Leap of Faith

Chestnut Ridge,
Kershaw Ranch

Jackson was kneeling in his bedroom, elbows resting on his thighs, staring at the box in front of him like it might bite. Bri’s things had lingered too long—shirts she never cared enough to take, a dusty box of trinkets that didn’t mean much to her but somehow still felt like they carried weight. He wasn’t sentimental. Damn sure tried not to be. But packing it all up felt like closing the last page of a book he hadn’t wanted to finish.

The windows were open, letting in the heavy heat of the afternoon, but the breeze barely stirred. Outside, the ranch hummed with quiet activity—horses shifting in the paddock, the faint sound of boots on dirt.

Beau had been lounging on the couch, nose buried in a comic book, when a sharp knock hit the door.

“Get that, will ya? Gotta be the new ranchhand. Billy somethin’ rather. ‘Bout dang ole time we get more hands here. Tell him I’ll be right out to give him the rundown,” Jackson muttered, taping up the last box.

Beau sighed, set his book down, and trudged over. He yanked open the door, then went rigid like he’d just seen a ghost—or worse.

“Uh, Pa? Problem.”

Jackson exhaled slowly, already annoyed. “Don’t tell me it’s Taylor again.”

“Nah, ain’t Taylor,” Beau muttered, like he didn’t quite know how to phrase the next part. “But… yer new ranchhand ain’t quite what ya might be thinkin’.”

That got his attention.

Jackson pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he stepped out of the bedroom. The front door was past the couch, across the living room and kitchen area, out of sight. He couldn’t see who was there without walking over, but Beau’s tone had him bracing for something unexpected.

The ranch hand he hired had come recommended, damn near praised by Tucker over at the neighboring spread. Someone reliable, no-nonsense, good with horses, didn’t ask stupid questions. Jackson had liked the sound of him.

Billy Ray Boone. Tough name. Made sense. Jackson remembered joking when hearing the name “Ain’t hard to guess what was playin’ on his momma and poppa’s radio nine months before ol’ Bill showed up.”

Jackson rounded the corner, stepping to the door, expecting a Bill. Maybe a Billy. Hell, even a Billy Ray.

What he damn sure wasn’t expecting—was Billie Rae Boone.

She stood there, dust-covered, sun-weathered, built lean but tough, like she could go ten rounds with the best ranch hand he had and still come out standing.

Her chestnut brown hair, pulled into a messy braid, caught the late-afternoon light in streaks of copper and gold, the kind of color earned from years under the sun. Some sections had been bleached lighter by the scorching heat, leaving her hair uneven in tone, almost wild-looking, with a natural weathered roughness. A few loose strands framed her face, damp with sweat and stuck against the sharp angles of her jaw.

Her hat sat low, casting a shadow over her face, but it didn’t hide the steel-gray eyes beneath—cool, assessing, looking him over like she was deciding whether he was worth the trouble.

Jackson hesitated, arms crossing tight. Hell, if she was thrown off by his obvious surprise, she didn’t show it.

Then, she shifted her weight, one boot scuffing the porch, the leather creaking. She tipped her hat up just enough to meet his eyes fully, voice coming low and steady.

“Name’s Boone—Billie, if it suits ya.”

Jackson caught the hint of amusement flickering behind her words.

“Don’t much matter what ya call me, long as I’ve got work to do, a roof overhead, place to lay my head at night, and somethin’ in my belly come sundown. That’s all I need.”

Blunt. To the point. No wasted breath.

Hell, he had to admit he respected that.

But before he could say anything, she shrugged, unbothered by the tension in the air.

“Sorry ‘bout the way I look–and smell,” she said, voice rough from the road, worn in a way that said she hadn’t had the luxury of worrying about appearances in a long damn time.

“Been ridin’ two days straight to get to the rodeo when Tucker told me y’all was lookin’ for help. Sounded good to me, ‘cause I’m lookin’ for some cash. I work hard. Ain’t done ‘til the work is done. Near or far, y’all ain’t gonna find a better worker than me.”

She was damn sure confident, and Jackson wasn’t about to argue.

But he also wasn’t about to make this easy on her.

Jackson stared, arms crossed tight.

He was still processing the fact that Tucker had recommended her, not some rough-handed rancher, but this lean, sharp-mouthed woman, built like she could outlast half the men in town.

“You ride two days just for a rodeo?” he asked, watching her carefully.

She huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Ride for work. Rodeo keeps my pockets lined when ranches ain’t hirin’. Either way, I don’t sit still long.”

Her tone wasn’t pleading, wasn’t even asking.

She was telling him. Telling him he wouldn’t get anyone better. Telling him she already knew he was sizing her up, making assumptions, wondering if she could handle it.

Jackson dragged a hand down his face. “Ain’t what I expected, so much’s for dang certain.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Ain’t what most people expect.”

Silence stretched between them.

Beau, still standing off to the side, stifled a grin like he knew his father just lost a battle he didn’t realize he was fighting.

Jackson cleared his throat, feeling the weight of his kid’s gaze. He damn sure didn’t want Beau thinking women were less than men. He wanted to teach his kid about equality. Women weren’t just purdy little things to admire or hands to keep the home running. They were strong, smart, capable—same as any man.

So, begrudgingly, he listed it off. “Y’be fixin’ fences, breakin’ young stock, tackin’ and ridin’ daily, helpin’ castrate, wrangle loose cattle, workin’ till the damn sun sets—ain’t no breaks, ain’t no ‘cause I’m a woman’ excuses. This ain’t easy, and I don’t tolerate half-assin’.”

Billie barely blinked.

Instead, she stepped past him like she already had the job, brushing off his warning like it was nothing more than a list of things she’d already done a hundred times before.

She looked around, taking in the open space—the couch, the kitchen, then the bed rooms, doors open, little boy’s room, the other a lived in bedroom.

She pointed at a closed door across the way—the room his father and Izzy stayed in when they visited. A guest room in the leanest sense of the word.

“I’ll work for room ‘n board,” she said, voice steady as an old trail horse. “Gimme a couple days to prove ya wrong. If ya like the way I work, we talk pay. Ain’t got no problem sleepin’ in a barn if ya got one.”

Jackson sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew damn well he wasn’t gettin’ rid of her easy.

“Ain’t got no barn,” he muttered. “Y’all can have the spare. But it’s on a trial basis—if I don’t like yer work, you’re gone. No palaver.”

Billie tipped her hat up slightly, eyes flicking over him like she already knew this wasn’t what he planned—but exactly what she did.

“Works fer me,” she said, then turned, striding toward another shut door. She paused, pointing. “Bathroom?”

Jackson gave a curt nod.

Without another word, Billie pushed it open, stepped inside, and locked the door behind her like she owned the damn place.

Jackson shook his head, turning back toward the living room—only to catch Beau grinning, wiggling his eyebrows like he was enjoying this way too much.

Jackson jabbed a finger in Beau’s direction, voice flat, final.

“Shut it, kid. She needs work, and we got plenty of it. That’s all that is!”

Beau shrugged, still grinning. “Heck, Pa, I ain’t said nothin’. But if I did, I’d say she sure is kinda purdy. Under all that dirt n’ grime. Hell, I could smell her from clear over yonder…”

Jackson felt the words land heavier than he liked.

His jaw twitched, brows furrowing. “Watch it, kid!”

Beau just huffed a chuckle, shaking his head. “What? Ain’t wrong.”

