Chestnut Ridge
Beau had only been gone a few days, visiting his mother and new family in Brindleton Bay, yet the ranch felt emptier than it should. Billie had moved out too—renting a room in town, claiming it was for the best, to keep folks from wagging their tongues. Jackson wasn’t buying it. He was almost certain it had more to do with the nights they’d shared a bed, casually at first, until their secret intimacy turned into an awkward tension neither of them could quite shake. What was meant to be detached and uncomplicated had unraveled into something neither had planned for.
Jackson told himself the quiet didn’t bother him. Told himself he liked it. But there’s only so much work a man can do to drown out the silence. When the chores were done, the eerie stillness crept in—settling heavy in the kitchen at night, with the flickering glow of the television and half a bottle of whiskey for company. The silence pressed in, relentless.
A few hours after quitting time, Billie showed up to grab her old work gloves—her lucky gloves, she called them, though she wasn’t much for superstition. She stepped through the front door and found Jackson slumped at the kitchen table, fingers loose around a glass, boots propped on the chair beside him.
She sighed. “Dayum Kershaw, smells like a dang distillery in here.”
He glanced up, eyes dull. “Whatcha want, Boone?”
She crossed her arms, studying him. “Yer drinkin’ alone. Ain’t a good look.”
Jackson scoffed. “Ain’t lookin’ for a lecture. Nor a Momma.”
“If I were yer Momma, I’d be takin’ turns kickin’ myself and you in the ass. Speakin’ of, where is your momma anyway? She in town?”
“Died when I was eight. Don’t even think about givin’ me pity, or so help me God, I’ll set ya out right now.” Jackson grumbled, while Billie cursed under her breath.
She rolled her eyes, grabbed the glass from his fingers, and took a sip. “Ain’t givin’ ya pity. Just sayin’—don’t drink alone.”
And that’s how it started. They ran out of whiskey fast.
Jackson suggested hitting the honky-tonk, but when they pulled up, the place was dark. A handwritten sign taped to the door read: CLOSED – PIPE BUSTED, FLOODED BAR.
Bad luck.
But quitting the night this early? Neither of them was having it.
“We could just grab a bottle or two and head back,” Billie offered, scuffing her boot against the gravel.
Jackson leaned back on his heels, glancing at the glowing red CLOSED sign over the general store. “Ain’t nothin’ open this late. Small town livin’, Boone.”
Billie spun unsteadily toward his old truck, cheeks flushed, her grin just as reckless as her balance. “Well then,” she said, pointing dramatically, “guess we better go find where the good times are hidin’.”
Strange Town, baby
And somehow, that’s how they ended up in StrangerVille.
Barely three hours from Chestnut Ridge—just over two if you had Jackson’s whiskey-fueled lead foot—it wasn’t exactly where they’d planned to be. But with nothing else open along the way, the road kept stretching ahead, and they kept chasing whatever promised a good time.
They didn’t even notice time passing, howling along to the radio, where country classics played—songs they’d heard a million times, since before they even knew their own names, since before they were born, when their mommas probably swayed to the same rhythms with them still in the womb. It wasn’t just music; it was muscle memory, a soundtrack stitched into their bones.
StrangerVille was a small town with big ambitions, desperately trying to play larger than it was. Once a place people called home, now it was mostly empty—a town gutted by time, bad luck, and stories no one wanted to explain.
When jobs disappeared and people moved on, all that was left was a half-baked attempt to keep the town alive—casinos, bars, a few cheap thrills meant to distract from everything crumbling underneath. So they put lipstick on the pig—casinos, clubs, flashy bars promising luck, escape, reinvention, all meant to distract from the cheap houses, the abandoned lots, the truth underneath.
It wasn’t fancy, wasn’t glamorous, but it was open when nowhere else was, and for one reckless night, that was enough.
Some said StrangerVille had a way of holding onto people longer than expected.
That time stretched here—not in the way of some supernatural oddity, but in the way a winning streak made you forget the clock. Or maybe in the way bad decisions snowballed into worse ones—one drink too deep, one bet too bold.
It was a town that drew people in, promised them a good time, then left them behind if they weren’t careful.
But that night?
It belonged to them.
Somewhere along the way, Billie climbed onto a bar counter, one boot propped up like she was commanding the whole damn room, and grabbed the mic from a startled musician in the corner.
The opening chords rang out, and half the bar perked up immediately—the kind of song people recognized in their bones.
“Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots
And ruined your black-tie affair
The last one to know, the last one to show
I was the last one you thought you’d see there
And I saw the surprise and the fear in his eyes
When I took his glass of champagne
And I toasted you, said, “Honey, we may be through
But you’ll never hear me complain”
She went for it, throwing herself into the lyrics, loud, whiskey-fueled, and completely unapologetic.
Jackson, already three drinks past good decisions, grinned like a fool, shoved his drink aside, and hauled himself up beside her. And he belted out like he was getting paid for it.
“Cause I’ve got friends in low places
Where the whiskey drowns
And the beer chases my blues away
And I’ll be okay
Yeah, I’m not big on social graces
Think I’ll slip on down to the oasis
Oh, I’ve got friends in low places“
And before they knew it, the whole bar was singing along—glasses raised, voices belting, boots stomping against the wooden floor.
Bartenders banged their fists against the counters, dealers grinned over their cards, and even the passed-out guy in the corner lifted his head just enough to mumble along.
By the time they hit the chorus, the entire room was shaking—the floors vibrating, neon signs humming, and the air thick with beer, laughter, and pure, reckless energy.
Billie spun, nose-to-nose with Jackson, eyes full of mischief.
“‘Cause I got friends in lo-oh-oh-ow places…!”
She threw her arm around his shoulder, half-screaming the lyrics in his ear, and Jackson belted them right back, dramatic as hell, half-dancing, half-stomping, shaking his hat at the crowd.
Every single person was in on it now—voices roaring, drinks sloshing, the entire damn bar turned into a stadium-worthy honky-tonk concert. After the song was over, several other patrons bought them drink after drink.
And then—
Well, neither of them remembered much after that.
Aftermath
Sunlight stabbed through cheap blinds, painting jagged streaks across tangled sheets and aching heads.
Jackson groaned, hand slapping against his face. His mouth was dry as hell, his head pounding, his stomach twisted up tight, and something smelled—faintly—like a bad decision.
