Page 85 of Saddle and Scent
The admission hangs between us, heavy with all the miscalculations and misunderstandings that have shaped the last decade of our lives. They thought they could protect me by pulling back, by creating distance without losing me entirely. They thought they could solve the problem quietly, handle the threat behind the scenes, and then everything could go back to normal.
They never imagined that their attempt to protect me would drive me away entirely.
As we share this look, I can see the truth written across his face. He's not joking around or making excuses or trying to manipulate me with pretty words. This is the raw, honest truth that he's been carrying for ten years, and it's destroying him to finally say it out loud.
"What now?" I ask, because talking is one thing, but the reality is we can't keep running in circles with this. We can't spend the next decade analyzing the mistakes of the past without figuring out how to move forward.
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but firm.
"The ball's in your court, Bell. You get to decide," he whispers. "But this," he lets go of my arms and gestures around the room, around the ranch, around the disaster of a life I've been trying to build on my own, "you need to allow us to help you with this, Bell."
I open my mouth to argue, because that's what I do. I argue and resist and insist that I can handle everything on my own, even when the evidence clearly suggests otherwise. But he shakes his head sternly, cutting off my protest before it can form.
"We weren't supposed to come by today, Bell. It's by chance that we came by. You could have been laying in that heat for hours. Hell, days for all we know." His voice takes on an edge of desperation that speaks to how badly my collapse scared him. "We can't risk that again. You can be as stubborn as you want with everything else, but it's a sharp no on this. You need to accept our help with the ranch for our own sanity."
Before I can respond, Wes and Beckett return from the kitchen, carrying water and medication and what looks like a sandwich cut into small, manageable pieces. They move carefully, like they're approaching a spooked animal, clearlyaware that they're walking into the aftermath of an important conversation.
The three of them stand there, waiting for my response. I can feel the weight of their expectation, their hope, their fear that I'll tell them to leave and never come back. But I can also feel something else—their genuine concern for my wellbeing, their absolute refusal to let me hurt myself through stubborn pride.
I sigh, feeling defeated and exhausted and overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of everything that's happened. But underneath all of that, there's a tiny spark of something that might be relief. Because the truth is, I'm tired of doing everything alone. I'm tired of pretending I don't need help, don't want support, don't miss having people in my life who care enough to worry about me.
"Fine," I whisper, the word coming out smaller than I intended. "But my rules. My pace."
The three of them nod immediately, and I can see in their faces that they understand exactly what I mean. We're starting from scratch. Even though the sexual tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, even though the attraction and history and complicated feelings are all still there, it's going to be a slow, torturous game before I open my heart to them again.
They're going to have to earn back my trust one day at a time, one conversation at a time, one small gesture at a time. They're going to have to prove that they've learned from their mistakes, that they understand the difference between protection and control, that they're ready to treat me like a partner instead of a problem to be solved.
I hope they're ready to saddle up, because claiming my heart this time around is going to be harder than catching the perfect scent on an uncertain wind.
16
UNDER THE STARS
~JUNIPER~
Ican't sleep.
I've been staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever, counting water stains and following the web of cracks that spider across the old plaster like a roadmap to nowhere. The bed is uncomfortable—the mattress probably hasn't been replaced since the Carter administration—but that's not what's keeping me awake.
It's the fact that the guys are staying at the ranch tonight.
Their scents are everywhere.
Pine and smoke from Callum, citrus and storm from Wes, cinnamon and warmth from Beckett—all of it intertwining in the air, taunting my nostrils that pick up every hint, every variation, every subtle shift in the aromatic cocktail that surrounds me. It should be overwhelming, should trigger my defenses and make me want to retreat further into myself.
But it's not bad.
Actually, it's the opposite.
I'm the calmest I've ever been since returning to Saddlebrush Ridge. My body is completely relaxed against thelumpy mattress, muscles loose and tension-free in a way I haven't experienced in years. There's something about being surrounded by their presence, even separated by walls and distance, that settles something deep in my chest.
Like coming home after a long journey.
Like finally being safe enough to let my guard down.
The realization should terrify me—this easy slide back into comfort, this willingness to trust—but tonight, I can't bring myself to care. Tonight, I just want to exist in this pocket of peace, this rare moment where the complicated mess of our history takes a backseat to the simple fact that they're here and I'm here and none of us are running away.
Still, sleep refuses to come.
