Chapter 21

Ash

"I should've known," Jackson says, managing to sound both soft and surly at the same time. It's a true talent.

"Known what?" I ask, stepping around a child in my path. The caramel apple in their hand is nearly as big as their face.

"That you were planning on bringing me here," he answers, meeting my gaze as the two of us amble slowly past the booths and entertainment at the Darling Autumnfest. He's not wearing a hat tonight, and it looks as if he actually attempted to tame his hair. Attempted being the key word, seeing as the strands are stubbornly refusing to stay put.

Reminds me of their owner.

"You look nice," I tell him, realizing I failed to do so when I picked him up. "I like the ring. Is it new?"

I've never seen him wear one before, but Jackson simply grunts, twirling the metal on his finger. "It was a gift," he says a little gruffly. "From Colt."

It takes me a moment to parse through his meaning, but then I smile. "Did your brother help you get ready for our date?"

Jackson's face immediately settles into a scowl. "Not help. Hinder ."

I laugh at his put-out expression. "And the leather bracelet?" I ask. It's nice, but again, not something I've seen on Jackson before. He's far too practical to wear jewelry around the ranch.

He sighs, long and low. "My niece."

I bite my lip, wondering how many of Jackson's family members showed up to primp him before our first official date. It's sweet that they care. And it says a lot about Jackson that he didn't want to hurt their feelings by refusing their… help .

"Well, Colton and Wendy did good," I tell him. "But, for the record…you'd look nice whether covered in jewelry or wearing absolutely nothing at all."

The look he sends me is sharp, a warning perhaps because of our location. But I only grin, not above ruffling Jackson's feathers given the chance.

"What should we do first?" I ask, slowing to look at a booth full of fall-scented candles. When Jackson doesn't answer, I find him staring in the opposite direction. "Hungry?"

He doesn't respond, simply walks over to the vendor selling sugar-covered donuts. Curious, I follow.

"One," he says briskly, pulling his wallet from his pocket. I watch him exchange goods before shoving his wallet away. When he walks off wordlessly, a single apple cider donut in his hand, I start to get concerned.

"Jackson?" I ask, hastening to keep up.

He doesn't slow. He weaves through the crowd, past families and children, around pet dogs and one leashed goat. Once he clears the rows of booths, he heads toward the trees nearby.

"Jack," I call, jogging after him.

Jackson stops in front of a big pine and, without any preamble whatsoever, chucks the donut at the tree. It hits the trunk, crumbling apart on impact, sugar and dough blasting outwards in an impressive display.

I turn to look at Jackson. "What was that ?"

His chest rises and falls, jaw set. "Otto," he says simply.

Oh . "That donut has to do with Otto?"

He nods in a sharp jerk, staring at the specks of sugar on the bark of the tree.

"Well, then," I mutter, turning right back around.

"Where are you—"

"Be right back," I call.

I jog all the way back to the donut vendor, pay for a baker's dozen, and then return to where Jackson is still standing just outside the festival's main grounds. He looks less ruffled than he did a minute ago, but his brows still draw together when I thrust the wax bag his way.

"Have at it," I tell him, catching my breath.

He looks between me and the bag before, slowly , accepting the offering. Turning, he plucks out a donut, weighing it carefully in his hand as one would a baseball, and then he pitches it at the tree. Like the first, it puffs apart, pieces flying in all directions.

"Fuck," he mutters, grabbing another. Jackson tosses five donuts, one right after another, before he holds the bag out my way. "You go."

"Really?" I ask, unable to temper my grin.

He nods.

I pick a donut out of the bag and hurl it at the tree, laughing when it crumbles. "Shit, that's fun."

"Right?" Jackson says, tossing another. He huffs what might be a laugh, the tension in his shoulders starting to recede.

Jackson and I alternate, tossing the rest of the donuts until we're down to just one. Instead of throwing it, Jackson examines that donut for a long minute. Finally, he holds it out toward my mouth.

"Here," he says a little roughly. "They're actually pretty good."

Eyes on Jackson, I take a bite out of the donut. Sugar sticks to my lips as I chew, and his gaze drops, tracking the movement. He lets out a breath before popping a chunk of the fried dough into his own mouth. He offers me the last piece and then dusts off his hands.

When Jackson takes a seat on the grass, I follow suit. The festival is loud behind us, but no one is venturing out into this area, so we're afforded some privacy. Jackson crumples up the wax bag into a tiny ball.

"Was it a bad idea coming here?" I ask. Marigold mentioned Jackson hadn't been in years, but I didn't anticipate Otto being the cause. If I'd known, I would have suggested something else.

Jackson shakes his head slowly. "No. It was time. I don't…" He pauses, thinking over his words. "I've let him take from me for far too long. It's time for it to stop."

I nod, understanding that deeply. When I offer my hand, Jackson accepts it, his palm warm and fingertips callused. I have no intention of pushing him to talk about his ex, and certainly not here, but Jackson goes on, as if expecting me to.

"I'll tell you about him," he says, expression pinched. "Eventually."