Billie stirred beside him, muttering a string of curses before yanking the pillow over her head.
Jackson blinked at the ceiling, his thoughts sluggish, his movements worse. He reached out, fumbling blindly for her, only for his arm to land with a graceless slap across her side. “…Hey, Boone?”
“Don’t,” her drawl almost a growl, shoving his arm off with enough force to make him grunt. She stumbled out of bed, her steps unsteady, and made a beeline for the bathroom. The crooked door didn’t even shut all the way, leaving Jackson to endure every sound that followed—each one worse than the last.
He groaned, lifting his arm to rub his temple, trying to ease the pounding in his skull.
Jackson groaned, the sound low and guttural, as Billie’s voice sliced through the fog in his head. He threw his forearm across his face, desperate to block out the light and the noise.
“What in tarnation is on my boob? Better come off or so help me Jeezes!”
The shower sputtered to life, coughing and wheezing like it might give up entirely. Pipes groaned, rattling through the walls, and the water hit the shower floor with a metallic hiss that sounded more like punishment than relief.
Jackson winced beneath his arm, his head pounding harder with every tortured creak of the plumbing. “Lord, just take me now,” he muttered, his voice muffled against his skin. Then the bathroom door crashed open, sending a wave of steam spilling into the already musky bedroom.
Billie burst into view, half-wrapped in a towel, dripping wet, her hair plastered to her neck. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild, and her finger jabbed at her chest like it had betrayed her.
“Jackson Kershaw, as I live and breathe, you tell me right now that don’t read For Better or Whiskey – Property of J.K. on my goddang titty, and that I’m seein’ things now!?!”
Jackson squinted at the inked initials scrawled across her skin, then—suddenly—grinned. Sliding up to a half-seated position he leaned back against the bedpost, arms crossed, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. My Property, huh? Didn’t know y’all were such a fan.”
Billie’s jaw dropped. “Oh, don’t you even start! This ain’t no love letter, cowboy—it’s a mistake! A big, fat, drunken mistake!”
Jackson chuckled, the sound low and warm, despite the chaos. “Mistake or not, it’s there now. Guess that means y’all really belong to me. Says so right there on yer boobage!”
Billie let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, hell no. If anything, this is your fault! I ain’t never wanted to brand myself with nobody’s name!”
Jackson stretched lazily, savoring her indignation. “Well, it’s branded, alright. Reckon you gotta live with it now. And I don’t care who ya are, but that’s funny right there.”
He pushed up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stilling in sheer regret, before aiming for the water glass on the nightstand. Billie was still griping, her words sharp and relentless, but Jackson barely heard her. His lame attempt at covering up his most delicate area with some towel he had found on the floor hung loose on his hips as he moved, his mind only half-present in the mess they’d woken up to.
Then he turned, reaching for the glass, and Billie froze mid-sentence.
She stared.
Her headache—her miserable, aching body—all forgotten as pure, unfiltered joy flooded her features.
Then—she howled.
“Jackson Kershaw, are y’all serious right now?!”
Jackson frowned, glancing over his shoulder. “What now?”
Billie pointed, cackling so hard she had to clutch her towel to keep it in place. “Turn around—slow. Yer back to me.”
Jackson hesitated, then did as he was told, confusion etched across his face. Billie’s laughter only got louder. Jackson groaned, dragging his forearm across his face to block out the light and sounds. His head throbbed, his stomach churned, and every muscle in his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of cattle. “Keep it down woman, will ya!?”
Billie wiped at her damp cheek, still grinning. “Oh, just y’all wait. I got somethin’ funny for ya to see.”
She grabbed his wrist and yanked.
“What—? Boone—?” Jackson protested, his voice strained. “Not so fast! I’m still half-dead over here!”
“Come on, cowboy, what I got for ya will rise ya straight from the dead,” she said, dragging him across the room toward the bathroom with zero sympathy for his misery. “Y’all need to get acquainted with yer own damn self.”
Jackson stumbled after her, his towel hanging precariously low on his hips. “I swear, Boone, if I keel over, it’s on you.” Still disoriented, Jackson swayed as she shoved him through the doorway. Steam curled thick in the small space, fogging up the mirror above the sink.
Billie wiped a hand across the glass, clearing the condensation, then spun Jackson so his back faced it.
“Alright,” she said, her voice positively gleeful. “Take a good long gander.”
Jackson squinted, craning his neck, but all he could make out was a distorted smudge on his lower back—just enough to know it was bad, but not what exactly.
Billie hummed, tilting her head. “Wouldcha look at that. For Better or Whiskey. And right beneath it, big as can be—Boone’s Cowboy.”
Jackson’s stomach twisted. “You’re lyin’.”
Billie snorted. “Ain’t nobody makin’ this up, Kershaw. Y’all been branded. Y’all are my goddamn property now too, thank you very much. My personal cowboy. Yee-friggin-haww!”
Jackson groaned so hard it nearly turned into a growl. “Ah, hell no!”
Billie wheezed, clutching at her aching ribs. “Oh, Lord, this is too good. The most honest-to-God tramp stamp I ever seen! I reckon y’all might need to invest in some high-waisted jeans now, cowboy.”
Jackson buried his face in his hands. “Matching tit tat and tramp stamp? Ya gotta be kiddin’ me! I’m gonna be sick. I need to sit down or I will lay myself out right here.”
Billie, still grinning, patted his shoulder with mock sympathy. “Nah, nah. That ain’t the worst part.”
Jackson lifted his head, glowering. “How in the hell could it get worse?”
Billie smirked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Well… reckon you might wanna think twice ‘fore bendin’ over in front of Briar Rose next time. Yer ex-wife don’t strike me as the type to let somethin’ like this slide. Hell, she might slap it all over social media before you even get yer pants pulled up to yer neck!”
Jackson groaned louder, dragging his towel up over his lower back like it could somehow make the problem disappear. “Lord have mercy, Boone, this ain’t funny.”
Billie, still laughing, slapped his shoulder lightly. “Cheer up, cowboy. Least now we both got somethin’ to regret. Lil’ ol’ souvenir from this trainwreck of a night. Could be worse. At least we didn’t tattoo that dumb shit to our foreheads or somewhere more visible. I ain’t in the habit of showin’ my tits off and far as I can tell ya tend to keep yer pants up around people.”
