San Sequoia

Connor, Keira and Chris’ home
Gathering for Briar Rose, Brad and the kids visiting for a week

The young man in the weathered cowboy hat had just tipped his beer bottle to his lips when a broad-shouldered figure barreled into him with a hard slap on the back. The force knocked him forward slightly, the rim of the bottle clinking against his teeth.

Jackson straightened, readjusting his hat with a slow, deliberate motion before turning to give the culprit a sharp look. “Just ’bout chipped mah damn tooth on that beer. Ya gotta be so rough?”

Connor chuckled, unfazed. Golden hair swept over his shoulder, the dim glow of the San Sequoia skyline casting a warm halo around him. “Sorry, kiddo.” He nodded at the bottle still clutched in Jackson’s hand. “You okay?”

Jackson snorted. “Loaded question. If ya talkin’ ‘bout that damn body check, then yeah, I’m fine.”

But Connor had already caught the flicker in Jackson’s gaze—just a brief glance toward Briar Rose, standing among family, holding Jackson’s baby daughter Savannah like she belonged to her. Bri had whisked the child away the second Jackson stepped foot inside, and she hadn’t returned her since.

Connor watched him a beat longer, then shifted gears. “How’s the ranch?”

Jackson swallowed, thumb absently grazing the beer label. “’Bout as good as could be expected. Ain’t livin’ the kind o’ life y’all got rollin’ here, but we’re gettin’ by.”

Connor clinked his bottle against Jackson’s. “Are we, though?”

Jackson’s head snapped up, searching Connor’s face, whose brow lifted knowingly, unreadable but deliberate. Jackson sighed, deflating slightly before dragging a long sip from his beer.

“Well… Boone didn’t wanna come. Nothin’ personal, but she ain’t much for… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at the modern, sleek home—too polished, too upscale, too far removed from the rugged simplicity of Chestnut Ridge and too filled with equally polished people gathered in groups all over the outside and inside. “Guess ya could call it a party.”

Connor nodded, but his gaze didn’t waver. “How’s married life with Billie Rae?” His tone sharpened—still calm, but pointed now. “Since you’re playing coy, I’ll be straight with you. I promised your dad I’d keep an eye on you, and right now… I am not seeing what I was hoping to see. In other words, you look like shit kid. And you looked like shit when you came to drop off Beau for visitation two weeks ago, and at mom’s birthday. So, …? If you are overwhelmed with the two kids, please, PLEASE speak up and we will help. No judgement. Don’t pull another Happy Hooves Ranch stunt where you don’t say a word until it’s been foreclosed on. That was not cool, Jackson. So, I will ask again. How is life?”

Jackson exhaled slowly, eyes drifting downward. The tension sat heavy between them.

“Well… she ain’t no Bri,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Silence. Connor nodded, understanding, glanced toward Briar Rose, who was laughing with friends and family, her effortless claim over Jackson’s daughter unshaken.

“Looks like my sister’s pretty much taken over your kid,” Connor mused. “Want me to ask if she and Brad have room for the baby’s plus one?”

Jackson smirked, shaking his head. “Temptin’. Which man wouldn’t be itchin’ to move in with his ex-wife’s new husband. But doubt he’s got enough room in them fancy stables of his for all my horses. They ain’t show ponies—workin’ stock. Not the kinda thing ya parade around Brindleton Bay’s fancy downtown with all them designer boutiques and all.”

A beat. Then Jackson flicked Connor a quick glance.

“But it reminds me—I was gonna ask if they wanted Bri and Briony’s horses. If not, I’m thinkin’ I’ll try breedin’ ‘em. Make me some money along with some extra work.”

Jackson exhaled, staring hard at the beer bottle in his grip. He ran his thumb along the glass like he was trying to wipe away something only he could see.

Connor didn’t rush him. Didn’t have to. He’d known Jackson long enough to recognize the shift—the way he held his breath just slightly, the quiet stiffening in his jaw when something was on his mind.

Across the yard, Bri held Savannah with practiced ease, resting the baby against her hip. It came so naturally to her—soft, maternal, effortless—like she’d been waiting to claim the child from the moment Jackson stepped through the door.

Hell, maybe she had.

Beau Wyatt stood close by, next to his twin sister and Brad’s daughter Lauren. Briony leaned against Bri’s side and Nathaniel was nestled into Brad’s arms, hands steady, fatherhood worn easy on his shoulders.

Jackson rubbed his jaw, forcing out a breath.

“Boone ain’t comin’,” he muttered finally. His voice was flat, unreadable.

Connor’s brows lifted just slightly, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

Jackson let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. Took a slow sip.

“She left me.”

Connor’s expression didn’t change—no surprise, no pity. Just acceptance, like he’d already known this was coming before Jackson ever said it.

Boone had quit making the trips with him to San Sequoia months ago—the visits where Jackson took Beau to see his mother and sister, and spent time with Briony, whose severe allergies to several weeds native to Chestnut Ridge kept her from staying at the ranch for long.

Jackson had always made up excuses, but the truth was clear—he was struggling.

Maybe some women would have felt uneasy spending entire weekends at their husband’s ex-in-laws’ estate, no matter how welcoming and easygoing those in-laws were. But those same women wouldn’t make their husband take their shared child along every single time, while they stayed behind.

And yet, every time Jackson arrived without Billie Rae, he had both kids with him.

“Left me a damn note,” Jackson continued, voice low, rough around the edges. “Said to take care o’ Savannah. Said she ain’t no mother.”

His gaze drifted toward the baby nestled in Bri’s arms, her hold so easy, so natural—like she’d always belonged there.

“Guess she figured somebody else would do the job for her.” The words came bitter, razor-edged.

Connor took a slow sip of his beer. “Ah shit, kiddo. Sorry to hear that. Let me know if you need help—especially with the ranch. That’s a lot on your plate.”

Jackson exhaled sharply, shaking his head like just the thought of it drained him further.

“Well, I figure she ain’t wrong.” The admission was quiet, but heavy. “I wanted this to work so damn bad, but truth is, she and I were a mistake. Everything about us was wrong. Guess I wanted to not be alone more than I wanted to use my damn head. Should’ve let her do what she was gon’ do anyway—we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation now.”

His fingers curled around the beer bottle, thumb skimming the label in absent thought.

“I love my daughter, I do. But the last damn thing I needed was another kid to add to my plate—and this young, at that.” His voice dipped, worn and raw. “Beau’s in another rebellious phase, and that alone is a hell of a lot to handle.”

A pause—long enough for his gaze to flick toward Bri. Too long.

History sat between them, thick and unspoken, its weight undeniable.

Jackson let out a humorless chuckle, dragging a hand down his face.

“Truth is, Boone ain’t got a maternal fiber in her whole damn body. If motherhood was a rodeo, she wouldn’t make it past the first buck—hell, she wouldn’t even get on the damn horse.” His words came out sharp, resigned. “She left. Figured Savannah’d do better with folks who give a damn. Hell, maybe she’s right.”

Connor hummed—a deep, knowing sound—before clapping a firm hand on Jackson’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Jackson, if you ever need a break—or if you need money—just ask. My parents, me, Bri, even Jasper and Iris… we’d all be happy to help. You’re still part of this family, kid. We got you.”

Jackson exhaled slowly, rolling the beer bottle between his fingers.
He didn’t answer right away—just nodded once, deliberate, quiet.
Not dismissal. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

Connor watched him a beat longer, then gave his shoulder another firm pat—a wordless reassurance, solid as ever—before stepping away, moving toward Bri.

Jackson just stared, past the present, past the years in between, past everything that had been his once—before it wasn’t.

Some things just weren’t meant to be fixed.
Some things weren’t meant to be broken.

Jackson let him go, gaze drifting across the yard—watching as Bri cradled Savannah with easy familiarity, bright laughter spilling into the evening air.

She was animated, carefree—the kind of laughter that belonged to before.

But then Connor spoke.

And just like that, the laughter shifted—fading, tightening at the edges, replaced by something quieter. Something heavier.

Jackson caught the moment—the subtle change in her posture, the way her grip on Savannah adjusted, just slightly.

And he knew.
She was hearing it now.
And in a few seconds, she’d be looking at him.
As if on cue she shot him a glance, her facial expression somewhere between concerned and mortified.
Jackson barely had time to react before Bri slammed Savannah into Brad’s arms.

Brad didn’t even blink—just exhaled, adjusted his hold, and now, somehow, was holding two infants at once.