Jackson shook his head, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor. “Listen here, Beau,” he said, voice steady, the way his daddy had taught him. “A good man don’t judge by what folks are supposed to be, he judges by what they do. And women? Well, they do plenty. They ride, they rope, they run businesses. Ain’t a damn thing in this world says a woman can’t do what a man does.”

Beau wrinkled his nose. “But Mama don’t do none of that. She just—”

Jackson held up a calloused hand, rubbing his thumb against the rough edge of his palm—a habit that kept him steady when words mattered. “Your mama? She lives a different kind of life, sure. Ain’t a thing wrong with that. She’s got talent, she’s got dreams, and she went out and made ‘em happen. Some folks build with their hands, some build with their voice, their mind. But none of that changes the fact that she’s got her own kind of strength.”

Beau frowned, kicking at the wooden floor plank by his boot. “She got nannies and chefs and people doin’ ev’rythin’ for her. She don’t have to work the way you do. Way we do.”

Jackson let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Son, work ain’t just sweat and sore muscles. It’s keepin’ folks together, makin’ sure the ones you love are taken care of. Just ‘cause she don’t wake up at the crack of dawn to haul feed don’t mean she don’t work. She’s raisin’ your sister, those other kids, makin’ sure the folks in her world got love, got care, includin’ you. Hell, she built somethin’ big—somethin’ folks listen to, look up to. Strength comes in more ways than one. Yer momma sure always been a real strong gal.”

Beau nodded, slowly, not convinced but thinking it over. Jackson let the words settle. He wasn’t trying to make his boy see the world the way he did—just wanted him to understand folks were more than the box you put them in.

Beau nodded, slow-like, as if turning the words over in his young mind.

Jackson sighed, satisfied. If there was one thing he wanted his boy to carry forward, it was respect—for women, for hard work, for the quiet strength that didn’t need to be hollered about to be mighty. He exhaled through his nose, half amused, half resigned, and reached out, ruffling Beau’s hair before nudging him toward the hallway.

“Go on, get ready for bed.”

Beau threw his hands up. “How? There’s a girl blockin’ our bathroom!”

Jackson sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. Hell. What was he gettin’ himself into?

Knowing Billie

Billie had been working the ranch for a almost two full weeks now, and Jackson had to admit—she was damn good at it. No complaints, no wasted breath, no bending over backward to make sure he thought hiring her was a good choice.

Which, frankly, pissed him off.

Because she was too good at it. His plan had been to give her exactly what he told her he would, which was treat her no different than any of his other men. He had honestly thought she’d last maybe two days, three tops. Ranchwork was hard work, long hours and no time for rest, no matter what body parts ached and were tattered, bruised and stiff.

He watched her like a hawk, waiting for her to slip up, but she never did. She worked harder than most of the men he’d hired in the past, her movements efficient, her focus unshakable. She didn’t just keep up—she outpaced them.

The other ranchhands noticed too. They’d tried their luck with her, throwing out compliments and sly remarks, but Billie had a way of shutting them down with a sharp tongue and a look that could cut through steel.

One of the guys leaned in, full of swagger. “You ever think about takin’ a night off? Maybe lettin’ someone show you a good time?”

Billie tugged the saddle strap one last time and finally looked up—just long enough to size him up. “A good time? Darlin’, last man who said that to me spent the next morning lookin’ for his dignity and a lost tooth.”

Cue the laughter, a few slaps on the back, and that ranchhand retreating faster than a spooked colt.

Jackson, standing off to the side, fought the urge to snicker. He wasn’t about to admit it, but he was impressed.

Few days later, during a break, the men decided to blow off some steam. They set up a makeshift shooting range with tin cans and started taking turns, showing off their aim. Billie watched for a moment before stepping up, her expression unreadable.

“Mind if I give it a go?” she asked, her voice casual.

The men exchanged glances, smirking. “Sure thing, Billie. Let’s see what you got.”

She took the rifle, adjusted her stance, and fired. The can flew off the post, spinning into the air. She fired again, hitting it mid-spin, and then again, sending it flying even farther.

The men stared, slack-jawed, as she handed the rifle back. “Not bad,” she said, her tone dry.

Later, one of them joked, “Bet she pisses standin’ up too.”

Billie didn’t miss a beat. “Only when I’m tryin’ to hit somethin’.”

Even Jackson couldn’t hold back a laugh at that one.

The ranchhands chuckled as they gathered their gear. One leaned against the truck door, adjusting his hat with a cocky tilt and a deliberate air of confidence. “If yer lookin’ for a good time, Billie, you know where to find us.”

Billie barely spared them a glance. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I feel like lowerin’ my standards and my IQ.”

The cowboy smirked, his thumb brushing the brim of his hat in a slow, practiced motion. He shifted his weight just enough to suggest a swagger, a playful challenge lingering in his stance. If Billie noticed, she didn’t let on.

The men climbed into their trucks, leaving behind the lingering dust of the lot.

From the porch, Jackson watched the exchange with quiet amusement. He saw how Billie stuck around, not because she had to, but because she wanted things done right. He stepped down, wandering over to where she worked, the faint glint of a grin on his face.

“You hold your own—on the job and with the men. You’ve earned my respect,” he said, the grudging note in his voice softened by sincerity.

Billie didn’t look up. “So have you,” she replied, her voice detached. “For not even tryin’ what they been tryin’.”

Before he could respond, she disappeared into the house, the sound of the shower turning on a moment later.

Jackson turned, grinning despite himself, only to find Beau standing nearby, smirking.

“Don’tcha even, kid!” Jackson pointed a finger at him, his tone firm. “None of that! No Sir, no Ma’am!”

“Yeah, sure, Pa…” Beau drawled, his grin widening.

Jackson shook his head, muttering under his breath. Damn it.

The Canyon Leap

The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the ranch, pressing down like a weight that wouldn’t lift. The air was thick, the kind that clung to skin and made every breath feel slower. Jackson wiped the sweat from his brow, his shirt sticking to his back as he tied down the last load of feed.

Nearby, Billie worked with the same relentless pace she always did, her movements sharp, efficient, and unbothered by the heat. She didn’t complain, didn’t pause—just kept going like she had something to prove.

But as Jackson finished, he caught her out of the corner of his eye.

Billie dragged a hand across her sweat-slick forehead and exhaled sharply. “Boss,” she called, her voice dry as the dust beneath their boots. “Mind if I steal me a minute? Hotter than a tin roof in August out here, and I ain’t tryin’ to fry.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before tossing her hat onto the fence, peeling off her flannel, and muttering, “Takin’ a break, I need coolin’ down somethin’ bad,” her voice low, rough from the day.

Jackson turned fully, watching as she yanked off her boots, her gaze locked on the canyon swimming hole visible from the ranch.

“Billie—” he started, but the words stuck in his throat as she unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down without hesitation, stripping to nothing but a black sports bra and underwear. Jackson turned fully, his brows furrowing as Billie kicked off her boots and stripped down to her underclothes.
“What in tarnation…” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Ain’t got time to be wranglin’ a bunch of distracted ranchhands—womanfolk struttin’ around in her underbreeches, drivin’ ‘em crazier than dogs in heat.”

Billie didn’t seem to hear—or care. She strode toward the edge of the canyon, her steps steady, unflinching. The ranch hands froze, their laughter dying as they stared, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

Then—she jumped.

“Goddamn it!” Jackson barked, rushing to the edge with Beau and the other ranch hands close behind.

