Page 140 of Saddle and Scent
As the night progresses, the combination of cider, comfortable seating, and the rhythmic nature of the game begins to take its toll on both of us. I notice Wes's responses getting slower, his commentary less frequent, and when I glance over during a loading screen, his eyes are heavy with approaching sleep.
"You can take a break if you're tired," I offer, though the selfish part of me doesn't want this peaceful interlude to end.
"I'm good," he insists, though he shifts position to get more comfortable against the pillows.
Twenty minutes later, his head drops to rest against my shoulder, then gradually slides down until he's using my lap as a pillow. His breathing evens out into the slow, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, and I realize he's completely unconscious.
I should probably wake him up, suggest he move to a more comfortable position, maybe encourage him to head to his own bed for proper rest. But there's something deeply appealing about the weight of his head against my thighs, the trust implicit in his unconscious choice to use me as furniture.
Plus, the warmth of his body and the security of his presence is doing more to settle my restless energy than anything else I've tried.
So instead of waking him, I save our game progress and set the controller aside.
I run my fingers gently through his hair, marveling at the softness of the strands and the way he unconsciously leans into the touch even in sleep.
The pillow fort feels like its own little world, separate from all the complications and uncertainties that have been keeping me awake. Here, surrounded by soft textures and warm light, with Wes sleeping peacefully in my lap, everything feels simple and right in ways I haven't experienced in years.
For the first time in weeks, my mind stops racing through endless lists and possibilities and concerns.
The heat flare that's been making me restless fades to a manageable background sensation, overwhelmed by the comfort and security of the moment.
I let my own eyes drift closed, not quite sleeping but not fully awake either, existing in that peaceful space between consciousness and dreams where everything feels possible and nothing hurts.
This is what I've been missing without realizing it—not just physical comfort, but the deeper security that comes from being cared for by someone who notices your needs and takes action to address them.
The knowledge that you don't have to handle everything alone, that there are people in your life who will build pillow forts at midnight just to make sure you get some rest.
As I drift in that comfortable twilight state, I can hear the old house settling around us, but instead of feeling isolated, the sounds feel protective.
Like the building itself is watching over us, keeping us safe while we steal these quiet hours together.
When I finally do fall asleep, still sitting upright with Wes's head in my lap and my fingers tangled in his hair, it's the most peaceful rest I've had in longer than I care to remember.
29
CONFRONTATION IN THE SQUARE
~JUNIPER~
The town has been buzzing with nervous energy for the past three days, ever since word spread that some wealthy developer from the city has been making inquiries about local properties and "development opportunities." Coffee shop conversations have taken on an undercurrent of anxiety, and I've caught more than one worried glance exchanged between longtime residents who remember what happened to neighboring communities when outside money decided their way of life needed "improvement."
Saddlebrush Ridge has always prided itself on being the kind of place that changes slowly, organically, in response to the actual needs of the people who live here rather than the profit margins of distant investors. The idea of some stranger rolling into town with plans to modernize everything that makes this community special has everyone on edge.
I'm walking through the town square with Callum, Wes, and Beckett, enjoying the kind of peaceful Saturday afternoon that's become precious to me since returning home. We'd spent the morning at the farmers market, collecting fresh produce andcatching up with neighbors, and now we're heading to Murphy's hardware store to pick up supplies for the next phase of ranch improvements.
The town square is busy but not crowded, filled with the comfortable mix of locals running errands and families enjoying the playground that sits at the heart of our small downtown area. Children shriek with laughter on the swing set while their parents chat on nearby benches, and there's a group of teenagers playing pickup basketball on the court that the town council installed last summer.
It's the kind of scene that represents everything good about small-town life—community connections, multigenerational relationships, the sense that everyone belongs and has a place in the larger fabric of local society.
Which is why the sleek black SUV parked in front of the courthouse stands out like a predator among sheep.
The vehicle is expensive, obviously new, and completely at odds with the practical trucks and well-worn sedans that typically occupy downtown parking spaces. Everything about it screams money and power and the kind of urban sophistication that views small towns as quaint obstacles to profit rather than communities worth preserving.
"That's not a local car," Callum observes, his voice carrying the kind of tension that suggests his protective instincts are already on high alert.
"Definitely not," Wes agrees, studying the vehicle with obvious suspicion. "Question is whether it belongs to our mysterious developer or just some lost tourist with expensive taste in transportation."
Before anyone can speculate further, the courthouse doors open and a man emerges who makes my blood freeze in my veins.