Nathaniel let out a tiny protest, but Brad just murmured something soothing, shifting Savannah slightly against him. Calm, practiced, unfazed. Nathaniel nestled against his chest, one tiny hand grasping at the fabric of his shirt. Savannah wriggled in his other arm, her little fingers reaching for Nate, the way babies do when they recognize something familiar. Brad huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting his grip as Savannah cooed, and Nate blinked up at her, squinting like he was trying to figure her out.

Meanwhile, Bri was already storming across the yard.

Towards Jackson.

And Jackson was already bracing for impact.
The second her fingers curled tight around his wrist, he knew.
This was Bri—forceful, impulsive, bleeding with care even when it hurt.

“Jesus, woman—”

She ignored him. Didn’t even hesitate.
Next thing he knew, she was dragging him inside like she was on some damn rescue mission, despite the fact that he wasn’t drowning.

At least, not in a way she could fix.

Through the sleek mansion, past Maddie making some exaggerated gesture in the hallway outside the dining room, past Iris raising a sharp brow as they barreled down the hall—until, finally, Bri shoved open the door to a spare bedroom, yanked him inside, and slammed it shut behind them.

Jackson barely had time to breathe before her arms were wrapped around him.
Tight. Too tight.
Warm, familiar, suffocating.

“God, Jackson, why did you not say anything?! Why do you never say anything when everything is on fire?! Are you okay? Dumb question, nix that, of course you are NOT okay,” she whispered against his neck, voice too soft, too damn careful.

His arms didn’t move. Didn’t wrap around her. Didn’t know what to do.
Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t surprising.
And that was the worst part.

Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled, staring at the wall over her shoulder.

She didn’t let go right away.

If anything, she held him tighter—pressed herself against him like she wanted to fuse them together, like she could force strength into his bones through sheer proximity.

Jackson hated it.

Hated how natural it felt, how easy she made it—like slipping back into something that wasn’t his anymore, that hadn’t been his for a long time.

Hated how his body recognized her before his mind could stop it—how warmth crawled under his skin, how every instinct begged him to hold on just a little longer.

Hated it, because he loved this.

Loved how she cared too damn much, still, after everything, loved how she felt too damn familiar, loved how she always knew exactly what he needed before he even admitted he needed it.

But she was off limits.

And that was the part that made him want to shake her off just as much as he wanted to never let go.

So he stiffened.
Held himself rigid.
Willed himself to ignore the way her breath warmed his neck, the way her fingers pressed into his back, the way she clung like she could still fix him.

But Bri stayed too long.
Long enough that the touch blurred the lines.
Long enough that Jackson forgot how to breathe for a second.
Until finally—mercifully, cruelly—she exhaled.

Slowly.

Pulled back slightly.
Her fingers moved to his face, cupping his jaw, scanning him like he was something fragile.

“Dark bags under your eyes, you look like death warmed over, all skin and bones,” she murmured, her grip shifting—fingers pressing against his midsection where there should’ve been some give, some weight.

But there wasn’t.
Just muscle, too lean, too wiry.

And when she squeezed, where there should’ve been a little softness, Jackson slapped her hand off, scowling.

Hell, that was almost worse than the damn hug.
He pulled back a little more, shaking his head.

“Christ, Bri, I ain’t no livestock up for auction, and I sure as hell ain’t dyin’—”

But Bri didn’t take the hint.

“You were left by your spouse, and from personal experience, I can say that is practically like dying. So, what happened? Bad fight?” she pressed on, matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Jackson huffed out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head, sighing. Then with a rougher voice he said

“No fight. Boone just left. Here one day, gone the next, no warnin’,” he muttered, just like that.

Bri’s breath hitched—barely audible, but there.

Jackson let out another long sigh, like he was trying to force the weight of it all out of his chest.

“Left me a note. Said she ain’t no mother. Or a wife.” His gaze flickered toward the baby safe in Bri’s arms, the warmth she offered so naturally. “Can’t even argue with that—she’s proven it plenty. Woman’s got no maternal bone in her whole damn body. Like I just got through tellin’ yer brother, if motherhood was a rodeo, Boone wouldn’t make it past the first buck—not even get on the damn horse to begin with.”

His voice was rough, resigned.

“Note just said she’s gone. Ain’t ever comin’ back. Told me to take care o’ Savannah, like I had a damn choice.”

Bri’s grip on him tightened, she pulled him back in tightly, pressed up against him, her arms closing around him, and finally Jackson enveloped her too.

Jackson just stared past her, over her shoulder, at the life that had never quite been his—but had always been within reach. Yet, instead of embracing it, adjusting to it, he let it slip away. Not once, twice.

But Jackson’s body betrayed him before his mind could stop it.

Not just heat and nostalgia this time—something worse.
Something he had no business feeling.
A pulse of raw, unwanted awareness. A stir of something primal, tangled up in exhaustion and grief, mixing into instincts that had no place here.

A reaction that was so damn wrong, yet still happened anyway.
A tension curling at the edges of devastation, winding through muscle, through impulse, through every damn urge he was desperate to kill before she noticed.
He willed himself to ignore it. Forced himself to fight it down, locking every muscle, every nerve.

It wasn’t about that. This moment should be about … that.
It couldn’t be about that.

But Bri lingered.
Too long. Too tight.
Long enough that the lines blurred.
Long enough that Jackson felt the full, undeniable weight of his body’s betrayal—felt it in a way he couldn’t talk his way out of, couldn’t excuse, couldn’t undo. It was there. Full arousal.

And he knew she felt it, too. Had to feel it as close as she was.

Confirmed by the fact that in that last fraction of a second—just before she pulled away—her body stiffened just slightly, breath hitching just enough, realization flickering in her eyes just briefly before she shoved it down. There. Then gone.
Snuffed out the second his mind caught up.
He said nothing, what could he say? She said nothing either, there was nothing to be said. Both knew.

A final press of her palm against his chest, one last lingering drag of her fingertips against his skin—one last second too close, too much, too damn obvious—before she moved for the door.

And Jackson followed, because what the hell else could he do?

The house felt different now—too bright, too open, like it had stretched in the minutes they’d been holed away. He caught glimpses of movement beyond the doorways—Maddie still talking with exaggerated flair, Iris watching with that unreadable sharpness.

By the time they stepped back onto the patio, the world had rearranged itself again.

Jackson was done talking.
Just a beer. Cold. Steady. Something to hold onto while he pulled himself back together.
He flipped open the cooler, dug past the ice, grabbed a bottle.

But before he even had a chance to twist the cap, he noticed Bri.
Straight to Brad.

Talking fast, hands moving, the way she always did when she was explaining something she’d already decided was urgent.

And Brad? Brad was listening. Patient, nodding, glancing toward Jackson.

Then again.
Jackson cursed internally.
Ah, shit.

He twisted the cap off, took a long sip, braced himself.

And sure enough—both of them started toward him.

He groaned to himself, muttered another curse, but didn’t move. Didn’t run, because that wasn’t his style.

Brad was the first to speak. Calm. Steady. Unflinching.
“Listen, man. Bri caught me up. I am so sorry to hear that.”
Jackson huffed, dragging another long sip from his bottle. “That so?”
Bri’s arms crossed, gaze razor-sharp but concerned.
Brad continued, smooth as ever.
“You know you can count on us, right? If you need anything—money, help with the kids, a break—name it.”

Jackson stilled, but didn’t respond.

Because money was a damn complicated word.
Because helping with the kids was a damn complicated offer.
Brad must’ve caught it, because he didn’t back off. Just added, level but sincere:

“Or hell, if you need a place to stay for a while—get your feet back under you—we have room.”

Jackson let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. Not mocking—just exhausted.

“Brad, ‘reciate the offer, but let’s make this crystal-clear here, I ain’t gon’ be crashin’ in your guest house like some kinda lost cause— I ain’t no stray puppy.”

“It wouldn’t be like that,” Brad said—calm, rational, unshaken.

Jackson exhaled, staring past them.
Past Bri, still standing too damn close.
Past Brad, being too damn kind.
Past the life that had never quite been his but had always been right there, taunting him.

God help him, some part of him wanted to say yes.

Some part of him wanted to let them take the weight off his shoulders—even just a little.
Part of him wanted to give up his horse ranch and go live at that fancy estate, but he knew he never could leave for as long as it would take for him to feel human again after everything in his life had just gone sideways. And worse—would he ever want to leave if he did?

It had been hell for Jackson, staying at his in-laws whenever Bri came to town with Briony—so she could see her father, see her brother—knowing she was so close, yet still so far out of reach.

The estate had always been familiar, always been theirs, in some way.