The drop was breakneck, the kind of leap no one dared attempt. From the edge of the ridge, one natural border of the Kershaw Ranch, the water below looked like a toy puddle, and from below looking up anyone standing at the edge seemed no bigger than a Playmobil figurine.

Jackson’s heart pounded as he leaned over, his hands gripping the edge of the rock.

Billie surfaced, backfloating in the water, her chestnut brown hair spreading out like a halo as she shook it loose, droplets catching the sunlight. She looked calm as hell, like she hadn’t just given them all a heart attack.

Jackson cursed under his breath, grabbing her clothes and mounting Blaze. He rode down the long path to the canyon floor, irritation simmering low in his chest.

When he reached her, she was emerging from the water, droplets clinging to sun-kissed skin, her steel-blue eyes glinting with mischief.

Jackson held out her clothes, jaw tight. “You’re lucky I didn’t fire you on the spot. You could be dead as a doornail, goddamn idiot, you!”

Billie smirked, stepping closer, tossing her clothing on the ground like it didn’t matter. “Well, if ya were a good businessman, you’d’ve hoped I’d be dead so ya don’t got to pay me come Friday.”

Jackson’s jaw tightened, the bitterness rising before he could stop it. “If I were a good businessman then I’d still be…”

The word married rang in his head, sharp and unwelcome, but he bit it back, his face twisting like he’d bitten into a lemon.

Billie didn’t miss the change in his expression, but she didn’t press. Instead, she reached for his hand as he extended it to pull her onto Blaze.

But before he could steady her, she grabbed his wrist, her grip startlingly strong, and yanked him off his horse and into the water.

Jackson hit the surface hard, coughing as he came up, trying to catch his breath. Water streamed down his face as he swiped a hand over it, pushing his damp hair back in one smooth motion. His chest heaved, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin.

Then—she leaned in close, her steel-blue eyes locking onto his, her lips hovering just shy of his. For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped, the air thick with tension. But just as Jackson braced himself, she smirked and shoved him backward, sending him stumbling and crashing into the water again with a splash.

Billie laughed, sharp and wild, as she stepped onto the shore, then swung onto Blaze, her movements fluid, effortless. Just as she turned the horse, she glanced back at Jackson, who was still sputtering and wiping water from his face, his hair slicked back from the dunk.

She flashed him a grin, wicked and bright. “Ain’t just me needed coolin’ down, huh, boss?” she teased, running a hand through her damp hair before kicking Blaze into a gallop, disappearing beyond the ridge.

Jackson stood chest-deep in the water, shaking his head as he watched her go. He trudged to the shore, picking up her discarded clothing and setting off on the long walk up to his ranch on foot.

Damn womenfolk.

Smoke & Silence

The fire crackled low, embers glowing like dying stars against the dusk. The pond beyond it sat still, reflecting the fading sky, barely rippling under the breeze that carried the scent of dry grass and distant horses.

Jackson sat with his boots planted firm, elbows on his knees, poking at the fire absentmindedly with a long branch. His mind wasn’t on the flames. Hell, it wasn’t on much of anything—just drifting, far away from the present, stuck somewhere between what was and what wouldn’t ever be again.

He barely registered movement until a bottle of beer appeared in front of him—cool against the lingering heat of the day.

Jackson blinked, then flicked his gaze up.

Billie stood there, silent, waiting, hair loose from the braid she normally wore, her hat hooked on a belt loop, dust smeared across the sleeves of her shirt.

“Mind some company?”

Jackson exhaled, took the beer, then nodded toward the log next to him.

She sat, stretching out her legs, rolling her shoulders like she’d been carrying a weight all day. They drank in silence, the fire snapping between them, sending stray sparks skyward.

The stillness settled, comfortable.

Then, suddenly—Billie spoke.

“Must’ve been a real ballbuster.”

Jackson’s head snapped toward her, caught off guard.

“Huh?”

She kept her gaze on the fire, calm as hell, like she hadn’t just thrown a knife into the dark.

“Yer ex. That woman who done ya in. Beau’s Momma, I assume. She ain’t here, so she done gone and took yer heart with her.”

Jackson stared at her, gripping the bottle tighter.

Billie didn’t pry. Didn’t ask, didn’t assume—just stated it like she saw the truth plain as day.

Damn.

Jackson tipped the bottle, took a long swig, then exhaled slowly.

“She ain’t here no more, moved on, new life, new man, new family,” he finally admitted, voice low. “But I reckon she ain’t got my heart no more. Took it once, sure. Stomped it a couple times for good measure. But when she left for good, think I quit letting her have pieces.”

Billie nodded like she understood, and somehow, Jackson knew she did.

“Ever see Beau’s twin?” Jackson asked, his words slow, like they were slipping out before he could rope them back.

Billie shook her head, her steel-blue eyes steady on him.

Jackson rubbed his thumb over the condensation on the bottle, his gaze fixed somewhere far off. “Yeah, my boy’s got a twin sister. Lives with her ma and the new husband now. Got herself a whole new life—new family, new dad, new siblin’s, new house, new everythin’. Feels like I’m nothin’ more than the fella who helped bring her into this world. Just waitin’ for the day she don’t even remember me no more. Guess some things just get—rewritten.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy as the late afternoon sun. Billie didn’t say anything, but her silence carried its own kind of understanding.

Billie exhaled through her nose, not offering sympathy, just acceptance.

“Daughters don’t forget their daddy unless he done ’em wrong,” she said. “But sounds clean—nothin’ messy left to sort. That’s worth somethin’. Some divorces go down like a goddamn war.”

Jackson’s lips twitched. “Ain’t nothin’ about it clean.”

Billie chuckled low, took another sip of beer, then rested her elbows on her knees, gaze locked on the fire.

For a while, the flames were the only thing that spoke between them.

Then—she gave him her truth.

“I ain’t got folks left to stomp on me,” she started, voice even, like she was stating the weather. “Mama left when I was little. Didn’t even leave a note, just took Daddy’s old truck and ran like hell, like she had better places to be than anywhere I was. Don’t know if she’s still breathin’. Can’t say I care any more about it than she cared about me.
Daddy wanted a boy—Billy Ray, strong name, something fit for a rancher. But he got me instead, and Billie Rae was the best my mama could do before she ran. Didn’t matter none. Daddy raised me like the boy he wanted anyway. Didn’t believe in softness. Said dirt don’t care if you’re a son or daughter—it just needs breakin’.
He raised the ranch, raised hell when things got rough, raised me the only way he knew how. He was the kinda man who wouldn’t flinch if the sky fell—so when it did, he just stood under it. Never cursed when he got sick. Didn’t beg, didn’t pray, just kept working till it worked him into the ground.
Ranch folded after that. Land went dry, stock sold, house emptied. I rode out before it was nothing but dust.”

Jackson listened, really listened, because there was no waver in her voice, no cracks, just fact.

“And you ain’t stopped riding since,” he murmured.

Billie tipped her head toward him like he got it, like he really saw the shape of it.

“No Sir, sure didn’t and thinkin’ I never will. Figure if I don’t stop, nothin’ can catch up.”

Jackson watched her in the firelight, the way the glow licked across the hard angles of her face, the scars on her knuckles, the shadow of something unreadable in her eyes.

It was the first time he saw not just a damn good ranch hand—but everything she carried and never put down.

And somehow, right here in the quiet, he respected her even more for it.