A few fallen leaves crunch beneath my knee as I shift his way. "You don't have to, Jack. I don't need all the details, and you don't owe them to me in the first place. If you want to talk, I'll listen. Always. But I don't need you to lay your past bare for me , okay? Only if it'd help you ."

He runs one roughened finger along the side of my hand, stroking up and down. Up and down. "I'm past it. Him . I swear I am, but I guess I'm still just…"

"Processing?" I offer.

He nods, eyes pinging up to mine. "I'm not in love with him anymore," he says, voice firm. "I'm not."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, Jack. I believe you."

He huffs again, the sound begrudgingly amused. A child laughs from somewhere behind us, and I give Jackson's hand a squeeze.

"Anything else we should smash?" I ask. "I saw some lovely candles back there."

He snorts, pushing to his feetand pulling me up with him. "I don't think that'll be necessary."

"You sure? It was kind of hot watching you go to town on those donuts."

Jackson shakes his head, drawing me in for a kiss. Or at least I'm expecting a kiss. Instead, he licks the corner of my mouth, causing a full body shiver to roll down my frame.

"Sugar," he says in explanation.

I nod weakly, my feet taking a moment to catch up as Jackson tugs me back toward the festival.

Jackson tosses the trash from our donuts into a bin as we pass. A few kids run across the path in front of us, their headbands trailing ribbons in autumnal colors. Some folks are sitting on benches nearby, eating dinner or snacking on Darling's version of homemade carnival food. Jackson leads me over to a booth for the town's distillery.

My lips curve into a smile when Jackson orders two whiskey ciders. I accept mine with a thanks , the paper cup warm between my palms. A band starts playing nearby, and we head that way, sipping our drinks as we stop to listen to the music. Jackson doesn't seem to have a problem with PDA because he tugs me close, an arm looped around my stomach, my back to his chest. I don't mind it one bit, and I trust Jackson to know his town's attitude when it comes to queer relationships in the open.

By six-thirty, the sun is setting, and many of the families are beginning to pack up and head home. Seeing as it's Sunday, some of the vendors are preparing to close up shop, too, displaying signs for discounts on their remaining wares. Jackson and I grab a couple maple bacon burgers, eating as we walk.

I don't think he realizes I have a particular destination in mind until it's too late.

The first moonlight carriage rides are just departing when Jackson and I arrive. He still has a bite of burger in his mouth, so all he can do is offer a reproachful look as I join the short line.

Once his food is finished, he tosses his trash and walks over. "Someone put you up to this," he mumbles.

"Why would you say that?" I ask, feigning ignorance. And great , now I sound just like Marigold.

"Because," Jackson says slowly, "you're not the type for grand gestures and showing off. This has my mother written all over it."

My heart beats wildly, Jackson's casual— and correct —assessment surprising me. I'm not quite sure how he managed to peg me in such a short period of time.

"Well, I think it's romantic," I say. Or so I've heard. "And it'll just be the two of us. How is that showy?"

"It's fifty bucks," he says quietly. "You realize that, right?"

"It's on me," I fire back. "And look—proceeds support the local 4-H club."

Jackson grumbles some more, but I know I have him hooked when he steps up next to me and places his hand on the small of my back to move us forward. Such a gentleman, whether or not he realizes it.

When it's our turn to board a carriage, I hop up easily. Jackson follows me, settling beside me on the small padded bench that faces forward. I'm not sure what I envisioned when I first heard moonlight carriage rides , but this so-called carriage is more of a buggy. It's tiny, with a top opened up to the air and a coachman sitting in a raised chair directly behind the horses. Their brown tails swoosh as we set into motion.

"Nice evening, isn't it?" our coachman says, turning his head slightly.

It only takes me a second to place him. "Earl?"

The man who first gave me a ride into town in his beat-up truck looks back, recognition lighting his eyes. "The newcomer. Ash. You're still here?"

I huff a laugh. "Still here. How's Misty?"

He hums, swaying slightly as the horses move us forward. "She's just fine, thanks for asking. How 'bout that car of yours? Did Ratchet get 'er running?"

"Scrapped," I tell him.

He makes a sympathetic sound. "That's a shame. I had a car like yours when I was a young buck. Lasted a good, long while before it went to parts. Most of the guts were rusted right through. Had to pitch 'em in the dump."

Jackson gives my knee a squeeze, mouthing the word "romantic" with an expression far sassier than I would've thought him capable of. I swat his leg, biting back my laughter. Unfortunately, one of the horses takes that moment to let out some gas. The squeak lasts for several seconds.

Jackson is shaking, his hand over his mouth, as I try my very best not to make a sound. His fingers dig into my leg.

"You folks enjoy the festival?" Earl asks, completely oblivious to the downward spiral of our supposedly romantic evening.

"Sure did," I tell him. "Donuts were great."

Jackson coughs.

