Chapter 8

Jackson

Fall hits swiftly.

One day, it's sixty degrees out and sunny. And the next, the temperature is dropping into the low forties and it's spitting rain, dampening the fields and making everybody, cattle included, miserable.

Everybody but one person, it seems.

"God, that's gorgeous," Ash says, standing in front of the big windows at the back of the house. The dining room has already cleared out, the lunch crowd having gone back to work. There's a mop in Ash's hand, but the mud on the floors seems to have been temporarily forgotten. "Don't you think that's gorgeous?"

It takes me a moment to move my focus off of him . Outside, the rain has cast a haze over everything, field and skyline both. "It's…gray."

I grunt when Ash whacks me on the chest.

"Gray can be gorgeous, too," he says, shaking his head.

The brief flash of his smiling eyes is proof I can't argue with.

When I turn around, trying to focus on the reason I came back here in the first place, Ash says, "Your hat is in the hall. It was hanging on your seat, but I set it aside when I flipped the chairs up to clean. You guys are a mess, you know that? Not that I'm complaining. Just stating a fact."

Surprised he knew what I was looking for without my asking, I nod and head out into the hall. The hat is right where Ash said it'd be, on the old worn hutch. I plop the slightly damp material on my head and walk back through the dining room.

Before I can reach the door, Ash says, "You're quiet today."

I stop and look at him. "I'm always quiet."

His lips twist. "No, you're not. Short isn't the same as quiet."

He ignores my grunt.

"Is it the rain?" he asks, spinning the mop handle in his hands. His hair is curling more today, maybe because of the humidity. There's a piece hitting his cheek, and for a second, I wait for him to tuck it back behind his ear. He doesn't.

"Nobody's in a good mood when it rains," I point out.

His grin challenges that. "Sure," he says easily. And then, "You look good wet, though."

I pull in a breath.

Ash laughs as I storm out the door. He follows me, standing just inside the doorway as he calls, "Think we'll get a rainbow later?"

I flick my hand over my shoulder.

"Have a good rest of your day, darlin'," he yells.

The door thuds shut, and I shake my head, ignoring the stutter in my chest. Days. It's been days of this. The flirting. The… darlin' .

I should tell him to stop.

I damn well should.

"He's gone too far this time!" comes a shout.

I whirl around in alarm, finding Colton striding my way. "What?" I ask. Surely my brother isn't talking about…

"Noah fucking King," he says, brandishing his phone and coming to a stop in front of me. "He stole another client right out from under me. I just got off the phone with the McGregors. Their horse, Belinda, loved me, and Noah undercut my prices and took 'em."

I let out a sigh. "You know that's how business—"

"Oh, I think not," Colton says, his blue eyes spitting fire. "It's personal with him. It's always personal."

"You two need to let bygones be bygones already," I mutter, heading toward the horse barn.

He lets out a pft , keeping in step next to me as the rain comes down, more like a mist than falling drops. "There's no rationalizing with that man, Jackson. He's had it out for me since the beginning."

"You don't help."

He lets out an affronted sound.

"You don't," I reply, despite his obvious ire. "You two are like dogs, yapping at each other through the fence. One day, that fence is going to crack, and one or both of you are gonna get bit."

He looks at me in what might be confusion or possibly shock before shaking his head. "We're not dogs . And I'm not the problem."

"Sure," I say.

"I'm not ."

I don't argue it further, and Colton is quiet beside me as we reach the barn. I expect him to stew about his rival for a few more minutes before heading on his way, but he sticks close, trailing me to the tack room.

"By the way," he hems in a tone I don't much care for, "did I just hear Ashley call you darlin'?"

Oh Lord.

"No," I lie.

"It's cute," he says, grinning like a fool. "He's keen on you."

"You sound twelve," I grumble.

"What twelve-year-olds do you know that say ‘keen?'" he asks. "It's okay to like him, you know."

I open my mouth to respond—with what, I don't know—but I don't have time before my brother thumps me on the shoulder.

"Later," he says, walking off just as succinctly as he arrived. I assume I'm alone— blessedly —but a soft sound to my left alerts me otherwise.

"Jesus, Remi," I say, switching to ASL when I see he's not wearing his processor. ‘Stop sneaking around.'

He snorts, hands moving fast. ‘Not my fault you were in your head and didn't notice me.'

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, shaking my hand to wave him off. Turning, I start collecting some tack that needs repairs. There's a leatherworker in town who does the work for us.

Remi makes a soft sound, drawing my attention. ‘Can I ask you something?' he signs, a contemplative expression on his face. ‘Serious question.'

Fuck. As if I can deny my brother.

I nod.

‘What do you see for yourself, Jackson? You and Otto were talking about marriage before he left.'