Southern Storm

The sun hung low over the ranch, casting long shadows across the paddock as Jackson worked near the fence, his focus on the horses. Billie was nearby, fixing a broken gate with the kind of efficiency that made it clear she didn’t waste time—or tolerate nonsense.

The sound of hooves pounding against dirt pulled Jackson’s attention. He glanced up, already bracing himself as Taylor rode into view, her horse kicking up dust as she approached.

She dismounted with practiced ease, her cut-off denim shorts and tied-up flannel showin’ off her curves, her platinum-blonde hair catchin’ the light like polished silver under her Stetson. She adjusted her hat with a flick of her wrist, tossin’ her hair over one shoulder with that casual flair she knew worked like a charm on most cowboys.

“Jackson, sug,” she cooed, her voice syrupy sweet, “figured I’d stop by. Been ridin’ through town, thought I’d check on ya. See how you’re holdin’ up without Bri hangin’ ‘round.”

Jackson straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine, Taylor.”

She smiled, stepping closer, her hips swaying with each step like she was sashaying across a stage. “Aw, now don’t be like that, darlin’. Ya don’t look fine. Ya look like ya could use some good company. Someone who understands ya. Someone who’s always been here for ya.” She placed just enough emphasis on the last words to leave no doubt who she meant.

Jackson’s jaw tightened. “I’m good.”

Taylor ignored him, lettin’ her gaze flick toward Billie. “New face on yer ranch?” Taylor drawled, her syrupy tone just this side of condescending. She tilted her head, platinum-blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight as she sized Billie up with an assessing glance. “Who’s this?”

“Ranchhand,” Jackson replied, his voice clipped, purposely not offering Billie’s name, who paused mid-swing of her hammer as the sugar-coated voice registered. Billie glanced up, brow furrowed ever so slightly, taking in the overdressed blonde now commanding the ranch like she owned it. One quick look was enough—just another high-maintenance problem she didn’t have time for. Billie shook her head faintly, muttered something under her breath, and went right back to fixing the gate, her hands working with brisk precision.

Behind her, a cluster of the ranchhands froze where they stood, their movements stalling like cattle caught in a sudden storm. One dropped a hay bale with a dull thud, drawing a sharp glare from the foreman, while another, perched on the corral rail, suddenly found his gloves the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, fiddling with them like his life depended on it. A third, who’d been leaning casually against the corral gate Billie was fixing, straightened up fast and busied himself rearranging tools that were already perfectly neat. Not a one of them dared make a sound.

They all knew better than to step into Taylor’s orbit, especially with Jackson nearby. Her temper, when things didn’t go her way, was the kind of storm no one wanted to be caught in, and everyone knew she didn’t see a single one of them as worth the dust on Jackson’s boots.

The tension hung thick in the air, heavy as the summer heat, as the men kept their heads low and their mouths shut, hoping to blend into the background until the whirlwind of Taylor’s presence passed.

Taylor’s smile faltered for the briefest moment at the thought of a woman close to ‘her’ Jackson, before she recovered, her smile sharpening like a polished blade. She stepped closer to Jackson, completely ignoring the uneasy energy her presence stirred in the men around her.

“Well, I guess you’ve been keepin’ busy,” she said, her voice sweet enough to give a man a toothache. “But, sug, ya don’t gotta settle for… distractions.” The word was drawn out, heavy with implication, as her gaze flicked toward Billie one more time. “You deserve better. You deserve someone who knows ya inside and out. Someone who can give ya what ya really need.”

That’s when Billie let out a snort—short, sharp, and utterly unbothered. She didn’t even glance up this time, just kept hammerin’ at the gate, shaking her head, though the corners of her mouth twitched in amusement.

Taylor froze, her gaze snapping toward Billie, who didn’t pay any attention. Taylor’s platinum-blonde hair shimmered as she whipped her attention back to Jackson, tryin’ to regain her composure, though her smile was just a little too tight now.

Taylor leaned in, lettin’ her fingers trail lightly across Jackson’s arm as her words dripped with honeyed confidence, brushing over his chest like she was claiming territory, her smile never quite reachin’ Billie. The ranchhands exchanged uneasy glances but stayed rooted in their places, silent spectators to the tension thickening in the air.

Jackson plucked her hand off, his grip firm but not rough. “Don’t.”

Taylor’s grin only widened as she slid her hand onto his arm instead, lowering her voice to a husky purr. “Aw, c’mon, Jackson, dontcha play hard to get, it’s getting’ real old. You KNOW you want me. Let’s quit playing and get to it.”

Without hesitation, Billie stepped up to Jackson, grabbed his crotch with a firm, unapologetic grip, and shook her head at Taylor.

“Nah, he don’t,” Billie said, her voice steady, unimpressed. “Not at all. Sorry, sug, but with that clear as Sunday morn, y’all best be on yer way now. The adults are working here.”

Taylor froze, her mouth opening and closing like she couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

The ranchhands, who had been watching from a distance, burst into laughter so hard one of them doubled over, jackknifing for air.

“Holy hell!” one of them wheezed, slapping his knee. “Billie, you’re a damn legend!”

Taylor sputtered, her face red, before storming back to her horse. She mounted quickly, her cheeks flushed, and rode off, kicking up dust in her wake.

Jackson watched her go, then glanced at Billie, who was already back to fixing the gate.

She turned to the ranchhands, her tone sharp. “Whatcha all lookin’ at? Git back to work. This ain’t no damn comedy show. I ain’t gonna be doin’ all this work by myself!”

The men scrambled, still chuckling under their breath as they returned to their tasks.

Before Jackson could respond, one of the ranchhands leaned against the fence, smirking. “What if I don’t, Billie? You gonna grab between my legs too?”

Billie didn’t miss a beat. She stepped closer, boots crunching against the dirt, steel-blue eyes narrowing. “If I did,” she said, voice cool as a shaded porch in July, “it’d be tryin’ to find yer brains—since they sure as hell ain’t up in yer noggin. Reckon I’d have better luck findin’ anything smart diggin’ through a bucket of hog slop than anywhere under that sorry excuse for a hat.”

The ranchhands erupted into laughter, one of them doubling over, slapping his knee. “Damn, Billie, you’re ruthless!” one wheezed.

Jackson shook his head, muttering under his breath. Damn it that woman! Women, plural. All of them in his life were nuts!

Taylor was a damn cloud of dust by the time she stormed off, hooves kicking up gravel as she rode away. Jackson dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharp, trying to gather himself before turning back toward his ranch hands.

The men were still laughing, some bent over, choking, wheezing, as if they just witnessed the best damn entertainment of their life.

Jackson planted his hands on his hips, jaw tight. “Y’all ‘bout done yet?”

A few of them tried to choke it back, but another wheezed out a chuckle, which sent the rest heaving all over again.

“Damn, boss,” one of them muttered between gasps, wiping his eyes. “If that weren’t the finest reckoning I ever seen—”

“That right?” Jackson cut him off, voice steady, unimpressed. “Glad y’all had a real good laugh at my expense. Get back to work! I don’t pay all y’all to laugh.”

The men straightened quick, knowing better than to push when his tone went cold.

“Uh, yes sir—bossman,” one of them mumbled. Then, under his breath, “If ya still is…”

Jackson shot him a look, but let it slide. “Shut yer mouths and get back to workin’. Day ain’t over ‘til I say it is.”

“Yes sir.”

The laughter lingered, but the men scattered, getting back to business, leaving Jackson with the faintest shake of his head.