Jackson groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “I got me a kid to raise, Boone! What kinda example am I settin’ with all this for Beau? What if I take him swimmin’ or he walks in on me dressin’ and sees that goddamn tat?! Hell, I’m just glad he ain’t gonna be back from visitin’ his Momma till Monday! Ya got that right tho, if Bri ever sees this, oh heaven mercy me! She’ll probably write a song about it.”
Billie’s shoulders shook as she clutched at her aching ribs. “Oh, it’s funny alright. Funniest damn thing I ever seen! And hey, you’re showin’ Beau what not to do—and why. That’s gotta count for somethin’, right?”
They trudged back into the bedroom, their steps heavy and unsteady. Jackson collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a groan, his head pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Billie flopped down beside him, her towel barely holding together as she leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
For a moment, they sat in silence, their bodies aching, their egos bruised, the weight of their shared disaster pressing down on them like a lead blanket.
Jackson rubbed his temples, his voice low and bitter. “This is a new low, even for me.”
Billie snorted, though it lacked her earlier enthusiasm. “Speak for yourself. I’ve hit worse. But this? This is damn close.”
Billie slumped back against the headboard, the dull throb behind her eyes making everything feel slightly off-kilter. The room smelled like stale whiskey and regret, and Jackson was no better—half-sprawled beside her, feet still planted on the floor like they might slide off the bed at any moment.
Her gaze drifted to the nightstand, where a crumpled stack of papers sat, curling at the edges. Something about them snagged her foggy attention—a glint of gold catching in the morning light. She squinted, the effort sending a fresh wave of nausea through her.
“What’s that?” she muttered, reaching out with all the urgency of someone retrieving a snack from the couch cushion.
Jackson barely blinked. “Probably the bill for all this nonsense.”
Billie huffed, dragging the papers up to her face, the embossed seal at the top pressing against her clammy fingers. It took a moment for the letters to make sense, but when they did, her stomach twisted into a fist.
Certificate of Marriage.
Her breath hitched. The words blurred for a second, then sharpened again in all their horrible glory.
“Oh, hell no. No, no, no, no, NO!” She sat up too fast, instantly regretting it.
Jackson frowned, rubbing his temples like the very act of listening was too much effort. “What now?”
Billie shoved the papers toward him, waving them wildly in front of his face. “Tell me that ain’t what I think it is.”
Jackson squinted, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. The letters swam before him, his pounding headache making it impossible to read.
He groaned. “What the hell is this?” Snatching the papers from her, he held them farther away, as if distance might somehow unscramble the words.
The Seal of the Township of Strangerville glared up at him like the punchline to a very bad joke.
“Aw, hell no…” His voice barely made it past his lips. He blinked hard, but the words didn’t change. “C’mon now! That’s just cruel right ‘bout now.”
Jackson let his head fall back, squeezing his eyes shut against the hammering in his skull. The cheap motel ceiling loomed above, its water stains spreading like inkblots of regret. Everything felt unsteady—tilted, spinning, the world still trying to reassemble itself from the wreckage of last night.
Jackson exhaled sharply, gripping the papers before shoving them aside. They slid off the bed, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves—like nothing, when they were everything.
He didn’t bother picking them up.
Didn’t matter now.
Except it did.
And they were going to have to figure out what the hell happened last night.
He shifted, hoping to ease the dull ache in his spine, and the bed let out a tortured creak, metal springs groaning like a death rattle. Billie moved too, and the whole thing lurched violently, sending a ripple through the mattress like they were seconds away from getting ejected.
She froze, blinking down at the frame in cautious disbelief. “This damn bed’s as unstable as our life choices. This is some blue ribbon bullshit!”
Jackson exhaled sharply. “Truest thing I heard all day. Damn me to hell and back—holy hell.”
Billie let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah. And remember when I told ya I had worse? Thinking this might officially take the crown. Married to a guy I work for—who I just met? I know nothin’ ‘bout ya, and y’all know nothin’ ‘bout me, and that’s how I like it. How’s that supposed to be a marriage? We gotta fix this.”
“No shit.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Open to hear any ideas. Think about it, I gotta go take a leak.”
Jackson groaned as he pushed himself off the bed, the worn-out mattress creaking loudly in protest, wobbling beneath his sluggish movements like it might give out entirely if he wasn’t careful.
Billie let out a sharp, guttural groan the moment the bed shifted under Jackson’s weight, throwing an arm over her face like it might somehow block out the nausea rolling through her.
“God almighty,” she muttered, voice raw and miserable. “Could ya stop movin’ the earth for one damn second?”
She didn’t get up, didn’t trust herself to move without making things worse. Instead, she stayed put, body heavy against the sheets, every little jolt making her stomach twist further.
Jackson paused mid-step, glancing back. “Not my fault this bed’s one rough night of passion away from collapse.”
She just groaned again, curling tighter into herself. “If it falls apart, just bury me under it and tell people I lived a good life.”
Jackson paused mid-step, glancing back at her with a dry smirk. “A good life? Hell, Boone, you’re already halfway to sainthood with the way you’re sufferin’.”
She groaned louder, muffling her face against the pillow. “Saint Billie Rae, patron of bad decisions and worse mornings. Put it on my tombstone.”
He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and gravelly, legs unsteady beneath him, he dragged himself toward the bathroom, each step slow, deliberate, the world still spinning around the edges of his vision. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, “Don’t worry,” he muttered, nudging the bathroom door open with his shoulder. “I’ll make sure they spell your name right. With all my achy, breaky heart …”
The dull light flickered against the cracked tiles as he leaned heavily against the counter to curb his swaying, the world still spinning around the edges of his vision. Somewhere behind him, Billie groaned again, her misery echoing through the cheap motel room like a warning of the day ahead.
Relief came as he stood over the bowl, his personal business in hand, the sound of his muttering mixing with the faint drip of the leaky faucet.
Then came the hurried footsteps.
“Move!” Billie’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent.
Jackson barely had time to glance over his shoulder before she barreled in, her face pale, one hand clamped over her mouth. She shoved him aside with surprising force, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet just as he stumbled, still mid-stream.
“Hell, Billie!” he barked, teetering as he scrambled to redirect his aim toward the bathtub. His balance wavered, his free hand gripping the counter for dear life while Billie retched behind him.
