my presence felt tolerated rather than welcomed, his enthusiasm is both refreshing and slightly overwhelming.
An hour later, we're driving through countryside that grows progressively more manicured as we approach the Thornfield property. Wes's truck is practical rather than impressive—a well-maintained Ford with veterinary equipment secured in the bed and the kind of lived-in comfort that comes from daily use. The radio plays softly between us, some classic rock stationthat provides background music for our conversation about everything and nothing.
The natural wildness that characterizes most of the rural landscape around Saddlebrush gives way to perfectly maintained fencing, geometrically precise pastures, and the kind of landscaping that requires professional maintenance crews. Every fence post is identical, every gate perfectly aligned, every patch of grass trimmed to regulation height.
"Jesus," I breathe when we reach the main gate. "This is like something out of a magazine."
The gate itself is a testament to both wealth and a complete misunderstanding of rural aesthetics. Instead of the simple wooden construction that characterizes most ranch entrances—weathered cedar posts and hand-forged hardware that speaks to generations of use—this is an elaborate wrought-iron affair with electronic controls and security cameras mounted on sleek metal poles. It's impressive in a completely soulless way, more suited to a corporate headquarters than a working ranch.
The intricate metalwork probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, all flowing curves and decorative flourishes that serve no functional purpose beyond demonstrating the owner's ability to spend money on unnecessary ornamentation. There's a small control panel where Wes has to punch in a security code, and I catch a glimpse of multiple camera angles on a tiny screen that monitors everyone who approaches.
"Built with money instead of love," I murmur, studying the mechanical precision of the metalwork that lacks any trace of the hand-forged character that makes rural craftsmanship beautiful.
"Exactly," Wes agrees, punching in the security code Mrs. Thornfield provided earlier in the week. "Everything here is for show. Functional, sure, but without any of the character that makes a place feel like home."
The gates swing open with the kind of silent efficiency that speaks to regular maintenance and expensive engineering. No creaking hinges or manual effort required—just smooth, automated perfection that somehow manages to feel sterile despite its obvious sophistication.
The drive to the main house takes us past a series of perfectly maintained outbuildings that look like they were designed by the same architect who created the gate. Clean lines, expensive materials, and the kind of aesthetic consistency that requires both substantial investment and complete creative control. Even the barns are architectural statements rather than purely functional structures, with designer cupolas and weather vanes that probably cost more than entire buildings in most rural communities.
There are horses in some of the pastures—beautiful animals with obvious breeding and professional conditioning, their coats gleaming with health and careful grooming. But even they seem somehow disconnected from their environment, more like expensive ornaments than creatures with their own personalities and quirks. The fencing that contains them is pristine white vinyl that will require constant cleaning to maintain its showroom appearance.
When we reach the house itself, I can't suppress a low whistle of amazement.
It's enormous, all natural stone and timber beams and soaring windows designed to showcase mountain views.
The architecture is technically impressive—probably featured in architectural magazines as an example of luxury rural living—but it lacks the organic relationship with its landscape that makes truly beautiful homes feel inevitable rather than imposed.
The circular driveway features a fountain that probably cost more than most people's cars, surrounded by flower beds soperfectly arranged they look like they were installed by a team of engineers rather than gardeners who understand how plants actually grow. Water arcs in precise patterns that never vary, controlled by hidden pumps and timers that eliminate any trace of natural randomness.
"This family is wealthy as hell," Wes observes, parking near what appears to be a service entrance marked with discrete signage that directs various categories of visitors to their appropriate doors. "Funny thing is, the ranch isn't particularly popular despite all the obvious investment. You'd think with resources like this, they'd be the premier destination for boarding and breeding in the region."
I study the pristine but somehow lifeless landscape, trying to put my finger on what feels wrong about the whole setup. Everything is technically perfect, but there's no sense of evolution or organic development.
No evidence of the kind of gradual improvement that comes from years of living with and understanding a piece of land.
"It's probably because it's built off money more than love," I say finally, watching a maintenance crew work on flower beds with the kind of military precision that suggests they're following detailed specifications rather than responding to what the plants actually need. "And the desire to show off wealth rather than actually connect with the land or the animals. People can sense that kind of thing, even if they can't articulate it."
Wes reaches over and takes my hand, his thumb tracing slow circles against my palm as he speaks. The gesture is casual but intimate, grounding me in the moment rather than my growing feelings of inadequacy.
"Comparison is the thief of joy, Junebug," he says softly, his voice carrying the kind of gentle wisdom that comes from understanding both success and struggle. "Your ranch is beautiful and will only grow more inviting because it's beingbuilt with the right intentions. This place might be impressive, but it's also cold. Yours has heart."
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize he caught me engaging in the kind of self-doubt that's been plaguing me since we started working on the sanctuary. Because looking at the Thornfield estate, it's impossible not to wonder if what we're building will ever measure up to this level of polish and sophistication.
But Wes is right about the fundamental difference. Our projects might be smaller in scale, might rely on salvaged materials and creative problem-solving rather than unlimited budgets, but they're motivated by genuine care for the animals and the land rather than the desire to create an impressive facade.
"You're right," I admit, squeezing his hand in return. "It's just... intimidating, you know? Seeing what money can accomplish when it's applied systematically."
"Money without vision is just expensive emptiness," he says, bringing my hand to his lips for a quick kiss before releasing it to gather his veterinary supplies from the back seat. "Trust me, what you're building is going to last longer and matter more than anything here."
A butler—an actual butler in full formal attire that looks like it came from a costume drama—appears to escort us to the first of several barns where Wes will conduct his examinations. The man's demeanor is professionally courteous but distant, like he's been trained to interact with service providers in a way that maintains appropriate social hierarchies. His accent suggests expensive education, and his movements have the kind of practiced efficiency that comes from years of managing wealthy people's expectations.
"Dr. Carter, I presume?" he says with the kind of polite formality that somehow manages to be both welcoming anddismissive. "Mrs. Thornfield is expecting you. If you'll follow me, please."
The barn itself is immaculate, more like a medical facility than a working agricultural building. State-of-the-art ventilation systems hum quietly in the background, maintaining perfect temperature and air quality. The floors are pristine concrete sealed to prevent staining, and the lighting is the kind of full-spectrum setup usually found in veterinary hospitals rather than rural outbuildings.
Individual stalls are fitted with automatic watering systems and the kind of sophisticated monitoring equipment that tracks everything from temperature to humidity to the animals' movement patterns.