Bri’s parents owned four buildings across their land—the main house, her father’s recording studio, the guest house with street access, and the pool house, the one that had seen too many beginnings, too many endings.

It was the place they used to stay together, before everything unraveled.
It was the place Bri retreated to each time their marriage crashed and burned.
And in some twisted way, Jackson still thought of it as theirs.
But ever since she married Brad, the visits were different.

It was Bri and Briony, coming alone.

Or sometimes, Brad was there, bringing his own daughter, his teen son tagging along when he wasn’t too busy with his own life.

Jackson was pushed up into one of the luxurious guest rooms with ensuite baths, but still it felt like exile to him, left to stare down at the pool house, at the place where Bri and Briony always stayed.

Where they used to stay together.
Where he used to be.
Where he used to have her.

Every damn time, his body ached for her touch, the feel of her beside him.

Some nights, the pull was unbearable.

The sheer instinct to storm down there, to throw the door open, to just be next to her again—to press against her like before, like they hadn’t unraveled, like they hadn’t fallen apart.

But more often than not, the space next to her in bed was already taken.

Taken by Brad.
A man he couldn’t even hate.
And that was the worst part.
Brad was a good man.

A solid man. A man who took care of Bri the way Jackson should have, who made her laugh, who gave her the kind of life Jackson had failed to hold onto.

How the hell do you hate someone for that?

You don’t.
You just ache for it.
You just resent the fact that it’s not yours.
You just watch, night after night, wishing like hell that it had gone any other way.
That you had tried harder when you had the chance, not let her slip away.
Again.

Midnight Whispers

Seaglass Estate stood quiet under the moonlight, the structures gathered close around the pool, a perfectly arranged square of history, privilege, and memories too deep to shake.

The main house stood tall and imposing in the middle, the guest house and recording studio lining each side, and the pool house sat at the farthest corner, closest to the water’s edge, the space beyond the large pool in the center giving way to the cliffs, the ocean stretching wide beyond the low stone wall.

And in the middle of it all, Jackson stood by the firepit—still, silent, beer hanging loose between his fingers, the flickering solar lights casting his shadow long across the patio.

He was barefoot, still in his jeans and a worn Henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fabric carrying the scent of the firepit, of beer, of something too familiar to name.

Beyond the estate, San Sequoia’s harbor stretched wide, city lights blinking against the dark water, the skyline humming soft and distant.

The ocean breeze rolled cool and easy, stirring the pool’s surface, lifting the scent of salt and damp earth, carrying the distant brine of the waves crashing against the cliffs just beyond the wall. The quiet pull of the tide whispered beneath the music of the city, a rhythm he had come to know too well.

Bri hesitated at the door of the pool house, gaze sweeping toward him, toward the firelit silhouette of a man lost in thought.

She stepped out—one foot, then another, bare toes pressing against the cool stone pathway, silk sleep shorts brushing against her legs, her oversized sweater slipping just slightly off one shoulder.

She counted each step—not rushing, not hesitating—just letting the space shrink between them, as it always did, eventually.

Thirty.

She slowed.

Stopped beside him.

Not close—but close enough.

And before her voice reached him—before her words took shape, before she was truly there—Jackson caught the scent first.

Soft. Familiar. Unshakable.

Amber and white musk, something subtle beneath it—maybe bergamot, maybe a trace of sandalwood, maybe the warmth of whatever perfume had lingered against her wrists hours ago. But to Jackson, it just smelled like Bri.

The way she always smelled after a long day in the sun, after late nights in the studio, after memories they hadn’t fully let go of.

The breeze carried it toward him, lifting strands of her hair, swirling with salt and smoke and something almost too familiar.

He exhaled slow, deep, steadying himself against something he wasn’t sure he could withstand tonight.

Then her voice came.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Jackson gave a slow headshake, still staring past the property, past the cliffs, past the stretch of ocean beyond.

Past something she couldn’t see.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t even glance her way.

Because if he did—if he let himself meet her eyes, just once, just for a second—he might forget every damn reason he was supposed to let her go.

Bri lingered beside him.

Not close—but close enough.

“You ever think about the swimmin’ hole?” she asked, voice low, like the past carried weight here.

Jackson let out a breath—slow, measured—but didn’t answer right away.

She kept going.

“The one in Chestnut Ridge, where we used to sneak off after work on the ranch? You’d grab a six-pack, and I’d bring—”

“Fancy wine coolers,” Jackson muttered, just a flicker of a smirk, shaking his head. “Lord, woman, you embarrassed me every damn time you pulled one o’ those out.”

Bri lit up, laughter slipping out—real, easy, familiar.

“You remember.”

Jackson snorted, finally flicking his gaze to her, shaking his head like she was a damn fool.

“Oooof course I rememb’r.”

The words rolled slow, dripping with that rough, low cowboy lilt, dragged out like he wasn’t just recalling the memory—he was living it, feeling it settle in every fiber of his being.

Then, just for good measure, he huffed, voice carrying that slow, cowboy-drawl of a man who had seen too much, lost too much, and still wasn’t ready to admit it.

“Some things get branded on ya, sweetheart. And a woman like you? Hell, you don’t just fade—you settle into a man’s bones.”

Jackson took a slow sip of his beer, watching her.

Then—then, without a word, he nudged the bottle toward her, slow, easy, like it wasn’t even a question.

Just the offer. The expectation. The knowing.

She took it.

Tipped it back—just a sip, cold, lingering, familiar.

Then, she put it down on the ground next to them, pulling out her phone, flicking through something.

Then, she turned the screen to him.

Playlist name: Jackson.

His stomach tightened.

Bri smirked, thumb pressing play.

The first notes of “Stars Over Texas” by Tracy Lawrence spilled into the night—warm, familiar, aching, the sound stretching between them like a bridge they had never fully burned.

Jackson exhaled slow, shaking his head.

“Since when do you like country so much?”

Bri’s smile was quieter now, softer, the glow of her screen catching the sharp edge of something unspoken in her eyes.

“Since you.”

Then—then smooth as ever, she propped the phone up against the edge of the firepit, letting the music settle into the night.

She extended a hand—sweeping, gallant, just exaggerated enough to make him huff out a laugh.

“Care to dance, cowboy?”

Jackson hesitated.

But only for a second.

Jackson took her hand.

Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.

Bri smiled, shifting closer, letting her free hand settle lightly against his shoulder, fingertips barely brushing the worn fabric of his Henley.

He let out a breath slow, resting his other hand just above the dip in her waist, too easy, too natural—like muscle memory he hadn’t forgotten, wouldn’t ever forget.

They moved in tandem, slow steps against the patio stone, the sound of Tracy Lawrence weaving through the night, carrying them straight into memories neither had let go of.

The ocean breeze tugged at her sweater, made her press in closer, made her tip her chin up slightly—just enough for him to catch the faint gleam in her eyes.

The ocean breeze tugged at her sweater, made her press in closer, made her tip her chin up slightly—just enough for him to catch the faint gleam in her eyes.
Something unspoken.
Something settled too deep to shake.

She hummed softly, just under her breath, swaying with him, letting the music pull them under. Jackson’s grip tightened—just slightly, just enough to tell her without saying a damn word that this was killing him.

His fingers tightened around Bri’s hand, warmth pressing in, the quiet hum of Stars Over Texas weaving through the breeze like a memory neither of them could escape. They moved slow, feet skimming over the patio, the rhythm too easy, too natural, too damn familiar. Bri exhaled, something soft but weighted, her gaze flickering up toward him, searching.
The same way she always had.
The same way she shouldn’t.

“You still lead too damn strong,” she murmured.

Jackson huffed out a laugh. “You still follow too damn stubborn.”

Bri smirked, but it wasn’t quite the same—wasn’t just teasing, wasn’t just playful. There was history in it. Weight. The kind that sank into his chest, that curled tight in his gut, that made him want to pull back, to step away, to break free before this turned into something neither of them could stop.
But he didn’t let go.
And neither did she.

Instead, she shifted closer, fingers skimming up his shoulder, palm pressing against the side of his neck. Jackson stilled.

The ocean breeze curled through the night, salty and sharp, whispering against his skin like something pulling him toward her. Like something saying what they both already knew.
Bri’s thumb dragged just slightly, grazing the edge of his jaw.
And Jackson? He should’ve pulled back.
He should’ve stepped away.
He should’ve done a lot of things.

But instead— He basked in the moment.

And that was the exact moment everything changed.

