Chapter 15

Ash

It's a damn fine morning.

Rain is falling in steady, fat drops. The temperature is a brisk forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. And Jackson Darling, rugged cowboy of my dreams, is standing just inside the dairy cow field, using an auger to dig a hole for a new fence post.

"Good grief," I mutter to myself, a mug of tea warming my palms as I shamelessly ogle the man before me. He's soaked, his hat doing nothing to keep the rain off his clothes, and even though he's wearing a jacket, the motion of his arms has me mesmerized. It's all too easy to imagine what he'd look like bare. The flex of his muscles. The dark hair dusting his forearms. Not to mention what those arms could do to me .

"Always had a strong work ethic, that one," Hank says, startling me as he appears at the edge of the deck. He walks over, no beekeeper's hat on today.

"That's one word for it," I agree. Strong . I mentally add a few more. Handsome. Sexy.

Mine.

The thought makes me shiver.

"Mind if I join you?" Hank asks, pulling my thoughts to the present.

"Of course not," I tell him. "It's your home, after all."

"Yep," he grunts, taking a seat. "But Marigold is always reminding me folks have bubbles. And it's not polite to burst one without asking."

I huff a laugh. I knew I loved that woman. "Well, I'm happy for the company."

He hums. I jolt when he shouts, "What're you doing?"

Jackson looks up, the brim of his hat nearly obscuring his eyes. "What does it look like?" he yells back.

"Looks like you're drowning," Hank calls.

Jackson shakes his head. His mouth continues to move like he's saying something to himself, and my lips quirk in amusement. "Fixing the fence," he finally shouts.

"Couldn't wait?" Hank responds.

Jackson stands fully upright, one hand on the auger, the other on his hip. "You wanna go chasing the dairy girls down the street when they get loose?"

Hank makes a pft sound and waves his hand through the air. The next second, Jackson does the same, and I bust out laughing. Jackson goes back to work, twisting the auger with a little more intensity than he was before.

"Stubborn," Hank says. "No clue where he got it from."

I keep my guess to myself.

"Was that rice pudding I saw setting in the fridge?" the older man asks.

I raise an eyebrow. "You didn't get into it, did you?"

"'Course not," he says with a scoff. "I know how to be patient." After a second, he adds, "It's Jackson's favorite, you know."

Oh, I know.

"His ma used to make it when he got sick. Don't ask me why," Hank goes on. "Lord knows what good cold rice is gonna do. But I swear that boy would feign illness just to get some of that rice pudding."

My heart clenches as I watch Jackson pull the auger out of the dirt. It's all too easy to imagine him as a young boy, playing in the rain, maybe, or at home, sick in his bed.

"It's not always easy to ask for the things we want," I say quietly.

Hank makes a soft sound at that. "Suppose not." With a grunt, the elder Mr. Darling stands. "I'll look forward to that pudding at dinnertime."

I give him a nod, and he heads off around the house. Sipping my tea, I watch Jackson, my mind chasing fantasies until it's time to start lunch.

The ranchers are all wet and dirty as they file into the dining room. I add a big carafe of hot cider to the table, hoping, in addition to the beef-and-lentil soup, it'll help warm their bones. Jackson is one of the last through the doors, his jeans muddy and hat dripping water onto the floor. He gives me a hint of a smile that makes my stomach swoop before he takes a seat across from me.

From further inside the house, a door opens and then slams shut. Colton's voice follows. "There's gotta be something I can do. It's slander ."

"It's not," Remi says evenly, his voice quieter. Most of the ranchers are occupied with their own conversations, but my ears stay with the Darling brothers as Remi adds, "He didn't say anything bad about you outright."

The two come into the room, Colton snagging a piece of bread off the table as he passes on the way to an empty seat. "He sure as heck implied it," he says, tucking the bread into his mouth and pulling a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He removes the bread to read, "‘If you want the royal treatment, go King. Prime shoeing, compassionate handling, and fair prices. King Farrier Service. Better than the rest.'"

Colton looks around at me and his brothers, waiting for a reaction.