Remi's reminder is like a punch to my gut, but he goes on, his hands and arms relaxed but moving swiftly.

‘Do you want to build a life with someone? Or did he take that away from you?'

I scrub my hands over my eyes, stalling more than anything. A year ago or certainly two, I would have said no , that I didn't want that anymore. That he'd crushed that dream under his boot as he walked out of my life.

But now? Time really does heal. It heals broken hearts, fractured memories. It heals those places in us that feel endlessly gaping and painfully raw. Maybe it's because we forget. We can't hold on to those fragments like we once could. But in the end, I'll take getting older and forgetting over hanging on to the sharp edges of my past.

‘I want that,' I finally sign.

My brother nods once. "You'll get it, Jackson," he says, sounding so sure.

A part of me wants to believe him. A part of me is scared to hope.

‘And you?' I sign. ‘What do you want?'

It's easy to look at Remi and see only my baby brother, but he's nearly thirty. He's not a kid anymore, and conversations like this remind me of his age and the fact that he likely has his own dreams that could very well extend beyond these boundary lines.

Remi shrugs, a loose, casual motion. ‘I'm happy with where I am,' he signs. ‘If I meet someone… They'd need to fit into that. Not change it.'

I clasp my brother's shoulder, squeezing once. ‘I love you,' I tell him, the words shaped with my hand as well as my lips.

Remi rolls his eyes, but he returns the sentiment with crossed fingers, emphasizing the meaning. I swear he mutters something that sounds an awful lot like "big softie," but I probably just heard him wrong.

My brother goes back to tending to the horses and mucking empty stalls as I collect the tack to bring into town. Despite my best efforts, I can't get his—or Colton's—words out of my head. All day, they stay with me like the scent of livestock, sticking to my clothes and my skin and burrowing under my very fingernails. I pick at them for hours, trying to loosen their hold, but they don't budge.

I do want someone to call my own. But I'm under no delusions of that being an easy task. I live on my family's ranch at forty, my job is demanding and can be, at times, a twenty-four/seven commitment, and I'm not exactly a honey-coated treat. I'm set in my ways, abrasive, downright difficult.

It took time for Otto to find my charms, buried and few as they are. And in the end, even he didn't judge me as worthy. He came, and he left, and now I'm still here, picking up the pieces of the life I thought I'd live, trying to mash them into a recognizable shape again.

Like Remi, I could be happy on my own. I know I could. But I do want more. I dream of it, even though I long ago told myself to stop.

I want warm skin pressed against mine at night. I want to dig my fingertips into muscle and hear the sounds of someone unraveling because of my touch. I want to see that look in their eyes that lets me know I'm seen, I'm heard, I'm loved.

Goddamn it, I want love.

And it feels like the worst fucking thing.

I miss dinner hour at the ranch, not returning home until long past eight. My dad waves at me from the rocker outside his cottage as I drive past. I slow to a stop and roll down my window.

"You're soaking wet," I call.

"It's raining," he answers. I stare, and he says, "What? Were we not stating facts?"

I shake my head, flicking a quick goodbye as I roll up the window. No point in trying to understand that man. When I get to my house, I kick off my muddy boots and carry them inside to be washed later. Unlike my dad, I do my soaking in the shower, washing off the day's grime and lingering for a few minutes, letting the hot water soothe my tired muscles.

My thoughts, much to my consternation, return to Ash.

I never would've guessed that the sunshiny man who's invaded my life is living with chronic back pain. He sure doesn't show it. Apart from the time I caught him with the heat pad and maybe a wince here or there, he's always smiling, always happy. Is it fake? It doesn't feel it.

I've had my fair share of aches and pains, of course, and part of that, I'm certain, simply comes with aging. But it's not every day. It's not every single day .

Goddamn it . I don't know why I even care.

I shut off the shower and step out of the tub in a swirl of steam. As I'm drying off, I hear what might be a knock. Detouring to my bedroom, I pull on underwear and jeans, and then I head for the door.

I'm not expecting Ash to be the one standing on my porch, but there he is, hair dampened from the rain and eyes widening as he takes me in, his gaze running over my bare torso for far longer than is polite.

"Need something?" I grunt, not liking the way that gaze feels. Not liking the heat in it. How it has my blood sizzling in response.

Ash huffs a small laugh before meeting my eyes. "Hi," he says breezily. "So you missed dinner, and everyone assured me it wasn't because you were eating elsewhere, so here." He shoves a tinfoil-covered plate at me. " And …" He pulls a bottle of Darling Whiskey out from behind his back. "I brought this as a bribe so you'd let me join you. So… Can I join you?"

I look at the whiskey in Ash's hand. At his earnest expression and the painfully beautiful face I've tried so hard to ignore. At the blonde hair breaking like waves over his temple and around his ears. At his broad shoulders and straight nose and those stormy eyes that are begging me without words.