Jackson leaned in. Slow. Measured. Like he wasn’t quite sure if this was happening or if he was dreaming it.
But Bri didn’t move away. She held her ground, fingers curled at the base of his neck, breath faint against his skin, the scent of Cashmere Mist, her signature scent, curling between them, wrapping around them, weaving into the salt-heavy air like something permanent.

Something unchanged.
Something undeniable.

And then—then her fingers tightened. Just slightly. Just enough.
Enough to say what neither of them dared to.
Jackson’s grip shifted at her waist, fingers pressing against the soft fabric of her sweater, like he needed something to hold onto.

Something to ground him.
But God help them both, it wasn’t working.

The music carried on, sweet and low, the last chorus of Stars Over Texas curling between them, and Jackson thought—thought for just a second—that maybe this was it. That maybe they had circled back to something inevitable. That maybe this was always where they were meant to end up.

And then Bri moved. Closer. Not hesitant. Not unsure. Just herself. Like she had always been. Like she had always meant to be.

Her lips skipped over his jaw, just barely, just enough to make his breath hitch, enough to send heat rushing through his veins, enough to make the world tilt just a little too far.

And was gone. Completely.

Jackson barely had time to exhale before she was back, before the space between them collapsed entirely. His fingers curled instinctively at her waist, loose at first, the way they might have if he wasn’t sure, if he was testing the weight of her, the heat of her.

And maybe he was.

His lips found hers, light, tentative, a whisper of something neither of them wanted to name.

But Bri had never been shy about knowing what she wanted.

She grabbed hold of him, fisted the front of his shirt, pulled him closer like there had never been any distance at all, and kissed him hard.

Heat. Desperation. The kind of inevitability that sent a shock straight to his spine.

No more room for hesitation. No more room for doubt.

Just this.

Just them.

Let me know if you want adjustments—I can sharpen the rhythm, tweak the pacing, or thread in more of that lingering uncertainty before the fall.

Back in the Bay

Maeve had just settled in, book in hand, tea steaming beside her, the soft hum of the ocean rolling through the open windows of her beachside cottage.

The evening air was crisp but gentle, carrying the scent of salt and distant bonfires, mixing with the faint bergamot from her tea. Nugget, her male Himalayan, lay stretched out beside her, his luxurious fur fanning over the cushion like royalty at rest.

For exactly five minutes, peace reigned.

Then the patio door slammed open, rattling the frame, sending Nugget, with the attitude of a king and the nerves of a rabbit, skittering under the couch in terror, his fluffy tail vanishing beneath the cushions.

Maeve barely had time to set her book aside before Bri rushed in, wild-eyed, breathless, gripping Maeve’s arms like she was about to announce the end of the world.

“I kissed him!”

Maeve blinked once, slowly, as if running a system reboot in real time, then reached for her tea.

“…What?”

“I kissed him!” Bri shook her slightly, like Maeve wasn’t understanding the gravity of the situation. “We started dancing and somehow—I don’t know. Why did I do that?”

Maeve yanked herself free, setting her tea down with a sharp clatter.

“Who are you talking about, woman?”

Bri threw her hands up, exasperated. “Well… Jackson! Duh!”

Maeve stared.

Jackson.

Jackson Kershaw.

The ex-husband, the cowboy, the man tangled in Bri’s life like some unstoppable force—the man she had left, married again, then he had left her, two divorces later and somehow neither of them ever truly let go.

Maeve dragged a hand over her face, exhaling deeply, like she was bracing for impact.

“You were in San Sequoia for a week to see family,” she said slowly, piecing it together. “Your parents, Connor, Iris, and probably Jackson with Beau. Starting to get the picture now. And note to self, I need to remember to lock my damn doors.”

“Exactly, Jackson came to see Briony and for me to see Beau. As we always do.” Bri threw herself onto the couch, dramatic as ever, burying her face in her hands.

“Okay cool, got it. Leaves the question of where was Brad? Standing next to you, watching? That man barely leaves your side on any given day, I have a hard time believing he would get more casual near your ex.”

“Brad was asleep. Jackson and I both couldn’t sleep one night, both ended up in the backyard, started talking, and then dancing, and then, well, then I kissed him. And he me, and then I REALLY went all in nearly kissing the color off his skin. All while Brad was happily and peacefully snoozing a few hundred yards away.”

Maeve groaned, flopping back against the cushions.

“Jesus, Bri.”

Bri lifted her head, wide-eyed, frantic.

“What do I do?”

Maeve rolled her eyes, stretching out her legs.

“What do you want to do?”

“I have no idea!” Bri threw up her hands, pacing now. “Can a woman love two men at the same time?! And they her?”

Maeve shrugged.

“Barking up the wrong tree here, girl. I couldn’t even get one man to fully love me and commit to me. Not for lack of trying.”

Bri halted, staring at Maeve sharply.

“Do I tell Brad?”

Maeve blinked. Then stared. Then blinked again.

“Are you nuts?! You want to break Brad’s heart and cause huge drama over some misplaced kiss with an ex?”

Bri groaned, rubbing her temples like she was trying to physically massage the existential crisis out of her skull, then let herself fall backwards into the couch next to Maeve.

“What do I do when I see Jackson again? I see him frequently because of the kids. I can’t exactly hand a ten-year-old a set of car keys and wish her good luck because I can’t be trusted around her dad, my ex.”

She pressed her fingers to her temples, voice rising with every word.

“Oh God. Poor Brad!”

Maeve snorted, shaking her head, standing to grab a bottle of vodka from the freezer.

She poured two shot glasses, then remembered she couldn’t drink, so she pushed both toward Bri, setting the bottle on the coffee table before plopping back down next to her.

“Yeah, and poor Jackson, because I don’t know the man very well, since you and I haven’t really hung out much until recently, but from what I do know? He’s either sitting at his ranch right now, asking himself the exact same things—or he’s thinking he’s got game again and is gonna challenge Brad to some duel at dusk next time he sees you or whatever.”

Bri let out a frustrated groan, grabbed both shot glasses, knocked one back—then the other—then reached for the damn bottle and drank straight from it.

Maeve lunged forward, snatching it out of her grasp.

“Stop it! This is definitely not gonna help you make better choices!”

Bri narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms, huffed dramatically.

“No, but it helps me to feel less like shit. And no offense, but your choices have been shit and you did all that sober!”

Maeve paused. Considered. Then nodded slowly, exhaled through her nose, but still placed the bottle back on the table.

“Fair. No offense taken. But as you told me before, this situation is the do as I say, not as I do type.”

Bri groaned, throwing herself back against the couch cushion with all the force of a woman teetering on the edge of a full-blown identity crisis.

“You are zero help,” she muttered, flinging an arm over her eyes like that would somehow erase reality.

Maeve took a slow sip of her tea, looking at Bri like she was watching a car slide straight into a ditch.

“That’s not true,” she said, setting the mug down and crossing her arms. “I’m here to serve as the bad example, showing you what you should not do.”

Bri let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a groan and a whimper—and shoved both hands into her hair like she could physically pry the thoughts loose. Closing her eyes she said “He felt sooooo good, Maeve, holding me, me pressed up against his steel-hard body. Oooooof. He smelled so good, Maeve. That rugged, leathery, campfire-whiskey kind of good. That always got me weak in the knees. Argh.”

Maeve clapped her hands together again, louder this time.

“Hey! Bri! I swear to God, if you start mind-fucking your ex on my brand-new furniture, we are gonna have a real problem.”

Bri threw a dramatic hand over her chest, as if personally victimized.

“That is not what I’m doing! I am having a real problem here.”

Maeve lifted a brow.

“One problem? Girl, you are a problem.”

Bri scowled.

Then, with no hesitation, she grabbed the bottle again and took another swig.

Maeve huffed, trying to snatch it back, turning it into a sort of vodka bottle tug-o-war, Maeve ultimately winning, shoving it onto the coffee table before Bri could get reckless with her brain and her liver.

“You need an actual plan, not booze yourself silly and end up saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong dude,” Maeve said, firm now, sharp as ever. “What exactly are we looking at, Bri? Buyer’s remorse over Brad or realizing the closed chapter named Jackson is actually still wide open?”

Bri groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples.

“I don’t regret Brad, Maeve, I love him! But I think I also love Jackson. What does a woman do when she’s married, deeply in love with her husband, but also still crazy in love with the ex-husband who drives her absolutely insane and can’t get his shit together at all? Please tell me, cos I got nothing.”

Maeve stared at her, sighed “Bri, I wish I had the answers for you, but I can’t even get my own life to a point where I am happy and it’s not totally cringe to others. Even if I had any advice to give, it would be to not take advice from me.”