"That's not slander," Jackson says, clearly having heard the beginning of the conversation, same as me.

"The heck it isn't," Colton shoots back, crumpling the clipping in his hasty attempt to fold it back up. He tries again, smoothing the paper before folding it more carefully and slipping it into his pocket. "He implied my services are bad!"

"Eh," Remi hedges.

"I can't believe this," Colton mutters, plunking into his seat and grabbing some more bread. He drops it on his plate as he motions for the soup to be passed. "Of all the people to take his side."

"We're not taking his side," Jackson says. "We know you're the best farrier 'round these parts, Colt."

"I am," Colton says, tucking into his soup. "No one shods better than me."

I choke on my bite of food, coughing roughly.

"All right?" Ira asks, patting my back.

I nod and manage to croak, "Good."

Jackson eyes me in concern, but I wave it off.

"Fine," I say again. "Um…shod?"

"Shoe a horse," Remi fills in, lips quirked.

Right .

Colton grumbles into his soup about Noah fucking King as Jackson asks Remi if the Silkies are staying dry enough. Apparently, that's a concern for the breed of chickens.

As the brothers chat, my eyes stray to Jackson. It's clear he's close to his family. Protective of them, even. It's something I noticed right away, but that impression has only strengthened over time.

I'm close to my mom, too, but not in the same way. We've never been in each other's pockets, never caught up over nightly dinners together or had a large family to call our own. It's not something I thought I missed, but sitting here with the Darlings, with Jackson , I find myself not wanting to let this go.

When the lunch crowd disperses, I start clearing the table. I have the process down to an art now: rinsing the dishes and cutlery, loading up the dishwasher for its second run of the day, storing leftovers in the fridge, and then handwashing the bigger serving dishes and other awkwardly sized items that don't fit in the automatic wash. I fall right into the rhythm of it, humming one of my favorite Johnny Cash covers, my mind wandering as I work.

Which is why, when hands bracket my hips, I nearly jump out of my skin, not having heard anyone approach.

"Jesus," I mutter, letting my shoulders relax as Jackson's familiar body presses to mine. "Do you like scaring me, Jack?"

"Mm," he rumbles, his lips brushing the side of my head. My pulse jumps right back up. "Wasn't trying to scare you."

"What were you trying to do?" I ask, setting the final dish aside and rinsing the soap bubbles off my hands.

He lets out a breath that ruffles my hair, his crotch nudging my ass. "Dunno."

My lips twitch. Among other things . "Was my sitting in a chair and watching you work all morning such a turn-on that you simply couldn't resist coming and feeling me up?" I ask.

"You always turn me on," he answers.

Well, fuck.

Blowing out a breath, I shut off the tap and spin inside the cage of Jackson's arms. He's still damp, so I don't feel too bad about grabbing his ass with my wet hands and bringing us flush together. "Would you show me later?"

He groans so quietly I almost miss it.

"I hope that's a yes, Jackson Darling," I all but whisper. "But if it's not, that's okay, too. I have a hand of my own and the memory of you digging a post hole to keep me company. I'm sure it'd be more than enough to—"

I don't get any more out before Jackson's mouth is on my own. He groans again, louder this time, almost tortured, as he kisses me. His hands find their way into my hair, holding tight. I simply melt. He tastes like rain and apple cider, and he smells a little bit like dirt. I think it might be my new favorite combination.

Jackson isn't tentative as our mouths dance, not this time. He's direct, and he's uninhibited in a way I think he'd be embarrassed about if he had enough thought left to realize exactly how he's kissing me inside his family's kitchen. But considering I can't get a word in edgewise, I don't bother bringing it up. I let him pull me under, my cock hardening against his hip as he pushes me back into the countertop.

When I can finally manage a breath, I murmur his name, a small, " Jack, " stolen from my lips like the breath he's stolen from my lungs. He likes that. He dives back in, his mouth parting my own, his short beard hairs bristling my skin as he angles my head back for easier access. Something clatters to the floor—tongs, I think—as I reach back to steady myself. My other hand grips his jeans tight, fingers indenting into the meat of his ass as I try to pull him closer or— fuck —encourage him to get me off right here in the kitchen, maybe?