The sound hit him like a gut punch, his stomach twisting in sympathy as the sour stench of puke filled the room. He gagged, his throat tightening as he squeezed his eyes shut, muttering, “Aw, hell, Boone, you’re gonna take me down with ya.”
Billie barely managed to gasp out a reply between heaves. “Not my fault you’ve got the constitution of a damn toddler.”
Jackson staggered, his grip on the counter tightening as his own nausea threatened to overwhelm him. “If I go down, I’m takin’ you with me,” he mumbled, voice muffled and desperate.
Billie was already mid-bout, her body heaving violently as she clung to the toilet bowl, her knuckles white against the rim. The sound of her retching hit Jackson like a freight train, and his stomach twisted in sympathy.
He barely managed to stumble forward before falling to his knees beside her, his own gut rebelling as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the same bowl. The two of them crouched there, side by side, caught in a grim duet of misery that neither could escape.
Billie gasped for air between heaves, her voice strained but sharp. “Hell, Jackson, you’re supposed to be the strong one!”
Jackson groaned, his forehead pressed against the top of the toilet tank as he muttered, “Strong don’t mean immune, Boone.”
Finally, Billie slumped back against the wall, her breathing ragged but steady as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She reached for the toilet paper, tearing off two wads and shoving one toward Jackson without looking.
He grabbed it with a shaky hand.
“Think we already gone and done takin’ each other down plenty, cowboy,” she muttered, her tone sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to her.
The air of the tiny bathroom was now thick with the sour stench of urine, puke, and stale regret—the kind of awkward, unholy symphony neither of them would ever dare speak of again.
Jackson finally slumped back against the wall, wiping his mouth with the crumpled paper. “Well hell,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “This just keeps gettin’ better an’ better by the minute.”
One Hell Of A Hangover
They were really married.
Billie’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the marriage papers, Jackson hovering over her shoulder, both of them squinting against the assault of legalese. His head pounded, hers wasn’t much better, and the words swam in front of them like they were trying to slip away unseen.
At some point—after both had emptied their stomachs and their will to live—they managed to clean up their mess as best they could. It was grim work, done in silence, the only sounds an occasional groan or muttered curse when the lingering stench threatened to reignite the cycle all over again.
Jackson took the first shower, standing under the weak spray like it might somehow cleanse his soul. Billie went next, gripping the cracked tile for balance while the steam fought against the nausea still clawing at her insides.
Wrapped in scratchy motel towels, they settled on the edge of the bed, several bottles of water between them like some pitiful attempt at rehydration. Jackson fiddled with the ancient courtesy coffeemaker, cramming two packs into the machine instead of one, hoping the extra strength would chase away the fog in his brain.
It brewed into something twice as terrible, bitter and burned, the taste clinging to their tongues like punishment.
And still—they drank it anyway.
Because whatever had happened last night, they were going to need all the strength in the world to face it.
Jackson exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Ain’t no way this mess is legit. There’s gotta be a loophole.”
Billie grunted, scanning the fine print with the stubborn determination of someone who refused to accept their reality. “Keep lookin’. Somethin’ gotta give.”
But then, right there, glaring up at them in lettering more menacing than any hangover:
In the Township of Strangerville, couples have exactly 24 hours to annul their marriage. Past that time, the marriage can only be dissolved through divorce, following a mandatory one-year period of separation of table and bed.
Silence.
Then—
“Oh, hell no,” Jackson muttered, shoving off the bed so fast his head swam. “We gotta go. Now.”
Billie didn’t need to be told twice. They scrambled to get dressed, every movement sluggish, their bodies working against them like they were wading through molasses. Boots were tugged on without socks, buttons misaligned, and Billie nearly strangled herself trying to rip her tangled hair into some sort of semblance of order.
Jackson snatched his keys—only for Billie to rip them right out of his grasp. Her grip was iron. “Uh-uh, cowboy. I ain’t lettin’ you drive nowhere lookin’ like death warmed over.”
Jackson groaned, wiping his brow and squinting at her through bloodshot eyes. “And you think you’re lookin’ any better? My truck, so I drive. Don’t make me wrestle you for the damn keys, woman!” His voice was hoarse, gravel rubbing against gravel.
Billie curled her lip in defiance but said nothing, shoving the keys into his chest with all the strength her aching arms could muster. “Fine. Crash and burn, see if I care!” she muttered.
The truck roared to life, its vibrations matching Jackson’s frayed nerves. He threw the stick into gear with jerky determination, and they lurched forward. Billie braced herself, the seatbelt cutting into her as Jackson whipped the steering wheel left, then right, overcompensating for the blinding morning sun streaming through the cracked windshield.
“Slow down!” Billie barked.
“Don’t tell me how to drive my own damn truck!” Jackson snapped.
Billie leaned forward, gripping the dashboard with whitening knuckles. “You’re turning wrong! We gotta go down Main, then right, not left!” she shot back, eyes wild.
Jackson twisted the wheel harder out of spite, only for Billie to grab hold of it mid-turn. The truck veered violently, its tires shrieking against the asphalt. The scent of burnt rubber filled the air as Jackson wrestled her grip off. “Are you outta your damn mind?” he growled.
“Better than letting your sorry hide wrap us around a tree!” Billie spat.
“What tree?! There ain’t no dang trees around here, woman!”
They were a mess of half-shouted insults, their shouting matching the erratic swerves of the truck. Billie tried to grab the wheel again, and Jackson swatted her hand away with an angry gesture.
Neither of them noticed how close Jackson’s truck had veered towards the parked cars until it was too late.
The truck clipped the first one—a shiny black sedan parked way too neat for a place like StrangerVille—scraping along its side with a sharp screech of metal on metal. The impact left a wicked dent just above the rear wheel well, deep enough to make any insurance agent cry.
Then, as if fate wasn’t done with them yet, the truck slammed into the second—a hulking SUV with a Sheriff’s star emblazoned on the side, its rear sticking out just far enough to catch the brunt of the collision. The force sent the SUV lurching forward, its tires skidding against the gravel with a crunch that echoed through the lot.
The crunch was deafening. The truck lurched to a brutal stop, throwing both of them forward against their seatbelts like fate was personally punishing them for their choices.
Jackson’s skull rattled, his grip white-knuckled around the steering wheel.
Billie sucked in a breath, then exhaled it just as fast. “Well, hell.”
