Chapter 9

Ash

There's a smug smile on my face the entire weekend after my visit to Jackson's. Every time I catch the man around the property, he blushes. Blushes . Like the memory of my lips on his own is enough to have him running hot.

Needless to say, I'm on cloud nine. Which is why I'm humming to myself when Marigold comes into the kitchen late Monday morning.

"You're in a good mood," she says, seemingly happy herself. She's wearing a light flannel today, the blue the same color as the sky.

"Hard not to be on a sunny day," I reply, skirting the real reason as to why I'm feeling so darn giddy.

I like Marigold, but there are certain truths she doesn't need to hear from me. Like the fact that I'm lusting after her son.

"By the way," I add, "we're running low on flour and a few other things."

"If you write up a list, I'll have somebody make a run," she says, picking up the empty coffee pot and bringing it to the sink to wash. "Unless you'd rather do it yourself?"

"You don't have to clean that," I tell her. "I was getting there."

She pfts . "It's still my house. I'll clean if I want. The groceries?"

I don't bother arguing with her, having a feeling it'd be futile. "Yeah, I'll do it, if that's okay?"

"Sure is," she says happily. "I'll get keys and a credit card to you after lunch. Now what in the heavens…"

I follow Marigold's gaze out the window. Hank is walking past with a large white mesh hat tucked under his arm. It looks like…

Marigold throws the latch on the window and hoists up the pane. "Hank! Tell me you did not buy bees ."

A beekeeper's hat, that's what it is.

I cover my mouth as the elder Mr. Darling stops, looking toward the house. "Well now," he says loudly, "I would, but I know you don't like it when I lie."

I sputter a laugh as Marigold says, "Bees, Hank? Really?" She slams the window down and hastily dries her hands. "I swear to God, that man has more ambitions than sense. Excuse me."

Mrs. Darling storms gracefully from the room, and I watch out the window as she catches up to her ex-husband. Hank sets the beekeeper's hat on his head and holds his arms wide, as if to say, see? Marigold pinches the bridge of her nose.

I chuckle before getting back to work. It isn't long before I'm setting lunch out along the table in the dining room. Like usual, I leave the dishes stacked near one end, and the ranchers help themselves as they come in. The increase in chatter, the stomping of boots, even the soft scrape of chairs moving in and out has become a soundtrack I'm familiar with.

Colleen, one of the second-shift ranchers who starts work post sunup, gives my arm a soft nudge as she passes. "Morning, Ash. This looks great."

"Thanks," I answer with a smile, taking my own seat. Lunch isn't anything fancy, just tomato soup from scratch, grilled cheese with some gruyere thrown in, and a few sides. But a simplified version of this meal was my favorite as a kid, especially in the fall. Something about warm soup and cold, wet weather has always made me feel cozy.

It's nice to share that with these people.

As I'm loading my plate with a grilled cheese sandwich, my senses prickle. I look up just in time to catch Jackson walking into the room, his hat held down at his side. He's wearing the same worn jeans and plaid shirt I saw him in earlier, but there's a streak of dirt near his temple that wasn't there before. I can't help but wonder what he did to earn it.

Jackson takes a seat across from me, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest of moments before he starts plating up his food. I'm debating an icebreaker that doesn't involve his lips on mine when Colton plops into the seat next to me.

"Hey," he says, reaching across the table to grab two sandwich halves. He drops them on his plate, followed by another, and then practically takes out my eye to reach the soup.

"Jesus, Colton," Jackson grunts. "Watch where you're putting your limbs."

"Sorry," Colton mutters, falling back into his seat and shooting me an apologetic smile.

"It's fine," I tell him, even as Jackson shakes his head. I wonder if he even realizes how often he parents his siblings.

" God ," Colton groans around his food. "That's good."

Jackson grumbles what I think is supposed to be an, "Mhm."

Colleen clucks her tongue from a little further down the table. "I sure hope you offer him more praise than that from time to time, boss. We'd like to keep this one around, you know."

Jackson's cheeks immediately start to redden, and I simply can't help myself.

"Oh, he's plenty sweet," I say, holding my smirk in check. "Isn't that right?"

Colton snorts. "Sure. Sweet . That's our Jackson."

Jackson keeps his gaze on his food, but his chest rises and falls in steady bursts. He's not as unaffected as he pretends to be. What would he look like coming utterly and wholly undone?

I want so badly to find out.

Conversation continues, countless threads carrying on amongst the near twenty lunch-goers. There's no Remi today, but I've noticed it's somewhat of a crapshoot on whether or not he and Colton attend meals. Lawson is generally absent prior to dinner, seeing as he's at the school. And Marigold and Hank come and go as they please.

Jackson is the constant. He's here at nearly every mealtime. I have a sneaking suspicion it's for his employees' benefit. To show up. To be present and a part of their workday.

I admire that.

When lunch wraps up, the ranchers go on their way. There's an auxiliary bathroom attached to the back of the house that most of them use on their way in and out, especially to wash their hands before eating. The family, on the other hand, frequently wander the house itself. Which is why it's no surprise when I cross paths with Jackson on my way into the kitchen. He's filling up his canteen with water.