Bri paused.

Squinted.

Realized.

“Oh my God, you and I are basically the exact same thing minus the baby bump! We’re both totally screwed up. You intentionally got pregnant by the man you love but can’t have while he’s still married to someone else! You knew this was wrong and fucked up and you did it anyway. And unknowingly you just made me realize that I am me as a teen, again! Oh my God, not all that again.”

She groaned, pressing both palms to her temples before continuing, breathless now.

“You wouldn’t know this, Maeve, but this is exactly how Jackson and I started out. So, Jackson is Jack Kershaw’s son—well duh, obviously—but Jack is my brother Connor’s best friend. When Iris, Jasper, and I were like thirteen, fourteen, we met Jackson for the first time visiting Connor, who was already living in San Sequoia, we were still here in Brindleton Bay, where we were all born, in case you didn’t know that.”

She flopped back against the cushions, exasperated.

“Jackson Kershaw was instant crush material for me. Each time we saw him there for years, I was into him. Started dating Brad, and still had that crush on Jackson, but he barely ever acknowledged me, because the two-year age difference at that age mattered. Of course, he was also dating already—hello, not the type of guy that gets overlooked by girls. Then when I was sixteen, something shifted. He finally noticed me. I was with Brad at the time and… well, things started changing between Jackson and me, and I literally spent most of my teen years grounded because of this exact shit. And then of course I had that emergency surgery where they took out one ovary telling me I would likely never have kids and Brad’s father set fire to our relationship just when I had fully dedicated myself to him. So fucked up.”

Maeve shook her head, muttering, “Jesus.”

Bri groaned.

“Now I am thirty-three, and here we are again, me doing things with Jackson that my parents would ground me for if they could. And I think subconsciously I already figured this out too, which is why I didn’t go to Iris with this mess. You know the twins thing—we tell each other everything. She and Jas have been through that whole ride with me before, several times over. ALL. OF. IT.”

She threw an arm over her face.

“I swear if I even breathe one word about this to Jas or my sister, they will have me committed to an institution, you know, the padded wall kind. Iris is a lawyer, she knows how to do such things.”

Maeve grabbed a pillow and chucked it directly at Bri’s head.

“Shut up, Bri! Your meltdown is counterproductive here. I’ll tell you what to do: remember WHY you broke up with Jackson so many times, why you divorced him twice and then remember that he is best admired from afar. Drool over him all you want, just don’t touch. For all I care imagine him when you are nailing Brad. Just keep your hands and lips to yourself and off the merchandise named Jackson. There. Fixed. Now give me back my vodka, that shit doesn’t grow on trees you know?”

The Waterfall

The sound of rushing water filled the space, drowning out the world beyond the thick canopy of trees that curved around the secluded creek. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting shifting patterns over damp rocks, the worn picnic blanket, the soft, grassy bank where Beau Wyatt and Briony had been just moments before.

Now, it was just Bri.

Just Jackson.

Just Savannah—asleep in the crib Jackson had set up near the edge of the clearing, her tiny fingers curled against the blanket, her breath soft, steady, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between the two people standing just feet away.

And they were alone.

Wasn’t meant to be this way.

Was supposed to be a family picnic, but in the blink of an eye, the kids had gone off with Beau’s best friends—indigenous kids, all of them off to a tribal event, something cultural, something meaningful, something far more interesting to ten-year-olds than a picnic with mom, dad, and a baby—leaving Bri and Jackson with no buffer between them.

The quiet pressed in.

Bri exhaled, staring at the waterfall, at the way the mist curled in soft tendrils near the base, the way it caught in her hair, the way it felt too much like memory.

She closed her eyes.

Letting it take her somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

Somewhere they had never quite left.

Then—then the music started.

Deliberate.

Intentional.

Too damn familiar.

The first notes of She Wouldn’t Be Gone drifted from Jackson’s truck, parked just beyond the clearing, the sound curling through the trees, wrapping around them like something too real, too sharp, too much.

‘Yellow sunset slowly dipping down in the rear view
Oh, how she’d love to sit and watch you
I could have done that a whole lot more

If I hadn’t been so stubborn, been so selfish
Thought about her more, thought about me less
Joked to make her laugh, held her when she cried’

Bri stiffened.
Turned. Saw him.

Saw Jackson pulling out of the truck, boots hitting the ground hard, the weight of the moment pressing into his stance—proof written all over him that the song wasn’t some random accident. Saw the way his shoulders were tense, the way his jaw was set, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

She knew exactly what he was doing.

‘If I’d ‘a loved her this much all along
Maybe, maybe, yeah, maybe. She wouldn’t be gone
She wouldn’t be gone’

The lyrics hit like a punch, running through her like a force she couldn’t fight.

The song that played in his truck that one summer, when they were broken up – again – one of many times, including two divorces, the song that had drifted over the water, back when they were little more than kids, just reckless, just too damn young to understand what love could do to them.

Jackson closed the space, stopped just a few feet away, gaze burning, unreadable, wrecked.

‘She warned me it was comin’
Said if I didn’t change, she was leaving
I just didn’t believe she would ever really walk out,
God, I believe her now
Called her mama, cried like a baby to her best friend
If they’ve seen her, they ain’t sayin’
They ain’t sayin’

His stare held hers, heavy, charged, full of something Bri didn’t want to name.

“Tell me you regret it,” he said. Low. Rough. Real.

She just knew he meant the kiss at her parents’ house.
Bri’s throat tightened. She should say it was nothing, just a moment, just a mistake—but she couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t a liar.

Jackson’s gaze flickered, sharp, waiting, burning.
Bri exhaled shakily, barely audible, barely there.

Then—then two large steps and he kissed her.

Hard.
Desperate.
Knowing.

Like he was claiming something that had always been his—like he was staking a piece of history, proving that time never took this from them.

‘If I’d ‘a loved her this much all along / Maybe, maybe, yeah, maybe… she wouldn’t be gone.’

Bri grabbed Jackson’s shirt, fingers tight, twisting fabric, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away—because she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

The music swelled, curling between them, pulling them under.

They started dancing, still kissing, still pressed up to one another.

Jackson groaned against her lips, hands firm at her waist, dragging her into him like he needed this, like air, like salvation—like something he should never want but could never stop wanting.

The waterfall crashed around them, louder as if someone had turned up the sound, untamed, chaotic—like they always were. Like they always would be. A chaotic love.

Then—then Jackson pulled her down.
Onto the blanket.
Onto him.

His hands slid over her skin, slow, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of her all over again. Like he was making sure this was real. Bri arched into him, breath shaky, uneven, wrecked, fingers dragging through his hair, gripping, pulling, needing.

Jackson muttered something against her throat, something low, something raw, something she didn’t quite catch—but felt.

Then—then there was no stopping.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Just them.

Just this.

Just everything they had ever been, everything they had ever wanted, everything they had ever lost—coming back, crashing down, consuming them whole.

‘Beating on the dash, screaming out her name at the windshield
Tears soaking up my face
If I’d ‘a loved her this much all along
Maybe, maybe, yeah, maybe. She wouldn’t be gone
She wouldn’t be gone’

Jackson wasn’t beating the dash, wasn’t screaming her name—he had her. Right here. In his arms. Again.

And she was moaning his name, as they had shed the last of their clothing, indulging in the forbidden fruit that was so wrong but felt so damn right.

And there was no stopping now.

The Flight Home

The terminal hummed with quiet movement, distant conversations, the soft crackle of the intercom calling boarding groups forward. Somewhere to the right, luggage wheels rolled lazily over the tile, and beyond that—a couple spoke in hushed voices, their murmured words slipping between the steady shuffle of travelers.

“We always find our way back to each other.”

“Never letting go. Never.”

Bri blinked hard, fingers curling tighter around the strap of her carry-on, her back stiff, posture too rigid, like holding herself together physically might stop her thoughts from unraveling.

Briony was curled into her side, half-asleep, murmuring something sleep-soft and unintelligible before shifting slightly against her.

Bri barely registered it.

Because she couldn’t stop thinking.

About Jackson.

About the waterfall.

About his hands curling around her waist, the drag of his fingertips over her skin, the way his mouth had moved against hers like no time had passed—like the years between them had never mattered.

God, what had she done?

What had they done?

Her stomach twisted, breath tight in her chest.

She grabbed her phone, eyes unfocused, desperate for something—anything—to drown out the thoughts circling like vultures over her mistakes.

She shoved her earbuds in, blindly hitting play.

And then—Music.