Jackson’s knuckles turned white as he stared at the damage, his mouth hanging open. “Yup. Fuckin’ hell—”
Law-Abiding Citizens
Billie’s eyes darted between the cars, her face pale. “Tell me that ain’t the Sheriff’s car. Please tell me that ain’t the Sheriff’s car.”
As if on cue, the cruiser’s lights flickered to life, followed by the unmistakable wail of sirens.
Jackson groaned, slumping back in his seat. “Well, Boone, you wanted to do something about this. Congratulations. You did, cos ya just made it worse.”
Billie opened her mouth to retort, but the Sheriff himself was already stepping out of the SUV, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
The sirens wailed on, slicing through the air like an unforgiving truth. Jackson froze, his fingers stiffening on the wheel, while Billie leaned back in her seat, already imagining the worst.
They both swore, loudly and in unison.
Jackson turned off the truck, pulled the keys from the ignition, and placed them on the dashboard, all while keeping an eye on Billie—who looked way too close to contemplating a run for it.
Jackson groaned. “I swear to God, Boone, if you even think about it—”
But Billie wasn’t moving. She was watching the Sheriff as he leaned back into his cruiser to silence the sirens—an act that, unfortunately, presented a view neither of them needed.
The man’s breeches clung like they were stitched onto him, far too tight for their own good, and as he bent just a little farther, the fabric strained against the sheer determination of his stance.
Billie blinked. Then, like she couldn’t help herself, she muttered under her breath, “Lord Almighty, that man’s wearin’ his britches like they’re painted on.”
Jackson exhaled, shaking his head. “Hell, Boone, that ain’t paint—that’s a damn cry for help. If you focus, you can hear it.”
He paused dramatically, then threw his voice into a pitiful, high-pitched whimper.
“Help…!”
Billie snorted so hard she had to slap her knee. Jackson let out a low chuckle, and before they knew it, both of them were laughing—wheezing through their lingering hangovers, their aching bodies forgotten for just one blissful second.
Then the Sheriff straightened, turned, and glared directly at them.
The laughter cut off immediately.
Jackson cleared his throat, sitting straighter. Billie clamped her lips shut, eyes forward like she was suddenly the most respectful citizen alive.
The Sheriff took his time strolling toward them, boots scuffing against the dirt like he had all the time in the world, his expression one of barely restrained amusement.
He came to a stop at the driver side, adjusting his belt while Jackson rolled down his window, giving them the kind of long, knowing look that said he was already mentally writing the incident report for this disaster.
Then, with a sigh so slow it might as well have been rehearsed, he finally greeted them:
“Well, look what the desert spat out today.”
His smirk tugged just shy of outright gleeful as he surveyed the absolute wreck before him.
“Ain’t every day folks manage to t-bone a lawman’s ride in the middle of bright daylight, on a dead-quiet street, with not so much as a tumbleweed in the way.”
He lifted his chin toward the empty stretch of road, then back at them, eyebrow cocked.
“So go on, enlighten me—what exactly were y’all swervin’ to miss? Somethin’ invisible? Or just the last shreds of common sense all y’all might’ve possessed? Anything to say to me, huh?”
Jackson’s eye twitched. “Sorry, was distracted for a sec an’ it happened.”
Billie muttered, “I got something to say to ya: This town ain’t got nearly enough exits.”
Jackson shot her a sharp look before nudging her hard with his elbow, making her jerk sideways against the seat. Billie didn’t hesitate—she shoved him right back, pressing her palm against his shoulder and shoving him into the door with just enough force to make a point.
The Sheriff rolled his eyes, rocking back on his heels like he was already regretting every second of this interaction.
“Guess that means y’all are gonna have to deal with me now. So, let’s start by havin’ ya get out of the truck. Hand me them keys will ya, son. Ya won’t be needin’ them anytime soon,” he said with a smirk that meant nothing good for either of them.
It went downhill fast.
Mandatory blood test. Failure.
Jailbirds
Next thing they knew, they were tossed into Strangerville’s tiny jailhouse, each of them in one of the two holding cells, facing each other through bars. The whole damn thing was open, no privacy, no dignity. If you had to use the bathroom, you did that in front of all.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, they were on a clock.
They tried explaining about the annulment, hollering at officers, demanding to see a judge now, but the Sheriff wasn’t having it. He stomped in, arms crossed over his wide chest, his glare sharper than a cattle prod. “Let me make somethin’ real clear—you raise one more ruckus in my jail, I’ll make damn sure you don’t see a judge at all today and probably not tomorrow either. I’m sick and tired of tourists forgettin’ their manners and puttin’ my citizens in danger. Drivin’ drunk in my town and then tryin’ to put demands on me!? No Sir, No Ma’am! You both will sit on yer asses and be patient until the judge is ready to deal with ya! Get comfy!”
Jackson groaned and sank back against the bars. Billie huffed but held her tongue—for now.
Both were perched in their respective cells, glaring at each other through the bars. The tiny jailhouse seemed to shrink with every passing minute, suffocating them in their shared misery. Billie shifted on the cold metal bench, arms crossed tight over her chest, her fiery glare boring into Jackson.
“You just had to speed,” she hissed. “Couldn’t let me drive, could ya?”
Jackson rolled his eyes, tipping his head back against the bars. “Oh, for the love of—if you hadn’t grabbed the damn wheel, we wouldn’t be sittin’ here, now would we? Look atcha, actin’ like you’re innocent in all this.”
Billie leaned forward, her voice rising with every syllable. “Innocent? Innocent?! You’re the one struttin’ ‘round like you’re the king of the highway, nearly gettin’ us both killed! And then, then, you fail the damn blood test? I told ya to pull over!”
Jackson pushed off the bars, stepping closer to his side of the cage. “Well, maybe I wouldn’ta failed if you hadn’t dragged me to godforsaken Strangerville in the first place! Ain’t nothin’ good ever come outta that hellhole!”
“Oh, now it’s my fault we’re in Strangerville? You was the one all gung-ho ‘bout it last night! Couldn’t wait to knock back drinks an’ lose at cards like the big man you are!” Her accent thickened as her irritation bubbled over.
“Well, I sure as hell don’t remember takin’ vows, but here we are, hitched like hogs at a country fair!”
Billie’s face flushed red. “Like that’s my doin’? Ya think I wanted that?! Don’t you dare pin this on me! I don’t even like you, Jackson!” Her voice echoed through the jailhouse, startling a deputy who peeked in briefly before retreating.