"Ah, so you do drink something other than coffee," I say, stacking some plates in the sink next to him.

He huffs, which I take to mean duh .

"Can I ask you something? It's not personal," I add when Jackson gives me a cautious look. "Just a question I have about the ranch."

He twists the cap onto his water and settles against the counter. "Sure."

"The whole feeding the employees thing," I say, waving a hand back toward the dining room. "Who started that? I've never heard of something like that outside of maybe a camp or resort, where everyone is stuck on site. But here, it's a given—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for whoever wants it."

Jackson nods, looking lost in thought for a moment. "To be honest, I can't recall if it was my dad or my mom who first suggested it, and they'd probably both try to take the credit. But one way or another, it began when I was around ten. I remember 'cause it was the year the addition was built on the house."

I hum, having wondered about that.

"It's…not just about food," he says slowly. "It's a morale thing. It's comradery. We're not moving herds through the mountains anymore, not like my grandpa used to. But this job, it ain't always easy. Conditions are harsh, and it's not the right fit for everybody. But we've had far less turnover in the past few decades than we used to. Maybe it's not because of shared mealtimes. Maybe it is. I dunno. But it's a tradition we've kept."

"You've kept," I say.

"What?" he grunts.

"It's a tradition you've kept. I know you're in charge around here, Jackson. It's obvious."

He makes a throaty sound, like he's disagreeing with me. "My parents are still involved in the business."

I huff a laugh. "Sure. In name, maybe."

He makes that sound again, but I power on.

"I like it, Jack. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You're a family here. A really big one. And you are the person keeping everyone together. Thanks for—" I shake my head, a little embarrassed. "Thanks for welcoming me into that family, too. It means a lot."

Jackson doesn't seem to know how to respond to that. Not at first. "Everybody's happy you're here," he finally says.

My smile returns. "You, too."

He rolls his eyes. "Now you're fishing."

"Can't say that's ever been my sport," I admit. "Maybe I should learn to ride before picking up the rod."

Jackson blinks at me. "You've never ridden a horse?"

I shrug. "Nope."

He stares at me blankly for exactly two seconds before spinning and flicking on the faucet. "Come on. Let's get these dishes cleaned. You need a damn lesson."

My grin is out in full force now. "That so?"

"You're working on a ranch, Ash. Of course you needa know how to ride. Jesus."

His disgruntled tone has warmth pooling in my gut. I let my arm brush his as I take the plate he rinsed. "If you say so, darlin'."

" Christ . None of that," he grumbles under his breath. "And for the record, I'm not sweet . I don't know where you're getting that."

"Sure, Jack," I reply lightly, loading the dish into the washer.

He shakes his head, making a put-upon sound, but he keeps handing me dishes, and in no time at all, we've worked through the mess from lunch. I run upstairs to grab a light jacket before the pair of us head outside.

Jackson leads me across the ranch toward the stables. "So, here's the short of it," he says, all business. "Never stand behind a horse. That's just asking for trouble. Meet them head on, like you would a person. Be gentle. Respectful. The ones we have here know what they're doing, so trust 'em."

"Trust the horse. Got it."

"Loose reins to hold steady," he says, slowing down as we reach the entrance to the barn. "You tug and they'll slow, stop, or eventually back up. Squeeze your legs and dig in your heels and they'll pick up the pace."

I cough a laugh, my mind dropping right into the gutter. Jackson looks at me in concern, until understanding lights his eyes.

"It's not that kinda riding," he intones.

"Hey, you said it, not me."

He heaves a sigh, but I swear there's a smile on his face. A tiny one. "This is Shorty," he says, stopping in front of a stall.

I look in. And then up. And then up some more. "Good grief, Jackson. Don't you think that's false advertising?"

He snorts before opening the stall door. Holding out his hand, he clicks his tongue. Shorty, the tallest horse I've ever had the honor of meeting, snuffles his palm. Jackson pats his—or her? No, definitely his—neck before looking back at me.

"Shorty is a gentle giant. He'll treat you right."

I can't help but smirk. "Sounds like a good time to me."

That blush returns to Jackson's cheeks, but he doesn't take the bait. "Come on. Let's get 'im saddled outside, and then you can hop on top." He stills. "Not like that ."

I hold up my hands placatingly. "Hey. Top, bottom, I'm fine with either. Sides are good, too. You know, for that record we're keeping."

Jackson closes his eyes, taking in a slow breath. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, following quickly by, " Don't answer that."

I wave him forward, battling my laughter. "After you and Shorty."

Jackson leads the beast of a horse out of the stall and into the open before looping his lead around a post. Then he leaves me with the horse while he collects gear.

I eye Shorty and hold out a hand the same way Jackson did. He's a pretty horse, all shiny brown with a white stripe running down the center of his nose. Shorty, presumably having deemed me worthy, greets my palm, his breath puffing hotly against my skin. The tickling sensation has me chuckling. "You're not so bad, huh?"

