Page 161 of Saddle and Scent
The simple question seems to break something inside her, and I watch in horror as her face crumples and tears begin streaming down her cheeks. She stands there by her truck for a moment, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, before seeming to pull herself together enough to approach the porch.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick with tears. "I didn't mean to fall apart on you like this. It's just... today is my last route."
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I feel my stomach drop with sudden understanding.
"What do you mean, your last route?" I ask, though I'm beginning to suspect I already know the answer.
"They're laying off all the rural mail carriers," she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "As of tomorrow, mail delivery to properties outside the main town limits will be suspended indefinitely. We got the notice yesterday afternoon."
"But why?" I ask, though even as the question leaves my mouth, I can feel the pieces clicking together in my mind.
"The new development plans," she says bitterly. "Apparently, maintaining rural delivery routes isn't cost-effective when the long-term vision involves consolidating everything into centralized shopping and residential areas. Why waste money delivering mail to properties that won't exist in five years?"
The casual cruelty of the decision makes my blood boil. Because this isn't just about mail delivery—it's about systematically dismantling the infrastructure that supports rural life, making it increasingly difficult for people to maintain their connection to the land and the communities they've built here.
It's about forcing change through attrition rather than honest persuasion.
"They can't just do that," I say, though I know how naive the statement sounds even as I'm making it. "There have to be regulations, federal requirements about mail service..."
"There are," she agrees, "but there are also loopholes when communities are classified as 'economically non-viable' or 'scheduled for development consolidation.' The postal service can suspend rural routes temporarily and then extend those suspensions indefinitely if they can demonstrate that maintaining them conflicts with broader economic development plans."
The bureaucratic language makes my head spin, but the underlying message is crystal clear: Marcus Steele has found a way to use government regulations to make rural life increasingly unsustainable, forcing people to accept his vision for the future by making their current situation untenable.
The sound of footsteps on gravel announces the arrival of Callum, Wes, and Beckett, who emerge from behind the barn where they've been working on some kind of fencing project since dawn. Their conversation dies mid-sentence when they see Piper's obvious distress, and all three immediately shift into protective mode.
"What's wrong?" Callum asks, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of handling crisis situations.
"They're shutting down rural mail delivery," I explain quickly. "Starting tomorrow. Piper's losing her job."
The reaction from all three men is immediate and intense. Wes curses under his breath in a language that would make a sailor blush, Beckett's hands clench into fists, and Callum's expression goes deadly calm in the way that usually precedes very bad decisions for the people who've crossed him.
"This is about more than mail delivery," Beckett says grimly. "This is about making rural life impossible to maintain."
"It's about forcing people to accept his development plans by eliminating the infrastructure that supports alternative choices," Wes agrees, his voice tight with barely controlled fury.
But while the guys are processing the broader implications of the decision, I'm focused on Piper herself, who's standing there looking like her entire world has just collapsed around her.
"I know it probably sounds stupid," she says, her voice breaking on the words, "but this job meant everything to me. I deal with anxiety, especially around talking to people, because of bullying I experienced as a kid. Most social situations make me want to crawl into a hole and disappear."
She pauses to wipe her eyes again, struggling to find the words to explain something that clearly goes much deeper than employment concerns.
"But this route, getting to know the families and check in on people and be part of the community in this small way—it helped me so much. It gave me a reason to practice social skills, a safe way to build relationships with people who actually seemed to like having me around."
The raw honesty in her admission makes my chest ache with sympathy, because I can hear the years of struggle beneath her words. The kind of childhood trauma that leaves lasting scars, making simple human connections feel dangerous and complicated.
"And now I finally found a group of people I actually feel comfortable with," she continues, looking directly at me with eyes that are bright with unshed tears. "Alphas who don't make me feel anxious or intimidated, who treat me like a friend instead of a potential conquest or someone to be managed. And I have to give that up just because some rich asshole decided our community isn't worth preserving?"
Her voice rises with each word until she's almost shouting, years of suppressed frustration and fear finally finding expression in righteous anger.
"What about the families who've built their lives here? What about the community connections and the history and the fact that some of us actually chose this place because we love what it represents? Does none of that matter?"
The passion in her voice, the genuine love for this community that underlies her distress, transforms her from the quiet mail carrier I've gotten to know into someone fierce and determined. Someone worth fighting for.
"It matters," I say firmly, moving down from the porch to wrap her in a hug that I hope conveys even a fraction of the support she's offered me over the past few weeks. "It all matters, and we're not going to let him take it away."
She clings to me for a moment, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, before pulling back with obvious effort to compose herself.
"How can we stop him?" she asks, though there's hope in her voice that suggests she wants to believe it's possible. "He's got money and political connections and legal resources that none of us can match."
