Page 24 of Saddle and Scent
The bell chimes behind me like a warning shot.
I hustle past the feed store. Here, the clientele is pure rural: ancient ranchers in overalls, the odd Beta kid on a delivery run. One of the old men—face like a walnut, eyes sharp as a fox—tips his hat as I walk by.
"Not seen an Omega in these parts in a spell," he says. It’s not a judgment, just a fact.
"Don’t get your hopes up," I shoot back, and he laughs, a dry bark.
The next stop is the general store, which is really just an overgrown bodega.
I get coffee—real, blessed, caffeinated coffee—a box of granola bars, and three bags of animal feed.
The Alpha behind the register is my age, maybe a year older. Blond, chiseled, smile dialed up to eleven.
"You’re the Bell girl, right?" he says, leaning forward in a way that means business. "Didn’t think you’d show your face here again."
Crazy how everyone seems to know who I am but also assumes I’m some sort of coward that desperately came back here.
There should be nothing wrong with it, but it proves that not everything is deemed “simple’ when it comes to Saddlebridge’s acceptance.
I load my bags onto the counter.
"Guess you were wrong."
He grins wider.
"I like a girl with confidence. Bet you could use a strong hand out at the Sanctuary. If you’re lookin’ for?—"
I cut him off with a stare so cold it might freeze his smirk in place.
"If I’m looking for muscle, I’ll get a backhoe."
For a split second, he looks wounded, then laughs and hands me my receipt.
"Suit yourself. If you need anything, you know where I’m at."
I shoulder my way out before the scent he’s putting out—some mix of bergamot and bravado—can trigger anything in me. But the truth is, my body is already humming, blood alive with the undercurrent of Alpha attention.
It’s infuriating. It’s also, for half a heartbeat, tempting.
This is what it means to be an Omega in Saddlebrush Ridge: constantly parsing the difference between what you want and what your body wants.
The line is never as clear as people think.
The last errand is the Feed & Grain. It’s the only building with a mural, a faded rendition of horses galloping under a sky so blue it’s cartoonish. I slide through the door and immediately into the blast of grain dust and molasses. There’s a short line at the counter, and every single person in it turns to look at me.
At the front, a trio of Alphas—barely out of high school by the look of them—are clustered together, blocking the register. They’re all broad-shouldered and baby-faced, stinking of cheap cologne and the kind of hunger that only comes with untested manhood.
One of them nudges another, then turns to me with a smirk.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, and his voice drops a full octave. "You lookin’ for help with your…feed problem?" The way he says it makes it sound like the feed is me.
I ignore him, sidestep, and get in line behind a Beta mom with a toddler.
The Alpha isn’t deterred.
"Sanctuary’s falling apart, isn’t it? Be easier if you had a real Alpha to help out." His buddies snicker.
I take a deep breath, and the scent hits me again: Alpha, sharp and sweet and dangerous as nitroglycerin.