Jackson returns, a saddle and some other items in his hands. If he caught me talking to Shorty, he doesn't mention it. He explains the various pieces of equipment he's holding and how to dress a horse. First, he removes the simple halter Shorty is wearing and puts on a more complicated bridle. Next, he lays a saddle pad down on the horse's back, followed by the leather saddle, which he cinches under Shorty's belly. He adjusts the length of the stirrups for my legs and goes over the proper way to hold the reins in one hand. And then he waves me forward.

"Hold here," he tells me, putting his own hand on the horn of the saddle. He taps the stirrup closest to us. "Then put your foot in here and pull yourself up."

"Just like that?" I ask.

"Just like that."

"All right," I mutter, getting into place. Jackson steps out of the way, watching as I ready myself. I pull in a breath, then another, and then I hoist myself up.

I don't make it.

Jackson rushes in as I stumble backwards, his hand holding tight to my hip as I regain my balance.

"That went well," I say mildly.

He huffs a laugh, which has me grinning. "You're green. It's to be expected. Try again," he says, letting go and stepping back.

I stick my foot in the stirrup and look over my shoulder. "Maybe I need a boost."

"You don't need a boost," he says flatly.

"I think I do," I hedge, well aware my jeans are pulling tight against my ass in this position. "What harm could it do?"

"Plenty, I'm sure," Jackson mumbles.

I flash him my winningest smile. "Please?"

Jackson eyes me for an extended beat, and then, much to my surprise, he steps forward, plants his hand on my ass, and says, "Lift."

I jump, and he pushes. This time, my leg sweeps cleanly over the top of the horse, and Jackson lets go as my butt hits the saddle. My pulse sprints like I just ran a mile. Well, then.

Jackson clears his throat. "There. You're up."

"On top," I clarify.

"Jesus," he groans. But he dutifully helps me get my feet positioned in the stirrups. I shift a little, testing the sturdiness of my position.

"Out of curiosity," I say slowly, unable to help myself, "which do you prefer when you're…riding? Top or—"

"I'm not answering that," he cuts in, scooping up the reins and handing them over. "Here. Pull left to turn the horse left. Right to go right."

"Easy enough," I mutter, bracing myself as Jackson gives Shorty's bridle a gentle tug. He eases the horse around and leads us out toward a clear area of grass, where the ground is slightly trampled and there are no obstacles for us to hit.

"Keep a loose hold on the reins," Jackson reminds me, walking Shorty in a large circle. "Knees wide. Once you have a feel for the motion, I'll let go."

" Knees wide . Like I have much of a choice," I point out, giving Shorty's neck a gentle pat. "But we like 'em thick, don't we? Yes, we do."

"Christ," Jackson mutters, turning his face away. "There you go again, babying the animals."

I snort, pretty sure that's not what has him so rattled. Leaning down, I whisper to the horse, "Don't listen to him. You're a good boy. Even if I'll be walking funny later, thanks to you."

Jackson coughs, letting go of the reins. "Think you're set."

I nearly squawk, gripping the thin strips of leather tightly. Shorty's head comes up, and then he takes a step back. "Shit, shit," I mutter. "I'm in reverse."

I'm fairly certain Jackson is laughing his head off, but I'm too focused on not coming to an equine-related end to check. I loosen the reins, and Shorty stops, his ears flicking once. Okay . Crisis averted. Now to go forward… I squeeze my legs, but nothing happens.

"Like you mean it," Jackson says.

I look over at him, lifting an eyebrow. "Shorty likes it rough?"

His lips twitch, but, otherwise, he doesn't react. Arms crossed, he says, "He's a horse. You're a tiny human."

"Excuse me? Tiny?"

"Squeeze 'im like you mean it."

"So many things I want to say," I mumble. I squeeze my legs, getting my heels involved. After a single stutter step, Shorty starts walking. "Holy shit."

This time, Jackson definitely chuckles. "Try turning."

Gently, I pull the reins to the left. Shorty turns that way, moving in a wide arc.

"Good," Jackson says. "Ready to gallop?"

"What?" I nearly shout.

He booms a laugh, and it's so unexpected and, frankly, mesmerizing, that I stare at him. He never put his hat back on after lunch, so I can see the crystalline blue of his irises in the sun. And his cheeks are pulled into a grin, enhancing the subtle lines at the edges of his eyes.

It's gorgeous. He's gorgeous.

"The great Jackson Darling," I say in wonder. "Making a joke. I never thought I'd see the day."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, flicking a hand toward me and the horse. His smile, however, doesn't quite falter. "Why don't you try having him stop. Just stop, not reverse."

"Har har," I answer, pulling gently on the reins. Shorty slows, and once he stops completely, I let go and turn to Jackson. "How'd I do?"

"Pretty good, sunshine. There's hope for you yet."

I grin, my insides hotter than that sun beating down against the back of my neck.

Oh, there's hope, all right. Plenty of it.