CHAPTER 21

west

T hree days. It’d been three days since Jackson burned down Harrison’s house. My childhood house. My house technically. I had no idea what the fuck to do with myself. I felt more things than I wanted to admit—more things than I thought I was capable of feeling.

Strangely enough, most of those feelings were wrapped up in Jackson. I wanted to know what he knew and why he reacted the way he did. He hated me—supposedly. Had he burned the house down because he hated me? Or for some other reason?

That thought was just one of a million useless things tumbling through my head. I struggled to take care of the horses. The downward spiral I was desperately trying to stave off bled into the worst possible areas of my life. The horses needed me, and I couldn’t pull my shit together. Even the alcohol didn’t help.

Mickey wasn’t talking to me either, which only made me feel worse. At least he sent Peter to help. Peter was quiet and kind—asked no questions and just did his job .

When Jackson’s truck stopped outside the stables, I steeled myself for whatever backlash was headed my way for not doing my damn job. He got out and beckoned me toward him. Fuck .

“Let’s go,” Jackson said as I approached slowly. He opened the passenger door to his truck. My heart lodged in my throat. No good would come from me being locked in the same goddamn truck as him.

“I ain’t getting in there with you,” I said, my voice tight.

“Get in the goddamn truck, West, or I swear to fuck…” He drew in a deep breath, hands falling to his hip. His mouth moved as he silently… counted? I had a feeling he was counting to ten or some shit to keep from yelling. In a slightly less irritated tone, he repeated, “Get in the truck, West, please. We need to talk, and I ain’t doing it here.”

Oh. That made me falter. Fuck. What was I supposed to say to that?

“I’ll drive behind you,” I countered.

“No. We ain’t staying in town, and I want to make sure you actually get there.”

Fuck me. That didn’t sound any better. But I silently nodded. I could do this. I could survive being stuck in a small space with him.

And yet that little voice in the back of my head just laughed at my own stupidity.

One hour in the fucking truck and Jackson didn’t say a word. I needed to know where we were going or what to expect. I was dying. I couldn’t sit still, my skin was crawling, and my stomach rolled. I wanted to hit something and throw up at the same time. That clawing in my chest was fucking persistent, and the fear of losing control was intense.

The second he turned off his truck in a crappy fucking parking lot, I bolted. I gulped down fresh air. It didn’t ease my nerves or haunting panic, but it was better than sitting in that fucking truck.

“Could’ve opened the window,” Jackson said when he rounded the front of the truck with a thick manila envelope in hand. I glared. There was no way he’d understand .

The stop was some dinky off-the-road diner—the kind where you knew the food was crappy and greasy but it was cheap and fast. The kind of place no one gave you a second glance because they didn’t fucking care. Everyone just passed on through.

“Let’s go,” he damn near snapped. I wanted to push the buttons—tell him no—but what the hell would I do then? I was in the middle of fucking nowhere with no way back. And I wasn’t exactly hitchhiking material. Though, I did glance at the road and consider it for a long moment.

But eventually, I caved and followed him inside. No one gave us a second look as I trailed after him to a table in the corner. I let him take control because I sure as hell didn’t know what we were doing here. He ordered himself a burger with fries and me a BLT with chips on the side. How the hell he still remembered what I liked was beyond me .

An awkward silence settled between us when the waitress left. He took that stupid hat off and set it on the chair next to him while keeping one hand on the manila folder. His fingers drummed on the table as we stared at one another.

How long we did so, I wasn’t sure. It was enough time to notice just how blue his eyes were against the tan of his skin. And time to notice just how much muscle he’d built for himself. I knew he ran every morning, but it was obvious he worked hard on his body. Those were things I didn’t need to be noticing. Didn’t want to notice.

I fussed and fidgeted under his unrelenting stare. I wasn’t good at this shit. This was uncomfortable as fuck.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jackson asked finally. I stilled. He was kidding, right? Not that it showed on his face. No, he was dead serious.

“Exactly when the fuck have we been on talking terms since I got here?” I demanded.

“Not now.” He shook his head. “When we were kids, why didn’t you tell me what Harrison was doing to you?”

“I don’t know. I could take it,” I said with a shrug. I wasn’t sure what the hell he wanted me to say about that. There was no changing Harrison.

“But you shouldn’t have fucking had to.”

“It is what it is.” Still wasn’t the worst shit I’d gone through. “It wasn’t like anyone could do anything anyway. What was I going to do? Run away? ”

“I would’ve gone with you,” he replied. Under his breath, he added, “Hell, maybe I still would.”

“Right,” I scoffed. “We’d never get along long enough for that shit.”

“No, West, that’s where you’re wrong.” Jackson sighed and sat back in his seat. “I’m done fighting with you. It ain’t doing either of us any good.”

What the hell did that mean?

“And I’m giving you an out,” he continued. “I tried to find a loophole to that stupid one-year thing, but there is none.”

