Page 137 of Saddle and Scent
The ranch renovations are coming along beautifully, which should be a source of satisfaction rather than another thing keeping me awake with planning and anticipation. We've made incredible progress in the past week—the barn is nearly finished, the fencing is repaired and reinforced, and the whole property is starting to look like the sanctuary Aunt Lil always dreamed it could be.
But progress brings its own pressures, and my mind keeps cycling through endless lists of tasks and improvements andthe growing awareness that what we're building together is becoming something permanent and significant.
Something that feels less like a temporary arrangement and more like the foundation for the rest of my life.
The guys aren't staying here tonight, which probably explains why my restlessness feels more pronounced than usual. Their presence has become such a constant that their absence leaves the house feeling too quiet, too empty, missing the subtle comfort of their scents and the security that comes from knowing they're close enough to reach if needed.
Callum drove to the next town over this afternoon to pick up special metals for the new gate he wants to install at the ranch entrance. He's been planning this project for weeks, designing something that will be both functional and beautiful—wrought iron work that speaks to craftsmanship rather than wealth, welcoming rather than intimidating. The materials he's sourcing are apparently specific enough that they required a special order and a drive that will keep him away overnight.
Beckett is at the bakery dealing with a wedding cake crisis that sounds like it belongs in a stress nightmare rather than real life. The bride apparently decided she hated the original design three days before the wedding, Ray attempted to "help" by completely destroying the replacement cake, and Beckett had to rush in to save the situation before the bakery's reputation suffered permanent damage. Last I heard, he was planning to work through the night to create something spectacular enough to make everyone forget the drama.
Wes should be at the clinic covering the overnight shift, dealing with whatever emergencies arise when most veterinarians are safely asleep in their beds. Emergency calls are part of the job, and he's always been reliable about taking his share of the difficult schedules that keep the practice running smoothly.
Which means I'm alone in a house that feels too big and too quiet, with nothing but my own restless thoughts for company.
I sigh and give up on the pretense of trying to sleep in my regular bedroom. Maybe my nest will provide the comfort and security my body is apparently craving. The room they created for me has become my refuge when everything else feels overwhelming, and the concentrated scents of all three Alphas might be enough to settle whatever hormonal chaos is keeping my nervous system on high alert.
The hallway is dark except for the soft nightlight they installed near my nest door, a subtle addition that ensures I never have to navigate the path in complete darkness. The thoughtfulness of such small details still catches me off guard sometimes—evidence of how carefully they've been paying attention to my needs and preferences.
I turn the handle expecting to find my sanctuary empty and peaceful, ready to cocoon myself in soft blankets and familiar scents until exhaustion finally wins.
Instead, I find Wes.
He's sitting in the middle of what can only be described as an elaborate pillow fort, his gaming console set up on a makeshift table created from cushions and boards. The soft glow from the television screen illuminates his face as he looks up at me with a playful smirk that suggests he's been expecting this exact moment.
"I knew I'd get caught," he says, his voice carrying the kind of amused satisfaction that comes from executing a plan perfectly.
I blink at the scene before me, trying to process the transformation of my carefully organized nest into what appears to be a twelve-year-old boy's dream sleepover setup. Pillows and blankets have been arranged into walls and corridors, creating intimate spaces within the larger room. String lightsthat definitely weren't there this morning provide warm ambient lighting that makes everything feel magical and slightly surreal.
"What is all this?" I ask, though I'm already smiling at the obvious effort he's put into creating something special.
"Figured you might have trouble sleeping again," he says, patting the cushion beside him in invitation. "Thought maybe some company and distraction might help."
The casual way he mentions my sleep troubles makes me pause, because I've been trying to keep my restlessness private. The heat flares are embarrassing enough without advertising them to everyone in the house.
"How did you know I was awake?" I ask, settling into the pillow fort with careful movements that won't disturb his elaborate construction.
"Or even that I was having trouble sleeping?"
His grin takes on a slightly sheepish quality, and he runs a hand through his hair in a gesture I've learned to recognize as mild embarrassment.
"The walls have ears," he says simply.
The implication of his words hits me like a physical blow, and I feel heat flood my cheeks as I realize what he's suggesting. Because if the walls have ears, that means he's probably heard more than just my restless tossing and turning. The memory of what happened with Beckett last week during my heat flare sends embarrassment racing through my system so intense I want to disappear into the cushions.
"Oh God," I groan, covering my face with my hands. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough to know you've been struggling," he says gently, his voice lacking any judgment or teasing. "And enough to know that trying to handle it alone isn't working."
There's kindness in his tone that makes my embarrassment slightly more bearable, but I still feel exposed in a waythat's deeply uncomfortable. Because admitting that my body is betraying me with increasing frequency feels like revealing weakness I'm not sure I'm ready to share.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to disturb anyone or make things awkward."
"Hey," he says, reaching out to gently pull my hands away from my face. "You don't have anything to apologize for. Bodies do what bodies do, and you're not responsible for having normal biological responses."
The matter-of-fact way he addresses the situation helps ease some of my mortification, but I still feel raw and vulnerable in ways I don't know how to handle.
"Besides," he continues with a return to his earlier playfulness, "I was hoping you'd come looking for comfort. Gave me an excuse to set up this masterpiece."