Jackson snorted. “The feelin’s mutual, darlin’. Reckon we agree on somethin’ for once.”
They both fell into a tense silence, breathing hard. A few moments passed before Billie muttered, “I’m gettin’ that judge if it’s the last thing I do today.”
Jackson smirked, leaning back against the wall again. “Yeah? Good luck with that, Boone. Sheriff might as well’ve thrown away the key.”
“Ah, just shut up already, will ya?”
“You first!”
And so they sat.
And simmered.
Hours crawled by like molasses before finally—finally—they were dragged before the judge.
Judgement Day
The man was old, stern, with an expression like he’d seen every kind of nonsense Strangerville had to offer, and then some. Judge Clyde McClintock wasted no time listing their charges—public intoxication, reckless endangerment, disturbing the peace, drunk driving. Jackson winced at every one.
Billie, of course, had thoughts.
“Now hold on just a damn minute! Y’honor, I ain’t never been drunk while drivin’, I was just drunk before drivin’, and I might still have been a lil lit while sitting NEXT to the driver, plus he was doin’ all the drivin’ anyway, and hell, we were tryin’ to fix it! We got married—accidentally!—and we were headin’ straight to annul the damn thing but then—”
Jackson groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “For the love of God, shut your dang piehole, Boone.”
Her head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?! I just KNOW you didn’t jus’ say that to me!”
And then, right there in the middle of court, they started arguing—voices rising, hands flying, shoving each other like they were back in a bar brawl.
The judge slammed his gavel—once, twice—then a third time, hammering it down like he was driving nails into solid wood.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The sound echoed through the courtroom, like a judge possessed, the entire room vibrating under his furious, near-frantic jackhammer of authority.
“Enough!”
The final crack of the gavel sent papers fluttering, the noise slicing through the chaos like a thunderclap—and suddenly?
The room went dead silent.
Judge McClintock leaned forward, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “Settle down, both of ya! Bad enough y’all misbehaved in my town, endangering everyone with yer reckless behavior, so wasted you didn’t even know yer own momma anymore!”
Jackson and Billie froze for half a second before their indignation boiled over.
“Now hold on—” Jackson started.
“You can’t seriously—” Billie cut in.
They turned their frustration on the judge, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of disbelief. “How can you allow people who are that out of it to get married?!” Billie hollered, her drawl thick with outrage. “That’s gotta be illegal!” Jackson added, his voice rising. “Or invalid! You’re takin’ advantage of hapless tourists already down on their luck!” “Yeah!” Billie chimed in, jabbing a finger toward the bench. “What kinda operation you runnin’ here, huh? Forced marriages an’ idiotic, tasteless tattoos?!”
Judge McClintock’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady as he rifled through their file. “Y’all got a lotta nerve, hollerin’ at me like that,” he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Especially considerin’ one of the cars y’all hit on yer little joyride was mine.”
Jackson’s stomach dropped. Billie’s face went pale.
The judge leaned forward, his smirk widening. “Now, how lenient do ya reckon I’m inclined to be with ya, huh?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Jackson and Billie stared at him, their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water, but no words came.
Judge McClintock let the moment hang before continuing, his voice thick with authority. “So,” he said, producing copies of their IDs and signatures with deliberate precision, holding them up for all to see, “y’all were also taken advantage of, forced into marriage, an’ somehow coerced yer identification which I hold here in Xeroxed form out of ya, as well as into signin’ yer names on these here fully legal marriage documents? Idiotic, tasteless tattoos included? All y’all mean to tell me that all happened at gunpoint?”
Jackson’s stomach twisted tighter. Billie’s face flushed red.
“Well,” the judge continued, leaning forward now, the weight of authority thick in his voice, “considerin’ y’all’s blood alcohol levels were borderline when they ran the tests, I could be lenient and let you off with somethin’ easy—but I ain’t gonna!” He tapped the gavel once, like sealing a fate worse than death. “I herewith sentence you to a marriage to one another.”
Billie’s face drained of color faster than whiskey from a shot glass. “You can’t be serious—” she started, only to be silenced by a sharp wave of his hand.
Jackson’s stomach twisted up tight. “What in the hell—that ain’t no real thing!”
The judge held up a finger, cutting them both off. “Oh, it is now, Mr. – and Mrs. Kershaw! Congratulations again. Under order of the Township of Strangerville, I declare this marriage legally binding for two full years before any dissolution proceedings can even be considered. I can’t force ya to live together, but I can and will make damn sure ya stay married. And until such time as y’all figure out how to exist without raisin’ hell, you’ll be stayin’ put right here in my jailhouse for the next seventy-two hours to sober up. Oh, and tryin’ to go against my wishes at some other court ain’t gonna do you much good. The nuptials were taken here, in my town, my local laws and my judgement is legally binding, and they can’t do much about it unless they take it to higher courts. I guaran-damn-tee ya, no judge in the world is gon’ do that for this nonsense here!”
The gavel struck down, final and unmerciful, echoing in the room like the crack of thunder. Neither of them moved. Billie inhaled sharply. Jackson exhaled slowly. The room spun, but the implications hit harder than the hangover.
Before the bailiff could escort them out, the judge cleared his throat, his smirk returning. “One more thing,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Y’all might wanna pay a visit to the doctor before ya start hollerin’ at me again. Seems the good Lord’s got a real peculiar sense of humor when it comes to his wayward little sheep like y’all.” He paused, savoring the moment as their confused expressions deepened. “Turns out, those blood test results came back with somethin’ a little… extra. Not something we deliberately test for, but it was high enough to show up on the results anyway and I felt it was worth a mention.”
Billie frowned, her drawl sharp. “What the hell you talkin’ about?”
The judge leaned back, his grin widening. “Congratulations, Mrs. Kershaw, Mr. Kershaw. Looks like y’all are expectin’.”
Jackson froze, his jaw slack. Billie’s face went pale, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to form words but couldn’t quite manage.
The judge chuckled, tapping his gavel lightly. “Now, y’all can sit an’ simmer on all that here for seventy-two hours, or I can let ya out to see a doctor an’ get this confirmed. Yer call, but let me know right now. Look at the bright side—this ain’t no OB/GYN office, an’ our tests are for booze, not babies. So, if we’re wrong, ya get out early an’ with nothin’ but a good scare. But if we’re right—well—gives ya more time to sit an’ think on yer bad choices an’ maybe figure out how to do better ‘fore ya find yerselves raisin’ a young’un. An’ may Lord have mercy on that poor kid…and on all the rest of us.”