Hell. What had he just gotten himself into?

 Ghosts & Supper

The kitchen smelled of salt and smoke, cast iron sizzling as Jackson stirred supper together, the rhythmic scrape of the spatula breaking the quiet. Beau sat at the table, bent over his homework, scribbling numbers with his tongue poking out in concentration.

The house had settled into its familiar low hum—just ranch sounds outside, the occasional creak of the old floorboards, the flicker of the overhead light.

Then—Billie strode in.

She kicked off her boots at the door, sending dust scattering, then reached for her hat, hanging it on the hook beside Jackson’s and Beau’s without a second thought.

Jackson froze, the spatula resting in the pan.

That spot had belonged to Bri’s hat once. For years. Before she left, before everything got packed up, before it was just him and Beau and that damn empty house trying to feel full again.

The sight of Billie’s hat sitting there instead hit him like a misfired round.

Billie caught the change in his face. “What?”

Beau, never one to hold back, didn’t hesitate. “That’s where Ma’s hat used to be. Until… well, until Pa packed all her stuff up in boxes.”

Billie’s brows pulled together, her eyes flicking to Jackson. “Sorry…” she muttered, reaching for the hat, about to take it back.

Jackson stopped her—not rough, but firm.

“Nah, don’t. Leave yer hat.” He exhaled, shaking his head like he was brushing the past off his shoulders. “Ain’t no sense dwellin’ on ghosts.”

Billie studied him for a beat, then let her hand drop, leaving the hat right where it was.

“You hungry?” Jackson asked, shifting the conversation.

Billie smirked, strolling toward the table. “Could eat the bunghole outta a dead skunk.”

Beau choked on air, dropping his pencil as laughter tore out of him, loud and unbridled.

Jackson, despite himself, snorted, shaking his head.

“Ain’t cooked none of that,” he muttered, flipping the food in the pan. “Just some chili and cornbread.”

Billie sank into the chair across from Beau, leaning her elbows on the table. “Well, it’ll do in a pinch.”

They ate, conversation weaving in and out of idle remarks—ranch talk, horses, the kind of words that filled space without digging too deep.

At some point, Beau finished his food and stretched with a satisfied groan, yawning as he pushed back from the table, grabbing his plate. “I’m gonna get ready for bed,” he muttered, standing up. He paused for a moment, looking between Billie and Jackson, then shrugged and headed for the hallway, the creak of the bathroom door swinging shut soon following.

Billie stood up, gathering the empty plates. “I got this,” she said, her tone flat as she stacked the dishes with practiced efficiency. “You cooked. Ain’t right for you to clean, too.”

Jackson wiped his hands with the dish towel hanging from his shoulder, stepping toward her. “It’s my kitchen, Billie. Let me help.”

She glanced at him, eyebrow arching. “I’m serious, Jackson. I ain’t one of them freeloadin’ types. Supper was good, by the way. Thanks.” She turned toward the sink, but Jackson grabbed another plate before she could stop him.

“Didn’t say you were, and you’re welcome,” Jackson muttered, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But just ‘cause you can do it don’t mean you gotta do it alone.”

Billie shook her head but didn’t argue further, begrudgingly letting him help as they worked side by side, the sound of clinking dishes filling the quiet.

After a few moments, Jackson broke the silence, his tone more measured. “So… about earlier.”

Billie didn’t look at him, but her hands paused briefly before she rinsed a plate. “What about it?”

Jackson set the plate he was drying down on the counter, leaning slightly against the sink as he turned toward her. “Taylor,” he said simply, watching her for a reaction. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen anyone handle her quite like that. She used to bring my ex-wife to tears with her antics.”

Billie snorted. “Oh, you mean the part where I grabbed your—?” She waved the dish in her hand vaguely, her tone light but laced with mischief.

“Yeah, that part,” Jackson interrupted, shaking his head, though the faintest smirk betrayed his exasperation. “Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

She finally glanced up at him, her expression unreadable but her tone steady. “Wasn’t tryin’ for subtle—was makin’ a point. One you oughta see for yerself, ‘cause you ain’t no fool.” Billie set the plate down with a deliberate motion, crossing her arms. “She ain’t no good, Jackson. You don’t need to be lowerin’ yerself for that kinda ranch trash. You been through a divorce, got a lil’ boy to look after, and a big ranch to keep runnin’. Ain’t got time for her kinda nonsense. This is the only language her type understands.”

Jackson met her gaze, the honesty in her words cutting through his usual walls. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his jaw working as if considering a response.

“She ain’t ranch trash,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction. “Her family owns the biggest spread in town. Been runnin’ cattle longer than most folks been breathin’.”

Billie snorted, scrubbing at a plate like she was trying to scrub the nonsense out of his head too. “Yeah, and some of the worst snakes live in the biggest damn holes. Money don’t clean up a mess, Jackson—it just makes it shinier.”

Jackson sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re right. She ain’t good—not steady, not decent. Ain’t got a heart built for stickin’ around, just for takin’ what suits her.”

Billie nodded once, briskly, and went back to rinsing dishes. “Damn straight she ain’t. Crooked as a three-dollar bill. You’re too good for her—and I can say that, seein’ how ya took a chance on me when I needed work and food in my belly. That went a long way with me, Kershaw. And what went even further? Ya never once tried to put a hand where it didn’t belong—even with me livin’ in your damn cabin. That matters.”

Jackson’s faint smile returned, though he didn’t press the matter further, just quietly picking up another plate to dry as the steady rhythm of their cleanup carried them through the rest of the evening.

Line in the Dust

The fire had burned low, the embers glowing faintly as the night settled deep over the ranch. The air was cooler now, carrying the faint scent of sage and smoke. Jackson leaned back in his chair on the porch, boots planted on the railing, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers.

Billie sat on the steps, her elbows resting on her knees, her hat tipped back just enough to let the moonlight catch the sharp angles of her face. She’d been quiet since supper, her usual sharp tongue replaced by a rare stillness.

Jackson cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence. “’Bout it all,” he started, his voice low, hesitant.

Billie didn’t look at him, but he could feel her attention shift.

“The swimmin’ hole,” he continued, his words slow, like he was testing the waters. “And… well, what you did with Taylor the other day.”

Billie finally turned her head, her steel-gray eyes catching his in the dim light. “What ‘bout it?”

Jackson rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like a damn fool. “Just… wonderin’ what the hell that was all about.”

Billie snorted softly, shaking her head. “Ain’t nothin’ to wonder about, Jackson. Don’t go readin’ into it.”

He frowned, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

She sighed, her gaze steady, unflinching. “It means I ain’t what you’re lookin’ for.”

Jackson’s brow furrowed. “And what exactly is it you think I’m lookin’ for?”

Billie tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “A new wife. Someone to fill that empty space in this house. That ain’t me. Ain’t never gon’ be me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, and Jackson leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. He didn’t say anything, but the tightness in his jaw spoke volumes.

“What made ya think that’s what I am wantin’?”

“Watchin’ ya. Knowin’ ya.”

“Been here a minute and think you know me? Y’all know nothin’ ’bout me, Boone.”

“Is that a fact?”

“A goddang hard fact.”

Billie nodded, her sharp gaze softening just a fraction. She stood, brushing the dust off her jeans, and stepped closer.

“Look,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost gentle. “I’ll stay as long as the stayin’s good. But when it ain’t, I move on. That’s just how it is. Easy come, easy go.”