Earl simply hums. "My cousin makes those. You shoulda seen the prep that went into this weekend. First, there was the batter…"

As Earl regales Jackson and me with a detailed description of the donut-making process, including the right way to hole a donut— "you see, some folks stretch the hole, and others punch it" —Jackson's hand remains on my knee, his thumb drifting ever so slightly. It's a distraction that has me missing a good portion of Earl's ramblings, but I don't think the man minds.

When we round a corner, heading back in the direction of the festival, I finally set eyes on the moon. It's big and round in the sky, beautiful, and I'm about to point it out to Jackson when our carriage comes to an abrupt halt.

"Whoops," Earl says. "One of the horses has a little business to attend to."

I open my mouth to question what sort of business a horse might possibly have when a tail lifts into the air.

Oh . Oh, no.

It's all I can do not to react when the horse's business plops audibly onto the concrete. I can feel Jackson's eyes boring into the side of my head, but I refuse to look.

"There we are," Earl says, hopping down to take care of the mess.

Jackson squeezes my leg again, but I shake my head, staring resolutely at the moon.

We get back on the road before long, and it only takes another minute before our carriage is slowing to a stop.

"Hope you folks enjoyed the ride," Earl says kindly, tipping his hat. "Have a fine rest of your evening."

"Thank you, Earl. It was lovely," I tell the man, stepping out after Jackson. "See you around."

Earl nods, and another couple boards the carriage behind us as Jackson and I head toward the festival.

"Not a word," I warn him. "I tried, okay?"

Jackson gives my arm a gentle tug, pulling me to a stop. When I bring my eyes up to his, the often hard lines of his face are settled into something soft and tender. "You did," he says, and unless I'm mistaken, he sounds appreciative of that fact. "Come on. I have an idea."

"Yeah? Something to salvage this disaster of a night?" I only half-joke.

"I happened to like this night," he says as we walk back into the crowd. "Talk of exes and horse dung included."

I grab my chest. "Shit, Jack. I think that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."

He snorts, grabbing the back of my neck and kissing my temple. I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.

Jackson leads me through the rows of booths, back over to the Darling Whiskey stand, where he forks over enough cash to grab a growler of cooled whiskey cider. We pass his family's booth on our way out of the festival, Remi wavingat us from where he's boxing up their display. Before long, we're on the road.

Instead of having me drive back to his house, Jackson directs me down the gravel path to the horse barn.

"We're not doing a drunken trail ride, are we?" I check. "Because I'm not sure that'd be a wise decision, Jack."

He shakes his head, fighting a smile as we get out of the company truck. "No, we're not."

"Okay. So…"

"Just c'mon," he grumbles.

I chuckle, trailing after him into the barn. Jackson flips on a single overhead light that illuminates the hallway but not the horse stalls, and then he grabs a rope dangling from the ceiling. A hatch door opens as he tugs, a ladder coming down with it that Jackson settles onto the ground.

I peer up into the darkened space. "What's up there?"

"Hayloft," he answers.

I swing my gaze his way slowly. "Jackson Darling. Is your idea of romance a romp in the hay? Because that might be the most country thing I've ever heard."

He looks heavenward, as if asking for patience. "Just get up the ladder, Ash."

"Yessir," I mutter, stepping onto the bottom rung. Once I reach the top, I ease onto the platform and wait for Jackson to join me. It's too dark to see where to go.

After lifting himself up, he walks past me, his boots crunching over hay. There's a click of a lock, and then moonlight floods the loft.

"Is that a door?" I ask, heading his way. Jackson is standing beside an open space. There's nothing in front of it. No stairs to the ground or even a railing to stop someone from tumbling through.

"Mhm. Access door for the hay," he explains. "It gets lifted up through here."

"Long way to fall," I note.

"Which is why it's better not to."

"You're just full of it tonight, aren't you?" I snark, chuckling when Jackson snags me around the middle. He tugs me back toward the towering piles of hay, and we go tumbling down. My laughter gets lost in my throat when Jackson's mouth finds mine, warm and insistent. He presses into me, grinding , and my thoughts scatter. " Jack ."

He eases back, sitting upright, his weight on my hips stopping me from chasing. My breath comes out in short pants as he twists the cap off the growler.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Jackson doesn't answer, not verbally. He pushes my jacket and shirt up, his hand warm on my skin, his thumb stroking near my navel. Slowly, he tips the growler over my stomach.

Cool whiskey cider pools in my belly button, some of it spilling out when I gasp. Even though I know exactly what's coming, it still takes me by surprise when Jackson scoots back and runs his tongue up my happy trail, into my navel.

"Fuck," I mutter, hips punching up.

Jackson's grip holds me steady, his lips sucking up the liquid as I squirm.

My head plunks back against the hay as he sits up again, lifting the growler for a second time. He looks silver in the moonlight streaming through the open door, and my heart races at the sight of him, a thump-thump I have no hope of controlling.

"Christ, Jack," I nearly rasp. "What are you doing to me?"

Jackson tips another small amount of liquid over my belly button. "Romancing you."

Two words. Two simple words, and I know I'm gone.

With a Montana cowboy between my legs in a hayloft and whiskey pooling on my stomach, I've gone and fallen.

And I have no desire to get back up again.