“We fucking knew that,” I muttered. This asshole better not have dragged my ass to a middle of fucking nowhere diner just to repeat what I already knew at me.

“Here.” Jackson slid the envelope across the table to me. “There’s bank information in there for an account with the forty-seven million in it. My name and yours are on it. All you have to do is go in and ask them to remove me. They’re ready for you when you show up, so it should be quick and painless.

“There’s a contract in there as well that I need you to sign. It states that if you take the money, you agree to come back in one year and sign the ranch over to me. You also can’t mention this contract to our lawyers—they’ll ream me a fucking new one and probably make my life a living hell. Mickey and I will both go on the record to state you’ve worked the ranch for a year. If the last few weeks are any indication, I know you would’ve worked hard and we wouldn’t have had any problems. It’s the easiest way to do this.”

“What?” He was saying words, but I was positive I was fucking hearing things.

“You’re free to get the hell out of here,” he said. “You don’t have to stay for the next year, you get the money for the ranch, and next year, you’ll sign the ranch over to me. As far as the lawyers are concerned, you’ll have worked there per Harrison’s will.”

Free to leave? As in, I didn’t have to stay in this fucking place and be miserable for a year just to appease Harrison’s twisted demands. My heart pounded faster in my chest. There was actually a way out of here.

“Why?” It was the only word I could think of.

“Because you don’t belong here. I get why you haven’t come back in seventeen fucking years. This place is nothing but one bad memory after another, and you shouldn’t be stuck here another year. So, take the money, sign the contract, and go. Just make sure you show up next year for the official sale.”

“This is you taking pity on me.” Pity was the last thing I wanted. I could fucking handle my own life. I didn’t need him to rescue me.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered. “No, this is me saying I fucking get it—I can’t understand it. I never fucking will. But I fucking get why you hate it here, and I’m trying to do something to help.”

“Oh.” I stared at the envelope. Part of me wanted to push back—to figure out what the catch was. What was it that he wanted out of me? No one ever did shit like this for someone. Especially not with forty-seven million attached.

But the other part of me didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. This was a chance to start over and maybe find some peace outside of just surviving. Or at the very least would make it real fucking easy to disappear. I could go to Alaska, get a small cabin, and never see anyone again. I liked the cold.

“ Or ,” Jackson began slowly, dragging me away from my thoughts, “you could stay for the year. Work the ranch. You and me. Like we planned.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” I blurted out stupidly. He couldn’t possibly think that was a smart idea. Not the way we fucking argued, even if he did claim to be done fighting with me. He shrugged, trying to look casual and not pulling it off.

“There’d have to be some changes if you stayed. The horses would still be all yours, but you’d need to get sober. It’s too dangerous to be drunk around them. But you’re damn good with them, so they’d be yours,” he told me. “And as for you and me… I’m just saying, that door is open. If you want it to be.”

The what was what? This man had to be on something. Yeah, there’d been something between us once a long time ago. But who knew what that even was besides one night rolling around in the fucking grass.

Not to mention that was a lifetime ago. We were both very different people now—as if that shit wasn’t obvious.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.

“I’m not.” Yeah, he was dead serious. “I ain’t saying you have to. I’m saying we were robbed of a chance to find out, and if you ever wanted to find out… that door is open on my end. ”

“I’m so fucking broken, Jackson. Nothing has worked since…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The admission made me feel pathetic—less of a man. It must’ve shown on my face because his expression softened. Damn it. I didn’t want him looking at me like that. “I ain’t worth it.”

“I ain’t talking about sex here.” Fucking hell. Folding his hands, he leaned on the table as his voice dropped in volume. “I know I’m all wrapped up in the bad memories so the likelihood you’d ever want anything to do with me is slim to none. That makes me real fucking aware of how goddamn stupid I sound right now, and you know I’m not one to do shit that makes me look like a fool.”

“I know.”

“So what I’m saying is… your stables, your rules,” he whispered. This man was a goddamn moron. Had a bull kicked him in the head too fucking hard?

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Probably. But I am done fighting you.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. Anything else I was going to say—which was just a bunch of bullshit anyway—vanished when the waitress showed up to drop our food off. Jackson wasted no time eating, but I just stared at it. I didn’t need him feeding me. I could take care of myself.

“Eat,” he said around a bite of his burger.

“I’m not hungry,” I replied. I didn’t need his charity.

“When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t fucking alcohol?” Jackson demanded. I didn’t have a good answer, so I just glared at him. “Right. Eat the damn food, West. It ain’t going to kill you.”

No, but it would probably kill what little bit of pride I had left. That thought only made my scowl deepen.

“Fine, tell you what,” he continued, “I’ll get this time. You can get the next time. There. It’s done. Now, eat.”

Like we’d be doing this ever again.

Still, it was the best damn sandwich I’d had in a long fucking time.