Jackson looked up at her, his expression guarded, but there was something in his eyes—something raw, unspoken.

Billie hesitated, then reached out, her hands rough but steady as she grabbed his face and kissed him.

Jackson pulled her hands off, his grip firm but not rough. “Boone! I am yer goddang employer! Y’all can’t go ’round kissin’ me whenever ya dang well feel like it! That just ain’t flyin’ with me!” he started, his voice low, almost a warning.

She cut him off, her tone as matter-of-fact as a weather forecast. “Meant no disrespectin’, boss. Way I see it, tied down ain’t what either of us need. But we both got needs. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with scratchin’ an itch when it comes up, if both doin’ the scratchin’ cos they felt like feelin’ good. Ain’t askin’ for yer hand in marriage, just sayin’ if ya ever feel like a good scratching’, y’all know where to find me. I’m up for it if you are. I don’t mind checkin’ neither but ya already know that now.”

Jackson stared at her, his mind reeling, his heart pounding in a way he hadn’t felt in years. And he hated it. Like she said, this type of involvement whatever she might call it, was the last thing he needed. Not even the no strings kind.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.

Then Billie stepped back, her smirk returning as she tipped her hat. “Night, boss.”

She turned and walked inside, leaving Jackson alone on the porch, the firelight flickering against the shadows.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.

Hell. What was he gettin’ himself into?

Family Visits

The sleek rental SUV, its tinted windows reflecting the late afternoon sun, rolled to a smooth stop in the wide dirt driveway of Kershaw Ranch. It was an anomaly among the dust-coated trucks and battered work vehicles scattered nearby, standing as a stark reminder of the world Bri now inhabited—a world of seaside estates and curated perfection.

Inside the ranch house, Jackson had seen them pull up. His gut twisted. It wasn’t dislike, exactly—he had come to terms with Bri’s new life, their failed attempts at holding onto what once was. Still, standing on the weather-worn porch, boots planted firmly on the aged wooden planks, he felt displaced in his own home.

Before anyone could unbuckle, Beau came tearing out of the cabin.

“Momma!”

The nine-year-old sprinted across the yard, kicking up dust as he ran straight to her, throwing his arms around her waist. Bri barely had time to react before she instinctively hugged him back, fingers running through his hair as he pressed his face into the soft pink fabric of her coat.

Jackson exhaled sharply, forcing his expression to remain neutral. Bri glanced up at him over Beau’s head, offering a small, uncertain smile. She looked the same yet entirely different—her honey-blond waves tamed into effortless perfection, her usual influencer-style ensemble muted in ways that hinted at her new life with Brad.

The car doors opened, and Brad stepped out next—polished and composed, his tailored slacks, expensive watch, and ever-boyish face framed by blond curls. The children followed—Briony, Jackson’s daughter, a miniature of her mother with an eye for clothes and an undeniable presence, along with Brad’s two kids, both dressed in designer coats that looked wildly out of place against the rustic backdrop of the ranch.

But then—Briony bolted. “Daddy!”

Jackson barely had time to brace himself before she collided into him, small arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Instinct took over, and he scooped her up, holding her securely. She smelled like strawberry-scented shampoo, the scent instantly grounding him, softening the tension in his chest.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Briony nestled against his shoulder, warm and familiar, and he knew that if he wasn’t careful, holding her would make hating Brad harder.

Boone, halfway out of the cabin, hesitated just long enough for Bri’s eyes to land on her.

“Who’s that?” Bri murmured, half to herself, half to Jackson.

Beau answered first.

“Momma, that’s Boone, our new foreman. Well… forewoman, I guess. Pa, what’s the right word?”

Jackson sighed. “Never mind that, kid.” He adjusted Briony on his hip, nodding toward the house. “Do all y’all wanna come inside for a minute? Wasn’t expectin’ company today…”

Bri exhaled through her nose, folding her arms. “Well, we would have called, but someone never picks up his phone anyway…”

Jackson didn’t need to ask who she meant.

“Don’t worry,” she added. “We were visiting my parents and are now headed to see Iris and Jasper and their kiddos—spending a few days with them in DSV. Thought we’d stop by here to see Beau and for you to see Briony.” She gestured toward the two hesitant figures lingering near Brad. “Oh, and these are Graham and Lauren.”

The two children exchanged uncertain glances before mumbling a quiet hello.

Jackson gave them a small nod. “Nice to meet y’all.”

Brad, ever steady, stepped forward with the baby cradled in his arms. “And this here is Nathaniel.”

Jackson swallowed as he looked at the newborn—too small, too familiar. A sting hit deep in his chest, memories of his own twins at that age flashing like wildfire. He set down Briony as if needing to physically let go again to keep his heart from exploding.

Bri, noticing the way Jackson’s gaze lingered, tightened her grip on Briony’s shoulder who still stood snuggled up against him. “He’s got my eyes but Brad’s patience,” she offered lightly. “I’m hoping that sticks.”

Brad huffed a quiet laugh. “Hey now, don’t jinx us.”

Jackson forced a nod, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Hope he’s an easy one, then.”

Before the past could fully take hold, Billie reappeared, dirt-streaked and practical, asking something ranch-related. Jackson turned, using the distraction to pull himself back into reality.

Briony was still snuggled up against Jackson’s side, her small arms wrapped around his waist, her presence grounding him in ways neither of them acknowledged aloud.

“This is Billie,” he said, glancing at Bri as he made the introduction. “New ranchhand. Billie, come over here a sec, this is my ex-wife Briar Rose. And this right here is my little girl, Briony. Beau’s twin sister.”

Billie wiped her hands on her jeans, then gave Briony a warm nod. “Good to meet ya, lil lady.”

Briony peeked up at her, then offered a small, polite, “Hi.”

Billie’s gaze flicked toward Bri next, her posture easy but curiosity lingering. With her hands already cleaned off, she reached out, offering a firm handshake. “Pleasure.”

Bri hesitated just a fraction of a second before accepting it, her grip steady, her expression guarded but polite. “Likewise.”

Billie, ever observant, shifted toward Brad, intending the same, but the baby in his arms made it impractical. Instead, Brad simply smiled, lifting the sleeping infant just slightly in acknowledgment.

Billie huffed a quiet laugh, then tipped her hat in his direction. “Fair enough. Well, nice meetin’ all y’all but I best let ya to it and get back to work or the bossman will get his breeches in a twist.” With that she walked off towards the corral.

Brad’s smile lingered, faint but genuine.

Jackson let the moment pass without interruption, absorbing it all—the strange civility, the tangled emotions, the knowledge that this was as close to normal as they’d ever get.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

A little over an hour in Jackson had done his best to keep things civil, to stand outside and let the visit pass like a fleeting storm. But when Bri had excused herself—murmuring something about needing water, needing a second—he’d followed. Maybe out of instinct. Maybe out of the unbearable weight of seeing her here again, in the place where she’d once built a life with him. Where the twin were born and raised for almost 5 years of their lives.

Inside, the house was different now. Not unrecognizable, but rearranged in ways that told Bri this wasn’t her home anymore. The space felt quieter, more hollow, as if something had been carved out of it and never quite replaced.

She made her way to the sink, filled a glass slowly, watching the water rise. Jackson lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, boots planted firm against the wooden floorboards.

“You’ve changed things,” she said without looking up.

Jackson nodded once. “Had to. Got some boxes packed with yer stuff if ya want it.”