“Carrying Your Love with Me” – George Strait.

Bri froze, fingers tightening around her phone, nearly dropping it.
She shut her eyes instantly, because God—

This one.

This one wasn’t just another song.
This one was the truth—something she couldn’t admit, something she couldn’t escape.

‘Carryin’ your love with me
It’s my strength for holdin’ on
Every minute that I have to be gone
I’ll have everything I’ll ever need
I’m carryin’ your love with me’

Her breath hitched.
She was heading thousands of miles away.
Trying to leave.
But no matter how much she tried to leave him, he was always still there.

She clenched her jaw, tight, bracing, because she wasn’t just moving—she was running, and yet somehow, he was still with her.

She yanked the phone from her lap, slammed her thumb against the screen, cutting the song off before it could finish wrecking her completely.

They had tried. Tried so damn hard to make it work. They never could. And never would.

She wiped a stray tear away before it could fall, shifting slightly, pulling Briony closer like that might ground her in reality instead of regret.

Briony stirred, blinking sleepily, voice groggy.

“Mommy? Are you crying?”

Bri breathed deeply, forcing a small smile, tilting her head just enough that her voice would stay even.

“I just already miss Beau and Grandma and Grandpa,” she said. “And Uncle Connor. Just like you miss daddy.”

Briony nodded sleepily, shifting again, voice fading into drowsy reassurance.

“Just do what I do, just remind yourself we’ll be back in two weeks.”

Bri swallowed, she forced another smile, smoothing Briony’s hair, pressing a kiss against the top of her daughter’s head.

“Yeah, baby. We will.”

Then she shut her eyes again.
Hit ‘Play’
And let the song play.

Back At The Ranch

The sun was high, beating down on the dry earth, dust curling in the air as Jackson tossed the feed buckets harder than necessary, the dull thud of grain hitting the troughs echoing sharp through the open shelters.

The horses shifted uneasily, ears flicking, sensing the tension rolling off him in waves.

Jackson didn’t care.

Didn’t care that he was slamming feed bags, didn’t care that his movements were too sharp, too forceful, didn’t care that he was working like he was trying to outrun something.

Because he was.

Because Bri was gone again, and he was right back where he always ended up—alone, pissed off, drowning in something he couldn’t name.

Because he had crossed the line, because he had let himself remember, because he had made the same damn mess his father had.

And Lord help him, he had resented Jack for it his whole damn life.

And now?
Now he was just like him.

Hoofbeats.
Slow. Steady.
Rolling in like a warning.

Jackson didn’t turn. Didn’t care.

Just kept working, kept throwing grain, like maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

But the tension pressed in—the weight of their arrival settling over the ranch like dust that wouldn’t shake loose.

The horses stopped near the fence, but they didn’t stay mounted.
Leather creaked. Boots hit dirt.
Measured steps.
Deliberate.

By the time Jackson turned, the three men were already closing the distance, walking toward him with a kind of hesitation that didn’t sit right.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, squared his shoulders, ready to snap at whoever thought this was a good time to bother him. But before he could give them a piece of his mind he stopped himself.

Sheriff and two deputies. Oh, this wasn’t gonna be good.

“You know a Billie Rae Boone?”

The name hit like gravel under tires, and Jackson’s jaw tightened, set firm.

His runaway wife.

The woman who walked out on him. Left him with a baby. Never even bothered to change her damn last name. And now they were asking about her?

“Nobody ever really knows anybody,” he muttered. “I sure as heck don’t know her. Never did, never will.”

The sheriff exchanged a glance with the deputies.
Something uncertain.
Something cautious.

“Says here she’s legally yer wife?”

Jackson exhaled sharply.

Jackson exhaled sharply. “Yeah, she’s my wife alright,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans, voice rough, biting. “Funny thing about wives. You think you got forever, but turns out forever ain’t real. Turns out, you can’t make ‘em happy, and before ya know it, they’re gone. Or maybe you wake up one day and realize you ain’t no city boy, ain’t built for the life they want, and you gotta get while the gettin’s good before you lose what’s left of yer damn mind. Thinking they’ll wait. Thinking they’ll understand. But instead, they serve ya divorce papers and marry some rich fool who don’t know the first thing about ‘em.”

Silence.

The deputies exchanged another glance. Hesitant. Confused. One of the deputies leafing through his paperwork, looking and shrugging at the two men with him.

Jackson huffed, shook his head, rubbing at his jaw like the words spilling out weren’t even his anymore—like he wasn’t sure where they were coming from.

“But it don’t matter,” he said, voice lower now, distant. “She always comes back. Always. Every damn time. Can’t be with me, can’t stay gone, ‘cause she don’t know how to be without me any better than I know how to be without her, even though—”

He stopped.

The sheriff straightened slightly, watching him now.

Jackson clenched his jaw, shaking his head, pushing a hand through his hair, trying to shove the thoughts down.

Because Billie Rae had never come back.
Never even tried.
Never wanted to.
Didn’t even want his last name.

But Bri—
Bri always did find her way back to him. For almost 20 years now, since they were damn children themselves.

Hell, if that didn’t make the whole damn thing worse.
The deputies stood still, quiet, like they were waiting for him to make sense of his own words.

Jackson opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Started again.
Stopped.

Because none of this made sense.

Not to them.
Not to him, either.
And Lord help him—He had no idea how to fix it.

Silence.

The men exchanged another glance.

Hesitant.

Jackson caught the shift. Realizing they had no damn idea what he was even talking about, going off on some tangent.

“Never mind my ramblin’. What she done gone and done this time?” he muttered. “How much is this gonna cost now?”

He wasn’t exactly drowning in money.

Even on a good day, the ranch bled money—hay, feed, medical for the horses, upkeep, all of it stacking up fast, never mind diapers for Savannah and Beau Wyatt’s school and whatever mess Boone inevitably found herself in.

The child support from his wealthy ex-wife helped, sure, but it wasn’t a bottomless well—every extra dollar spent dug in, hit deep, stretched him thin.

If she needed bailing out again, he swore he would just … argh!

The sheriff exhaled. Adjusted his hat. His voice was lower now.

Careful.

“She competed in a rodeo.”

Jackson grimaced. Of course she did.

He already could guess where this was going. The way it always had. Rodeos made her drink, then pick fights, like a damn man.

He sighed, bracing for the price tag on this mess. Costing money he didn’t have to begin with.

The sheriff kept going.
Voice even softer now.
Like he knew what was about to happen.

“Took a bad fall. Bull threw her hard.”

A pause.

“She didn’t make it. I am very sorry. Deepest condolences.”

Silence.

Jackson didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.

The sheriff held out an envelope.

Thick.
Heavy.

“Prize money,” he said. “To help with the funeral prep. Ev’ryone pitched in.”

Jackson stared at it.
Stared at the sheriff.
Stared at nothing.

The sheriff shifted, cleared his throat.

Voice gentle. Careful.

Like he was stepping around broken glass.

“I’m real sorry, son.” He said, while slipping the envelope into Jackson’s shirt pocket.

The deputies murmured condolences.

Jackson didn’t answer. Didn’t react.

Because shit just hit the fan even worse than before.

The Funeral Aftermath

The air was thick, heavy with the scent of churned dirt lingering in everyone’s noses from the cemetery just outside town, fresh-cut flowers, mixing with the lingering smoke from the firepit where the Chestnut Ridge folk had gathered after the service here at the Kershaw Ranch.

Jackson’s ranch stretched wide beneath the setting sun—sprawling, untamed, wild in the way that always felt more like home than any place he’d ever known. Lots of room for the horses. But the cabin for the people living on the ranch was simple and tiny. Too small to hold the mourners paying their respects to Jackson.

The entire town had shown up. The two largest Indigenous tribes in the area had sent their own, since the Kershaws always had been friends and allies, Jackson’s best friend Chayton was a member of one of the tribes. Jackson’s father Jack and his wife Izzy were here. And Bri had come, with her family, with Brad, with the man who wasn’t Jackson.

The horses grazed unbothered, unaware that the world had just shattered beyond their fences.

Jackson was avoiding everyone, wrecking himself one drink at a time.

He stood near the fence, finishing his beer in a hurry, grabbing another, downing it like it could erase the last week, the last decade, the last mistake.

Gravel crunching, Brad approached—Bri beside him.

Brad’s voice was calm, steady, sincere.

“Look, it may sound like a platitude, but I mean it—if there’s anything, anything at all you need, say the word and I’ll make it so.”

Jackson huffed, shaking his head, voice low, bitter, just loud enough for Bri to catch.