No , I want to say. Yes , my brain whispers.

Ash looks victorious as I take a step back. He sweeps inside, carefully removing his shoes and walking into my house as if he's already comfortable in my space. His hand drifts along the edge of my couch as he passes through the living room, a slow, tortuous process.

"You'll probably want to reheat the food," he says, not even looking back at me. He's in my kitchen now, opening cupboards. He makes an aha sound as he finds the glasses, grabbing two in one hand before he heads to my table. "Coming?"

Everything about this man is dangerous. Yet I find my feet carrying me forward anyway.

Deciding my safest bet is to focus on the food, I remove the foil and place the plate in the microwave. When I turn around, Ash is pouring a couple fingers of whiskey into each of the glasses. He takes a seat, utterly relaxed, his foot propped up on the edge of his chair and his arm hanging loosely over his knee. His eyes rake down my torso again as he takes a small sip of the amber-brown liquid, and I'm reminded of the fact that I'm not wearing a shirt.

The microwave beeps, and I turn away, heart thudding.

Ash is quiet as I take a seat near him. His closeness unsettles me. The man unsettles me.

"It's good," I tell him after a minute.

"Glad you like it."

"Mm."

We go quiet again, and Ash twirls his glass in one hand, the liquid shifting like a gently rolling sea.

"How's, uh…your back?" I ask.

His smile grows slightly. "Better. Thanks for the medicine you brought."

I nod, and Ash's lips twitch, drawing my eye down to the small divot in his chin. Such a masculine feature on such a pretty face. It'd be the perfect spot for my thumb to grab a hold of while I—

Fuck .

I avert my gaze, cheeks hot, my body coming to life in a way I haven't experienced in so very long. I grab my whiskey in an attempt to drown out the images in my mind, but it doesn't work. They only burn brighter, the alcohol lighting a fuse as it forges a path across my tongue.

I feel reckless.

I don't like it. And I crave it.

"Jackson," Ash says, his foot moving from the edge of his chair to the top of my thigh. I freeze, everything in me drawing tight. "Are you open to being propositioned?"

Jesus Christ . The candidness of this man.

I can't answer him. I don't know what I'd say. I'm afraid if I open my mouth, the answer will be yes .

I grab Ash's ankle, intent on pushing him away. Somehow, my grip only tightens.

Ash notices. Of course he does. He leans forward, his gaze holding mine, challenging. "I propose," he says slowly, "that we kiss. Because see? I have this theory about you, and I want to know if I'm right."

I can't think. Can't remember why I thought this was a bad idea.

"Jack," he says softly, his toes curling against the top of my leg.

It's my name—that single syllable spoken with so much longing—that does it.

I tug Ash's ankle. His eyes widen for only a fraction of a second, and then he's moving, following my pull. Our mouths clash as Ash grabs hold of my knee to steady himself, his fingers digging in. My hand grips his jaw tight, keeping him in place or—I don't know—maybe trying to bring him closer. For a moment, it's chaos, frantic and precarious, like a newborn foal.

But then Ash pushes forward again, abandoning his chair and climbing onto my lap. His hands thread into my hair, tugging, urging me to settle, and fuck . I subside, letting him control me, letting him lead me like I'm the damn foal. His lips brush mine, softer now, coaxing me open, his tongue sending a shock through my system as it greets my own.

Dangerous . So fucking dangerous.

He doesn't let me up for air, not for long minutes. I'd forgotten how good it feels to kiss . To be connected to someone in this way. To feel lust and want coalescing like possibilities I want to chase.

I wasn't expecting this. Any of it. Ash came into my life like a sudden easterly wind, with a smile brighter than the sunlit sky, and now he's in my lap, his mouth and mine learning each other's language. He's kissing me like he wants to know me, or maybe like he already does.

It's glorious. It's terrifying. I don't want it to ever end.

Ash's sigh against my mouth is what finally has my rationale returning. Because it feels like he's surrendering, too. And damn it all, I'm not prepared to have that kind of control over this man. Not yet.

He must feel me tense because, slowly, he pulls back. I regret it when his lips feather away from my own.

"Mm," he hums, his hair tickling my face as he kisses my cheekbone once. His voice settles close to my ear. "Exactly like I thought. So. Very. Sweet."

I pull in a shaky breath as Ash lets go of my hair and climbs off my lap. He picks up his drink, finishing the whiskey in a neat gulp, and then he sets down the glass with a soft thunk.

"I'm going to have you, Jackson Darling," he declares with all the confidence of a man who already knows he's won. "When you're ready, I'll be waiting."

With that, he walks out my door, leaving the memory of him branded like whiskey on my tongue.