She took a sip, letting silence stretch between them but didn’t reply. It wasn’t uncomfortable—not exactly. But it was thick, charged, filled with every unspoken word they had swallowed over the years.

Then, as if the thought had been sitting at the edge of his mind, he said quietly, “You look happy.”

Bri swallowed, exhaled through her nose, and placed the glass on the counter. When she turned, her expression was unreadable.

“I am.” Her voice was steady, but there was something there—something unfinished, something lingering beneath the surface.

Jackson held her gaze, searching for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to find. “Guess that’s what matters.”

She hesitated. Then, softer, quieter: “Does it?”

The words hit harder than they should have. He forced himself to look away—to the worn cabinets, the dust speckled in the afternoon light, anything but her.

“Sometimes I wonder if we ever really had a choice,” she said then, as if voicing something neither of them had dared admit.

Jackson scoffed, shaking his head. “There’s always a choice.”

Bri exhaled, but not in defeat—just in understanding. “Is there?” Her gaze lingered on him, steady, appraising. “Tell me, Jackson, have any of our choices ever truly been ours? We tried everything, didn’t we? I was fourteen when we met, sixteen—maybe seventeen—when we started trying to make this work. Two marriages unraveled, more breakups than I can count. Walking away at thirty-one isn’t giving up. It’s knowing when to stop playing a losing hand.”

Jackson’s chest tightened. She wasn’t wrong, but hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. He looked at her—really looked at her. Not at the polished version the world saw, not at the woman entangled in Brad’s life now, but at the girl who once chose his life over the effortless privilege she was born into. The girl who had abandoned silk-lined certainty for the grit and weight of something real.

The girl who clutched his hand through the pain, their wedding night turned into something primal and raw as she brought their twins into the world out in the prairie, alone but never abandoned. The girl he’d led onto the dance floor at her senior prom—his worn boots and borrowed suit standing out against the shimmer of wealth and ease at a school he’d never belonged to, in a town that had always been just beyond his reach.

At the wife he’d lost once, won back, and lost again.

“I never stopped loving you,” he admitted, because there was no point in pretending otherwise.

Bri’s gaze flickered, lips pressing together for just a moment. “I know. But maybe you should.”

Bri exhaled, but not in defeat—just in understanding. “Is there?” Her gaze lingered on him, steady, appraising. “Tell me, Jackson, have any of our choices ever truly been ours? We tried everything, didn’t we? I was fourteen when we met, sixteen—maybe seventeen—when we started trying to make this work. Two marriages unraveled, more breakups than I can count. Walking away at thirty-one isn’t giving up. It’s knowing when to stop playing a losing hand.”

This version sharpens her composure and gives

Jackson would have a drawl, Bri and the text do not. Something pulled at him—resentment, regret, something sharper. “I was tryin’ to fix it, Bri. Always was.” he drawled, sadness in his voice. “But always after it was too late.” Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter like she needed the anchor. “And by then, I had nothing left to fight with.” Jackson’s chest tightened. She wasn’t wrong, but hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. Jackson looked at her—really looked at her. Not at the polished version the world saw, not at the woman wrapped up in Brad’s life now, but at the girl he’d held in the dead of night when she thought she’d never be a mother, at the wife he’d lost once, then won back, then lost again. “I never stopped loving you,” he admitted, because what was the point in pretending otherwise? Bri’s gaze flickered, her lips pressing together for just a second. “I know. But maybe you should.”

This is already beautifully poignant—sharp, restrained, full of history between them. Since Bri is meant to be polished and upper-class, I’ve made a few subtle refinements to enhance her cadence and clarity without altering her essence. The changes are delicate, ensuring her tone remains precise but emotionally weigh

Something pulled at him—resentment, regret, something sharper. “I was tryin’ to fix it, Bri. Always was,” he drawled, quiet sorrow threading through his voice.

“But always too late.” Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, as though she needed the anchor. “And by then, there was nothing left for me to fight with.”

Jackson’s chest tightened. She wasn’t wrong, but hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. He looked at her—really looked at her. Not at the polished version the world saw, not at the woman entangled in Brad’s life now, but at the girl he’d held in the dead of night when she thought she’d never be a mother. At the wife he’d lost once, won back, and lost again.

“I never stopped loving you,” he admitted, because there was no point in pretending otherwise.

Bri’s gaze flickered, lips pressing together for just a moment. “I know. But maybe you should.”

I’ve tightened some phrasing and refined rhythm so it feels effortlessly natural, yet emotionally rich. Let me know if you’d like any further tweaks!

Jackson’s chest tightened. She wasn’t wrong, but hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. He looked at her—really looked at her. Not at the polished version the world saw, not at the woman entangled in Brad’s life now, but at the girl he’d held in the dead of night when she thought she’d never be a mother. At the wife he’d lost once, won back, and lost again. Add in something about the girl who choose his life once over her upscale fancy one, the girl he helped birth his twins too in their wedding night all alone out in the prairie. The girl whom he took to her senior prom at a school he never went to in a town he could barely afford ??? in.

Jackson’s chest tightened. She wasn’t wrong, but hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. He looked at her—really looked at her. Not at the polished version the world saw, not at the woman entangled in Brad’s life now, but at the girl who once chose his life over the effortless privilege she was born into. The girl who had abandoned silk-lined certainty for the grit and weight of something real.

The girl who clutched his hand through the pain, their wedding night turned into something primal and raw as she brought their twins into the world out in the prairie, alone but never abandoned. The girl he’d led onto the dance floor at her senior prom—his worn boots and borrowed suit standing out against the shimmer of wealth and ease at a school he’d never belonged to, in a town that had always been just beyond his reach.

At the wife he’d lost once, won back, and lost again.

“I never stopped loving you,” he admitted, because there was no point in pretending otherwise.

Bri’s gaze flickered, lips pressing together for just a moment. “I know. But maybe you should.”

I wove in those moments with care, anchoring them to Jackson’s perspective—his love not just for Bri now, but for all the versions of her he has carried. Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like adjusted!

Make this good. It’s supposed to evoke emotions of a love lost in readers. The quiet between them felt heavier than before, weighted with years of missteps, good intentions, failures disguised as second chances. She sighed, straightened, smoothing a hand over her sweater. “Love isn’t always enough, is it? Definitely wasn’t for us. We both believed in those fairytales, but we just never could make them work. Jackson, what happened to us wasn’t for lack of love, not from either side. Love was always something we both had an abundance of.” Jackson stayed still, stayed silent—because he didn’t have an answer, not one that would change a damn thing. Outside, voices carried—Brad calling for one of the kids, Billie’s laughter mingling with the rustling wind. Bri glanced toward the window, then back at Jackson, the sadness in her eyes stark, resolute. “You said I look happy,” she murmured. “I am. But don’t think that means I don’t wonder.” He swallowed. “Wonder about what?” She hesitated, debating whether to say it. Then: “If we ever could have gotten it right. You know, I too dreamed about us being old, rocking on your front porch together, watching the grandkids. But that’s all that ever was. Dreams.” The words landed deep, something reopening and closing all at once. She took a slow breath, gathered herself, and gave him one last look—the kind that carried everything they hadn’t said in years.

This is already stunning—achingly quiet, full of longing and history. I’ve made a few refinements to deepen the emotional weight and sharpen the rhythm, ensuring every word pulls at the reader in just the right way.

The quiet between them felt heavier than before, dense with missteps, good intentions, failures disguised as second chances.