“Yeah, yer wife. I’ll take her off yer hands…”

Bri’s sharp glance was instant, her elbow driving into his ribs, quick, covert, a warning.

Brad paused, brows furrowing. “Sorry, what?”

Bri jumped in fast, voice smooth, controlled, vague enough to twist the meaning.

“Nothing, he’s just mumbling about missing his wife. May God rest her soul.”

Brad nodded slowly, understanding Billie Rae, while Jackson caught that Bri had heard him, his gaze snapping to hers, something dark, something unreadable, something warning.

A man who was done.

Jackson finished his beer, grabbed another from the cooler.

Bri reached for his wrist, halting him, voice low, firm.

“Jackson, you’ve had at least four or five since we got here…”

He snapped at her, pulling his wrist free hard, voice rough, cutting, too sharp for the moment.

“Ya ain’t my wife no more. Don’t get to tell me what to do, woman!”

Then, at Brad, voice mocking, bitter, edged with something Bri didn’t like.

“She like that with ya too? Tellin’ ya what to do and all?”

Brad smiled, easy, unshaken.

“She keeps me in line, certainly. That’s why I love her. One of many reasons.”

Bri smiled back, kissed Brad’s cheek.

Jackson’s stomach twisted.

His grip tightened around the bottle just short of breaking it.

He downed it in seconds, reaching for another, but instead he changed course.

Pulled open the cooler. Grabbed the whiskey.

Cracked the cap, downed it like it was water.

Bri shifted, unease curling in her stomach, but before she could say a word, Jackson rolled his shoulders, exhaled sharply, shaking his head, voice low, muttered, just loud enough to be dangerous.

Jackson tipped the bottle, lifting it in a loose, careless toast.

“Ya know, Bradford, funny thing about wives,” he muttered, taking another swig, gesturing vaguely toward Bri with the neck of the bottle, the motion languid, almost mocking, his gaze flicking over her in a way that made her stomach tighten.

“They always end up in places they shouldn’t be. Places they ain’t go no business bein’ in.”

Then, another wave of the bottle, a slight tilt toward the air, toward something Bri understood too damn well.

“Like rodeos.”

He pointed now, not casually, not loosely—with precision, his arm lifting just enough to gesture toward the water behind them, the place where everything had gone too far, where everything had unraveled, where everything had come right back together in a way it never should have.

“Waterfalls.”

Bri stiffened.

Jackson laughed, bitter, humorless, too far gone. Jackson’s jaw tightened, his breath hot, uneven, his movements sharper now, too pointed, too telling.

“They take things that ain’t theirs,” he muttered, grasping the air, fingers clenching into a tight fist, his knuckles white, bloodless, aching from the force.

Then—then the final hit.

“Or at least shouldn’t be anymore,” he drawled, voice slow, thick from the whiskey, his gaze heavy, latched onto Bri like she had just ripped something out of him he’ll never get back. His fist twitched, barely contained, barely held at his side.

“But they got that grasp on ‘em. Won’t let go.”

Jackson was beyond saving now. Brad still oblivious to it. Thinking before him was a man grieving the loss of his dearly departed wife. He wasn’t all wrong, Jackson was mourning the loss of a woman, Brad was just thinking about the wrong wife.

But Bri understood him perfectly. Paled. Brad sighed, realizing before him was a man teetering the edge of a deep cliff.

“Jackson, maybe you should stop drinking now, I think Bri is right, you had a lot and this isn’t helping …” Brad moved to take the whiskey from Jackson. His hand closed around the bottle, one pull.

Bad mistake.

Jackson stiffened, tearing the bottle back, the force throwing Brad against him, so he shoved him away hard. Bri knew that look. Brad had crossed a line and Jackson was too drunk to stop himself.

Bri moved fast, stepping between them, pushing at Jackson’s chest, trying to stop whatever was about to happen.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Please, Jackson, don’t…”

Jackson ignored her.
Ignored everything.

Because he was done. Because he was wrecked. Because he was drowning.

He shoved Bri away from him, she stumbled aside.

Off in the distance, Jack and Izzy stood with Connor, voices low, watching the wreck unfold.

Izzy held Savannah close, whispering soft words meant to keep the baby settled, while Jack muttered something sharp to Connor.

“That boy ain’t right tonight,” Jack said, shaking his head, already bracing for impact. “I tried talkin’ to him, but I ain’t getting’ through none. Just keeps walkin’ off like a pouty teen, leavin’ me standin’ there like I was some damn stranger.” Jack drawled, grumpily.

Connor was about to reply when …

Jackson’s fist slammed into Brad’s jaw, the crack snapping through the air, sending everything spiraling.

Brad dropped hard—fast, unprepared, stunned.

Bri screeched, dropped beside him, hands hovering over his face, checking for blood, checking for fractures, checking for damage.

In the distance, her parents pulled the kids away, shielding them, stepping back, watching in stunned silence.

Connor moved fast—like a bear, like a force, like something unstoppable.
And when his grip latched onto Jackson, it was like steel—unyielding, absolute.

Jackson fought, slurring, furious, losing himself, losing control, losing his damn mind.

Connor hauled him toward the cabin, toward whatever fallout was coming next. There, he shoved Jackson through the door, into his own bedroom, into the space where he wasn’t letting him escape this, slamming the door shut behind them, positioning himself in front of it.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Connor barked, voice sharp, pissed, carrying the weight of someone who had seen this storm coming before Jackson ever felt it.

Jackson snapped back, reckless, unhinged, still too drunk to win, too drunk to realize it, but damn well trying anyway.

Connor stood like an immovable wall, like something you didn’t challenge, like something built for standing through storms.

But Jackson swung anyway.
Fast. Hard. Too sloppy to land.

Connor caught his fist mid-air, clamping down tight, crushing his knuckles in his grip, like he wasn’t catching a man—he was catching something desperate.

Then—then he shoved Jackson backward onto his bed, hard.
Jackson fell down hard, bounced, groaned and growled like an angry predator, rolled off, came right back, swinging again.

Connor didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t budge.
Didn’t hesitate.

Jackson’s punch went wide—too slow, too wasted—and Connor stepped in, grabbed him hard by the shoulder, shoved him backwards until his spine crashed into the wall.

Glaring.

Breathing heavy.

Ready to go again.

But Connor was done playing.

He grabbed him—tight, controlled, like he knew exactly how to take Jackson down.

And then—he pinned him.

Shoved a knee into Jackson’s thigh, locked his grip around his dominant arm, twisted just enough to throw him off balance.

Jackson struggled, pushing back, trying to swing again, but Connor was faster—using leverage, not strength, keeping his grip firm and unforgiving.

“Stop.”

The word was low, but final, sharp as steel cutting through the moment.

Jackson snarled, but the fight was fading fast—his body betraying him before his pride ever would.

Connor leaned in, closer now, enough that Jackson could feel the weight of his damn certainty pressing down on him like a brand.

“You not doing this,” he muttered. “Not today. Not like this. And most definitely not with me.”

Jackson shoved against the hold, but Connor held firm—unrelenting, unmoved, too damn sure of himself to let Jackson go swinging at ghosts.

And just like that—

The fight was over.

Jackson was trapped.

Pinned like a butterfly under glass

Left with nothing but his own damn fury curling in his chest, burning through his veins, useless now that Connor had stopped it cold.

“What the fuck is up with you today, kid?” Connor demanded.

Jackson stilled.

Not in surrender.

In recognition.

In realization that he couldn’t bullshit his way out of this.

Suddenly the rage burned out, turned into something else, something worse, something deeper. Connor felt it,  let go slowly, like he knew the second his grip eased, Jackson would retaliate—not with fists, but with something worse.

Jackson staggered back, breath heavy, fury twisting through his chest, humiliation thick in his throat.

Then—he turned.

Sharp. Deliberate.

Eyes burning—with rage, regret, something too tangled to name.

Connor squared his shoulders.

“You done?”

Silence.

Jackson’s jaw tightened.

Then—he nodded once.

Short. Clipped.

Like he hated admitting it.

He took a step—toward the door, toward escape, toward anything that let him breathe outside of this damn room.

Connor blocked him instantly.

Solid. Unmoving.

Shaking his head once, slow, sure.

“Nah.” His voice was low, firm. “We gotta talk here.”

Jackson’s shoulders rose, stiff, bracing.

Connor didn’t budge.

“So… start talking.”

Jackson exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing everything under his breath.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Saw his pupils flare wide, saw the shift in his body, saw the way he turned his back too fast, pressing one arm against the wall like he was holding himself upright, like he couldn’t face Connor.