The Long Ride Home
The ride back felt less like freedom and more like an endurance test. Quiet hung heavy in the cab of Jackson’s truck, its engine rumbling beneath the thick tension that neither dared break. Billie sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the horizon as though looking anywhere else might make her implode.
Jackson kept one hand on the wheel and the other gripping his forehead, which still pounded with enough force to make him wince. Groaning, he looked over, only to catch Billie shifting uncomfortably beside him. Her hand hovered near her chest, fingers brushing the edge of her shirt as though trying to shield the tattoo etched just above her heart.
It had all started because Jackson was feeling so damn lonely—his boy was off visiting his mother for a week, Billie had moved out of the spare room, the house was too damn quiet, and the empty space had felt heavier than usual.
And now—he was married for a mandatory two years to a woman he new next to nothing about. They had matching tattoos. Oh hell!
And there it was, sitting on the dashboard—a crisp, official document from the doctor’s office confirming Billie’s pregnancy. Around six weeks. Meaning she had worked for him just about four or five weeks before he knocked her up during their stolen moments nobody knew about.
“Well, shit,” Jackson muttered, too quiet for her to hear. The weight of it all hit him like a freight train—the tattoos, the marriage, the baby. Every reckless decision, every stolen moment, every damn thing they’d done without thinking it through. It all stacked up in his mind, a chaotic mess he couldn’t untangle.
Billie groaned and shifted in her seat. “I feel like death.”
He shot her a sideways glance, smirking bitterly. “Ya look like it, too.”
Billie shoved weakly at his arm, but even that seemed to take effort. “Don’t talk to me.”
Jackson chuckled, though it carried no humor. “I’ll talk to ya whenever the hell I want,” he said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “I am yer dearly wed husband, remember, wifey! Oh, and y’all are my property, too, says so on yer titty. HA! Starting to get funny now.”
Billie let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “There ain’t nothin’ funny ’bout this, Kershaw! I ain’t no mother material, let alone a wife,” she grumbled. “Damn mess, that’s what this is. I don’t wanna be married, let alone pregnant!”
Jackson snorted. “Thinkin’ I am livin’ it up at the news? But it is dang funny, alright. Want me to call up my ex-wife and ask her if she thinks this is funny? I guaran-dang-tee ya Bri is gonna fall to the ground laughin’ so hard. Well, sweet cheeks, reckon that’s what happens when yer down on yer luck and decide to get drunk in StrangerVille.”
Her glare sliced through him, but before she could bite back, the tension shattered as Billie suddenly lurched forward, fumbling for the door handle.
“Aw, hell—” Jackson barely had time to react before Billie swung the door open, bracing herself against the seat as she emptied her stomach onto the side of the road.
Jackson winced, slowing the truck and pulling it fully off to the shoulder, shifting it into park. “Jesus, Boone—”
She didn’t respond, too busy heaving again, her body trembling from the effort. A second round. He grimaced, leaning over and grabbing a napkin from the console.
She stayed hunched over, breathing heavily, one hand gripping the dashboard for support. “Shut up,” she muttered, groaning as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I wasn’t gonna say nothin’,” Jackson grabbed a handful more napkins, then reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap to break the seal before handing it to her. Billie barely spared him a glance before slapping it out of his hand, too miserable to care.
The bottle hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled just out of her reach. She sighed, halfheartedly swiping for it, fingers missing by an inch.
Jackson watched her struggle before grabbing the bottle himself, flipping it upright, and pressing it into her palm with a knowing smirk.
Billie huffed, accepting it with a grumbled, exhausted mutter. “Thanks.”
He leaned back in his seat, watching her carefully. “You alright?”
She shot him a look, pressing a hand against her stomach. “Do I seem alright to ya? What kinda dumb ass question is that?”
Billie groaned and sat back, slamming the door shut, shoving her hand over her face. “Just stop talkin’, will ya? And goddamn drive, man!”
Jackson exhaled, watching Boone slump against the seat like she was trying to will the nausea away.
After a beat, he muttered, voice rough, “This from the binge-drinkin’ or the baby?”
Billie’s eyes snapped open, sharp and irritated. “How the hell’m I supposed to know? Don’t care neither.” Her drawl was thick, frustration bleeding into every syllable. Right now, misery was misery, no matter the cause.
Jackson smirked, shaking his head as he turned back toward the road. Either way, they were in for one hell of a ride.
Billie didn’t open her eyes, just muttered, “Go easy, will ya? I swear, if you hit even one pothole—”
Jackson scoffed, hands steady on the wheel. “Like I wanna deal with you throwin’ up in my damn truck?”
She groaned, shoving a hand over her face. “Just shut up and drive.”
He rubbed his jaw, shrugging. “Thinkin’ that last drink ya had might’ve been bad, huh?”
She groaned and sat back, shoving her hand over her face. “I really need for ya to stop talkin’, will ya? Better for yer health!”
This time, Jackson didn’t push.
Instead, he reached for the radio dial, his fingers brushing against the worn-out leather of the dashboard. The static crackled for a moment before a familiar tune broke through, the twang of a guitar filling the cab as Johnny Cash and June Carter-Cash sung about ‘Jackson’.
“We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout…”
Jackson let out a full, unfiltered laugh, the kind that came deep from his chest, shaking his damn shoulders as he cranked the volume up.
“We’ve been talkin’ ‘bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out…”
“Oh, hell, Billie, this is too good!” He threw his head back, grinning, and started singing along, loud and exaggerated, directly in her direction.
“I’m goin’ to Jackson, I’m gonna mess around…”
Billie groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples, but he didn’t let up.
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to Jackson, look out Jackson town!”
“Jackson,” Billie seethed, voice strained, “turn it off.”
Jackson only grinned wider, bobbing his head, drumming his fingers against the wheel like the damn song was written just for him.
“Go on down to Jackson, go ahead and wreck your health…”
Billie snapped, reaching over and slamming her palm against the radio dial, killing the song instantly. Silence crashed into the cab, thick and suffocating.
Jackson exhaled a chuckle, shaking his head. “Touchy, ain’t ya?”
She didn’t answer, just turned toward the window, seething.