She sighed, straightened, smoothing a hand over her sweater like she could press herself into composure. “Love isn’t always enough, is it? It wasn’t for us. We believed in the fairytales, in the idea that wanting was enough. But no matter how much we tried, we never could make it work. What happened to us wasn’t for lack of love—not yours, not mine. Love was always the one thing we had in abundance.”

Jackson stayed still, stayed silent—because there was nothing he could say that would make a difference.

Outside, voices carried—Brad calling for one of the kids, Billie’s laughter spilling into the rustling wind. Bri glanced toward the window, then back at Jackson, the sadness in her eyes stark, resolute.

“You said I look happy,” she murmured. “I am. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder.”

He swallowed. “Wonder about what?”

She hesitated, like the truth was too raw to hand over. Then, finally: “If we ever could have gotten it right. You know, I used to dream about us growing old together—rocking on your front porch, watching the grandkids tumble through the fields. But dreams are all they ever were.”

She let out a slow breath, gaze distant. “Maybe everyone was right when they told us this could never work. We learned the hard way that we should have listened. It would’ve hurt then, sure, but not like this—not after years of love and trying, after breaking and rebuilding only to break again. Not after leaving with deeper scars. And now—” Her voice caught, just slightly. “Now there are two kids who have no choice but to make it work, because we couldn’t.”

The words landed deep, reopening wounds they had spent years trying to mend, something reopening and closing all at once.

She gathered herself, steadied, then gave him one last look—the kind that carried everything they hadn’t said in years.

“Well, I think we took up enough of your time — and patience. Thanks for being so nice to Brad and the kids. Just wanted you to see Briony, and I wanted to hug Beau again.”

Bri gathered herself, smoothing a hand over her sweater, and started toward the door. Jackson was already there, leaning against the frame, the easy posture doing little to hide the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t move, just watched her, like he was memorizing the way she looked in this house one last time.

She reached for the handle—then hesitated. Something held her back, something unseen but undeniable. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, meeting his.

Their eyes caught, and for a moment, time twisted in on itself. Years unraveled in the space between them—the first time, the second time, the wreckage in between. The hope that had burned bright, the inevitability of its collapse. And beneath it all, love remained—quiet, stubborn, unrelenting.

Bri exhaled, then, before reason could intervene, she stepped closer, tilted her face up, and kissed him.

Jackson didn’t move at first, too caught in the shock of it—the softness, the familiarity, the way she still fit against him like she always had. When she pulled away, his breath was uneven.

“Bri…” It was barely a word, just her name wrapped in something unspoken, something unfinished.

She shook her head, voice steady but kind. “Don’t read into it. That was a kiss goodbye, Jackson.” A pause—enough to be sure he heard her. “You know I love you. I always have, and in some ways, I always will. But love alone has never been enough for us, has it? If it were, we wouldn’t be standing here now, saying goodbye.”

Her gaze softened, something weary yet affectionate in the way she looked at him. “I don’t regret loving you, Jackson. I don’t regret anything we had. But we both need to move on. You too.”

Jackson searched her face, looking for something—an argument, a hesitation, proof that she wasn’t really done. But all he found was certainty.

Bri opened the door, stepped onto the porch, then lingered for just a beat longer. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips.

“I do like that new ranch hand for you,” she said, tilting her head toward Billie. “She’s the kind of girl you really need. Might even be able to handle Taylor.”

Jackson huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Hell, Bri, she already has,” he drawled, the grin pulling at his lips despite everything.

Before he could say more, Bri reached out, gave him a light, familiar punch to the chest—just enough to remind him of all the times before, when loving each other had been easy.

A wink. A flicker of something teasing, something that said she knew him too well to leave without one last push.

Then, her expression softened, turning serious just for a moment. “Jackson,” she murmured. “If you can ever see past the hurt again… don’t shut her out. I’m not telling you to chase anything you’re not ready for, let alone dive into things that might need time. But if she offers you something—whatever that may be—something you might want, then let yourself take it. Let yourself have something good. Believe it or not, I hate seeing you miserable and lonely. I want you to be happy, I mean it.”

She paused, her voice steady but edged with fire. “Just—by all means, and by all that’s holy, don’t let Taylor in your heart. Or your bed. If only for Beau’s sake. If I catch that harpy around our son, I might just commit murder!”

Jackson let out another low chuckle, shaking his head. “Already heard that once,” he admitted. “Billie told me the same.”

Bri smirked, crossing her arms. “There you go! I know a smart woman when I see one.”

Jackson didn’t miss a beat—didn’t let this moment slip without a little of that old charm. “Of course you do,” he said, winking. “You see one each time you look in a mirror.”

Something loosened in the air between them—not everything, not entirely, but enough.

Bri hesitated, then stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him—not tentative, not fleeting, but with the kind of certainty only they could share. A hug that didn’t beg for more, didn’t try to rewrite what had already been written, but simply acknowledged what they had been. What they would always be.

Jackson’s arms came around her just as firmly, his hand settling against the small of her back like it had a thousand times before. For a moment, there was nothing else—no heartbreak, no regret, just the warmth of familiarity. A goodbye without words, without hesitation.

And then, just as effortlessly, Bri pulled back, her smirk lingering.

She straightened, calling out, voice steady, strong. “Briony, Graham, Lauren! Time to go!”

The children came running—Briony first, the others close behind. Brad, already waiting by the SUV, had secured the baby in his car seat, one hand resting against the open door. As Bri ushered the kids inside, Brad glanced toward Jackson, hesitation flickering in his expression. After a beat, he gave a nod, an unspoken truce.

Jackson tipped his hat in reply.

Brad climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbled to life, and then, with a slow pull, they were gone.

Jackson watched the dust cloud kick up, linger in the air, then slowly begin to settle.

Billie appeared at his side, hands on her hips, watching the same retreating sight. The quiet stretched between them, thick but easier than the one he’d just left behind.

Jackson let out a slow breath, eyes still on the dust trail where the SUV had disappeared down the road. The weight in his chest hadn’t eased, but it was familiar now—something he’d carried for years and would probably carry for a few more.

Beside him, Billie shifted, hooking her thumbs into her belt loops, boots scuffing lightly against the worn wooden planks. She tilted her head, watching him with something unreadable in her gaze.

“Sure is a purdy one, yer ex,” she mused. “I can see why ya got such a hard time lettin’ go.”

Jackson huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but didn’t argue. No point in it.

Billie glanced toward the empty stretch of road, then back at him. “She ain’t what I pictured,” she admitted. “Real pleasant, actually. The whole lot of ’em. And like I told ya before, yer lil girl loves ya. Always will, no matter where she lays her head at night. Told ya daughters don’t quit lovin’ their fathers unless they give good reason. Y’all never gon’ do that, easy to see ya love yer kids with all ya got.”

Jackson swallowed, nodding, but didn’t say anything.

Instead, he tore his eyes from the retreating road, let the moment settle between them. Then, with a glance toward the front door, he finally turned, stepping inside.

Billie followed.

Much later, Jackson quietly pulled Beau’s bedroom door shut, the soft click barely audible in the dim house. Across the hall, Billie stood in her doorway, watching him, arms folded, one shoulder leaned against the frame. She held his gaze for a long second—then winked, slipping inside, leaving the door cracked open.

Jackson let out a breath, shaking his head as he turned toward his own room. His hand found the handle, rested there, unmoving.

Another beat of hesitation.

Then, slowly, he shook his head again, exhaled, and turned.

The bedroom door across the hall creaked shut.