I'm about to suggest that very thing when a long, " Oooh, " pierces the air. Jackson jumps, dislodging my grip as he spins toward Colton, who's standing in the doorway with a grin.

"Christ," Jackson grumbles. "Fuck off."

"Getting frisky in the kitchen," Colton says, completely unperturbed by his brother's attitude. "Look at you, man. I'm impressed."

Colton runs off as Jackson takes a step forward, a wise decision on his part. Jackson heaves out a sigh. "He's such a shit."

I rub the back of my hand over my mouth. "Maybe. But he loves you."

Loudly, Jackson says, "A good brother would have just walked past without interrupting."

Colton laughs from elsewhere in the house, and I snort.

"Maybe it was for the best," I admit, grabbing the tongs off the ground and wincing when a muscle in my back pulls tight. "I was about to ask you to show me what else your tongue can do. Although I already know the answer to that, don't I? And it's one I like a lot."

Jackson rubs his neck, back to being adorably flustered. My chest feels almost unbearably hot at the sight, and all I want is to kiss him again. To kiss him and never, ever stop. Instead, I take pity on the man.

"Don't worry about your brother," I tell him seriously. "And for the record"—Jackson's huff has me smirking— "that kiss was well worth being caught. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

His gaze stays on me, blue eyes bright and assessing. I'm not expecting it when he steps in close, hands almost tenderly brushing my hair back before anchoring in the strands. My breath catches when he kisses me again. Lightly. Softly. He pulls back but doesn't leave, not entirely. His nose rests alongside mine for a moment, as if he's breathing me in, and then he lets go.

Hell. The things he says without words.

Jackson clears his throat. "What were you humming when I came in here?"

It takes me a second to remember. "Oh, uh, ‘I Won't Back Down.' Why?"

He shrugs, a small movement. "No reason."

He makes to leave, but I snag his jacket with the tongs. "Hold up. Where are you going?"

"Back to work," he says, looking down at the utensil. "You'll probably wanna wash those again."

"I will," I say. "Am I going to see you later?"

"I'd expect so," he says, brow furrowed.

I bite my tongue. "No, am I going to see you?"

Luckily, I don't have to spell it out further. Jackson shifts, eyes pinging to my lips briefly. "You wanna come over?"

"Yes. Are you inviting me?"

"Yes," he answers, voice low.

I grin, and his eyes drop to my mouth again. "Fuck, Jack, you better get out of here before this kitchen sees some real action."

"I was trying," he says, pointedly eyeing the tongs again. "But somebody stopped me."

I snort, letting him go. "Get," I say, pulling out my inner cowboy. "I'll see you at dinner."

Jackson grunts, taking a step before stopping. "It was worth it to me, too. Just…for the record."

I can hardly contain my grin. "That record keeps growing. Speaking of…"

"Oh boy."

"You never did answer my question about how you like to… ride ."

Jackson rubs his temples, but I swear he's smiling behind his palm.

"So?"

"Nope," he says, spinning on his heel and heading out the door. "I'm not answering that. I've got work to do."

"Oh, come on!" I call, following after him. "Just give me a little something, please? Top? Side? With a crop?"

"Jesus Christ," he grumbles.

"Do you like it rough, like Shorty?"

" Ash ."

"What?" I ask, laughing. "It's a simple question."

"There ain't no simple when it comes to you," he says, stopping abruptly and spinning toward me. " Simple is expected. Simple is easy and boring and routine. You are none of those things. And I can't answer your question because, frankly, I don't know how in the hell I'm supposed to choose. I'm pretty sure I'd like anything and everything with you. So no, it's not simple. Not in the goddamn least."

With that, Jackson hauls the door open and stomps out of the room. I stare after him, my smile hurting my cheeks.

"See you later, darlin'," I shout.

He grunts, the sound nearly swallowed by the rain. My pulse joins the pitter-patter.

I'm way past trouble when it comes to Jackson Darling.