He let the silence sit for a moment before sighing, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You know,” he muttered, “Momma named me after that damn song.”
Billie stiffened, then slowly turned her head toward him, eyes blazing. “Jackson,” she hissed, “I do not care.”
Jackson smirked, letting out a mocking exhale as he reached down and flipped the radio back on.
Billy Ray Cyrus. “Don’t tell my heart, my achy, breaky heart, … You can tell the world you never was my girl …” it crooned.
Billie froze. Eyes widened.
Jackson turned his head toward her, eyes widening. Then— he lost it.
Full-on doubling over, laughing so hard he damn near had to wipe at his eyes.
Billie groaned, but after a beat, even she couldn’t keep from laughing, shaking her head as a slow grin tugged at her lips. “Dumbass,” she muttered.
Jackson slapped the steering wheel, barely able to breathe. “I— I can’t—” He wheezed, shaking his head. “Oh, hell, Boone, I gotta pull over. We got us one dang Billy/Billie Ray/Rae too many in this joint….”
He yanked the truck onto the side of the road, threw it in park, and fell back against his seat, laughing so hard he could feel it in his ribs. Billie tried—tried—to stay pissed, but it was impossible now.
She unbuckled her seatbelt, shoved open the door, and collapsed onto the gravel, laughing so hard she damn near rolled onto her back.
Jackson’s laughter peeked again as he watched her, shaking his head. “Aw, hell, Boone,” he muttered, throwing open his own door and stepping out. He crossed the short distance between them, his boots crunching against the dirt, before dropping down beside her with a grin.
Hey, Kershaw?”
His laughter peeked again. “Which one, there are two of us here present!”
“Asshole!” she wheezed. “I never said I’d be changin’ my name to yers! Cos I ain’t. I am Billy Rae Boone, and that’s that!”
“Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky—” he sing-sanged.
Jackson barely got the words out before Billie rolled into him, using her full weight to pin him down on his back—not hard enough to hurt, but enough that he let out a surprised grunt as she shoved an arm across his throat.
“You ever sing that at me again,” she warned, her face inches from his, “and I’ll make sure ya won’t be singin’ anythin’ ever again, Kershaw.”
Jackson blinked, his grin flickering, grabbing her rear with both hands. “Damn, Boone, didn’t know ya wanted to be on top that bad.”
Billie snorted, but before he could say another word, she pressed her hand against his face, smothering his mouth with her palm.
Jackson made a muffled noise, shaking against her hold, his laughter vibrating against her skin.
Jackson didn’t let her have the last word. With a quick, fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face, and rolled them over, pinning her beneath him in one swift move.
Billie let out a startled gasp, her eyes widening as she found herself flat on her back, Jackson’s weight pressing her into the dirt. His hands braced on either side of her head, his grin gone, replaced by something harder, deeper, and unrelenting.
“You wanna shut me up, Boone?” His voice was low, rough, his drawl deep, sending a shiver down her spine. “Then do it the right way.”
Before she could fire back, he kissed her—hard, demanding, like he was pouring every ounce of frustration, desire, and meaning into that one moment.
Billie froze for half a second, her body stiff beneath his. Then, as if something inside her snapped, she grabbed his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands, and yanked him closer, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him in so hard it was almost bruising. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft—it was raw, desperate, like she was trying to fuse them together, to erase every inch of space between them.
Jackson groaned against her mouth, his grip tightening as he pressed her further into the ground, matching her intensity with his own. For a moment, the world around them disappeared—no dirt, no sky, no chaos, just the two of them, tangled in a mess of heat and stubbornness.
She swallowed hard. “Jackson, I was gonna leave the moment we got home, get rid of that baby, and stay as far away from the Ridge as I could. Tell me not to. Tell me this thing has legs. Tell me ya want me to be yer wife. Tell me now I can be a mother, one that don’t up and leave her little kid and run ‘cause she realized she ain’t no mother material…like my momma did.”
Jackson didn’t hesitate. He kissed her, softer this time, then his lips found her ear.
“Stay.”
Billie’s breath hitched. That little word told her more than a thousand other words could. No verbiage. No embellishment. No sappy proclamations. Just the truth.
And just like that, she knew she would.
Billie pulled back, her breath uneven, her fingers still clutching Jackson’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. She stared at him, her chest tight, her mind racing.
For so long, she’d carried the weight of distrust—of people, of promises, of anything that even hinted at permanence. Love had always felt like a cruel joke, family like a distant dream she’d never be part of. But now, staring into Jackson’s eyes, she saw something she hadn’t dared to believe in before.
He was broken, just like her. His edges were jagged, his soul bruised, but there was something in him that called to her, something that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, they could fit together. Two halves of a whole, imperfect but enough.
Billie swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this, Jackson. I don’t know how to trust, how to believe in it.”
Jackson’s hand found hers, his grip steady, grounding. “Ya don’t have to know, Boone. Jus’ gotta try.”
She blinked, her throat tightening as his words settled deep in her chest. Try. It wasn’t a promise of perfection, wasn’t some grand declaration—it was simple, honest, and exactly what she needed.
For the first time in years, Billie felt the walls she’d built around herself start to crack. She wasn’t sure what would come next, wasn’t sure how to navigate the mess they’d made, but she knew one thing: she wasn’t alone anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Without thinking, she leaned forward, gripping his shirt, and kissed him again—hard, fierce, like she was finally letting go of every doubt.
The kiss deepened, rough and unrestrained—until a sharp wail of a siren split the moment.
Blue lights flickered, gravel crunched under tires.
Jackson snapped up straight, pulling Billie with him just as a highway cop stepped out of his cruiser.
“Everything all right over here, folks?”
Still breathless, Jackson let out a wild burst of laughter, shaking his head. “Yeah, officer, we’re just… umm…”
Billie grinned, trumping him. “Newlyweds.”
Jackson raised his brows, grinning wider. “And expectin’. Six weeks along.”
The cop blinked, then tipped his hat. “Well, I see. But maybe take that celebration home then. Side o’ a highway ain’t right for such moments of passion, ya hear. Oh, and… congrats. On both. Ya look like a fine couple and finer parents. Have a good afternoon. Now git goin’ and do whatcha all was doing at home.”
Jackson pulled open the truck door for Billie, winking. “See? Even the lawman agrees.”
EchoesOfLegacy 