Connor exhaled slow.

Stepped forward.

“Jackson… talk to me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on here. All I know this isn’t about the loss of Billie Rae. This hits different.”

Silence.

Then—then Jackson muttered.

“You already know.”

Connor’s jaw tightened.

His breath slowed.

Because yeah.

He did.

And now?

Now, he had to make Jackson admit it.

Connor’s voice dropped—low, steady, controlled, like a doctor diagnosing the wound before closing it up.

“You and Bri,” he muttered. “Something is going on again.”

Jackson exhaled hard.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t confirm it.

Just stood there, shoulders tight, breathing through something he didn’t want to say out loud.

Connor took another step forward.

“I’m done playing here, Jackson,” he muttered. “What are we looking at? How far did you go? What are we talking here? Hugging, smooching, copping a feel or two?”

Jackson stayed silent.

Connor’s brows furrowed, patience burning out. Then—then Connor narrowed his eyes.

“More?”

Jackson exhaled sharply—fast, sharp, wrecked. Like the weight of it finally landed on his shoulders. Like he knew he was caught. Like he knew Connor was never letting him walk out of this without admitting the truth.

The knock came hard. Three quick hits against the wood of the door Connor had been standing in front of.

Connor turned, shoulders tense, already knowing exactly who it was before the person even called out.

“Hey fellas, it’s Jack. Lemme in!”

When he opened the door, Connor grabbed Jack’s arm, yanked him inside, shut the door behind them.

Didn’t need to say a damn word.

They both knew.

Jackson was losing it.

Connor exhaled slowly, arms crossed, eyes steady, already knowing exactly how bad this was about to get.

Then—then he spoke.

“Your boy here,” he muttered, voice clipped, “got tangled up with Bri again.”

Jack froze. “Figured. Fuckin’ hell.”

Connor didn’t stop.

“And not just tangled, Jack. Waterfalls tangled, if you catch my drift. He’s not very forthcoming, but from what I could get out of him, it went way past what could be called acceptable.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. Then—then it clicked.

“The hell’s wrong with ya, son?” Jack snapped, voice sharp, full of disbelief, the kind of outrage only a father could throw at his son.

“You think whoopin’ Brad’s gonna fix this? Gonna make her come runnin’ back? Hell, that ain’t the problem, son—y’all are! This whole damn mess is on y’all, and ya don’t even see it! That man ain’t done a damn thing wrong, but you, Jackson, you went after another man’s wife, and I raised ya better than that!”

Jackson whipped around fast, glaring hard, his hands clenching into tight fists.

“Oh, you wanna talk ‘bout respectin’ another man’s wife? Yeah? Cos I am here, livin’ and breathin’ proof that y’all don’t follow that rule either! Grew up thinkin’ you was my uncle until at 14 I found out the truth, after it killed my parents and I spent 6 years in the damn system until y’all gracefully remember you knew all along you was my father! Since I was ’bout 15 I suddenly had a daddy again, whom I used to call uncle, and since then had to listen to yer bullshit, watchin’ ya do what yer tellin’ me not to do now?!”

Jack went rigid.
Jackson laughed—short, bitter, wrecked, wrecking himself.

“Here you are, the epitome of a father, with three different kids by three different women. One of ‘em wasn’t even yours to begin with, was yer brother’s, wasn’t supposed to be yer mess, but ya claimed her anyway. My momma. So don’t you even start with me on this. You don’t even dare go there with me, Pops.”

Jack’s jaw ticked.
Jackson stepped forward, too drunk, too wild, too damn sure of himself.

“And here I am,” he continued, voice sharp, fast, spiraling, “three damn kids of my own from two women, both gone.”

Jack’s jaw ticked.

Jackson stepped forward, too drunk, too wild, too damn sure of himself.

“And here I am,” he continued, voice sharp, fast, spiraling, “three damn kids of my own from two women, both gone. Just like mah daddy. You must be so proud.”

Jackson’s breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

“One I shouldn’t’ve been with to begin with. Hell, ain’t no loving a woman who don’t wanna be loved. You try, you wait, you hope—but that ain’t love, that’s just a slow death. Yeah, Boone tried, bless her heart, but trying ain’t being. She weren’t wife material. Never was. Weren’t no mother, neither. ‘Cause a real mama? She don’t leave. She don’t go sneakin’ off in the dead of night like some damn outlaw, abandonin’ her baby like she got no ties to this world.”

His voice dropped lower, words stretching long, steady—not rushed, not desperate, just inevitable.

“Bri wouldn’t’ve done that. Bri would’ve fought. Would’ve clawed tooth ‘n nail, found a way, made a way, bled herself dry if she had to. She’d’ve told me to my face, stood firm, left proper. Not like Boone—hell no—stealing off like some back-alley thief, leavin’ behind our precious Savannah and a damn two-liner, as if that was supposed to be enough.”

He exhaled slow, gripping the whiskey bottle tighter, glass catching the dim light, knuckles pressing white against it.

“Even now, Bri ain’t really gone, is she?”

The drawl dragged deep, heavy, like something folding under the weight of its own knowing.

“Never really left me. Never could. And I never left her, not really. Because we can’t leave each other. Like the moon and the sun, can’t be together, but neither can leave completely, just keep chasing each other till the end of days.”

A pause.
A breath.
Then—

“I still love her. And I know fer damn sure she loved me back.”

The edges of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite anything sane.

“It was always there. Always real. And ya can’t turn that off—not like a light switch, not like some bad habit you just quit, not like somethin’ ya ain’t supposed to want no more. Hell no. Love like that? It stays.”

Silence.

Then—

“And I know I can get her back.”

His grip tightened, the bottle whining under the strain.

“I’m gonna get her back.”

Another breath—long, drawn-out, deliberate.

“I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what it ruins. I don’t care if it’s the last damn thing I ever do. The only way anyone can stop me, including yer boy Bradford, is to shoot me dead! Put me in the ground, that’s the ONLY way.”

Connor exhaled slow, the room feeling smaller, heavier, like something had shifted that couldn’t be undone.
Jack stayed perfectly still, jaw tight, watching Jackson like he was waiting for the real fire to start.
They traded knowing glances.

Then—Jackson’s voice hit sharp, shaking now, begging without meaning to beg.

“Y’all wanna help so bad? Well, here’s how,”

No space for a laugh.
No space for doubt.
Only certainty—raw, reckless certainty.

His breath hitched, his pulse too loud in his own ears, but his words turned solid again, steady again, real again.

“Help me figure it out. How to bring her back to me, how to give it one last damn try—make it stick this time. Forever. We tried, Lord knows we tried, and every time we failed, we failed worse. Harder. Messier. But this?”

He exhaled slow, like the weight of it was pressin’ down on his ribs, heavy, unbearable, unshakable.

“This don’t feel like failure. When I held her that day, by the waterfall—had her like it used to be, like it should be—I felt like a winner.”

“And I knew. Hell, I KNEW.” A breath. Heavy. Final. Like there ain’t no room for arguing it.

“This feels like somethin’ that’s got an answer. Just ain’t found it yet. And I aim to find it.” His voice curled low, thick like molasses, like the kind of certainty that don’t get second-guessed. “I don’t need no lectures, not from y’all. I don’t need no words. I don’t give a rat’s ass what y’all think I should or shouldn’t do no more.”

His grip tightened—knuckles pressin’ white, muscles twitching under his skin.

“It’s gonna happen. One way or another. Bri’s mine. And I am gonna make her mine again, hell or high water. Now, what I need is a plan. I need action. That’s what I need. Not damn words about how I am wrong when this feels too damn right! And I need me some damn whiskey. Last thing I wanna be right now is sober.”

Jackson didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask permission.

Just moved—fast, sharp, like something already set on its course.

Shoulder-checking past Jack, knocking Connor off-balance, busting straight through the door like they weren’t even standing there.

Jack let out a low whistle, straightened his jacket like he wasn’t fazed.

“Well, hell,” he muttered. “Look at that. Boy’s turned into a damn man. A fuckin’ man with a damn death wish. ’bout to blow up his entire life for some wet dream that’s been over for years. And all it takes is one hard look and ya know ya got more of a chance talking sense in a damn donkey than that boy.”

Connor sighed slow, rolling his shoulders back, watching Jackson storm off like trouble itself.

“Nah Jack,” he murmured, voice dry, knowing, final. “Worse. Jackson doesn’t have a death wish, your boy’s made up his mind and he’s got a plan. The atomic bomb type.”

Jack and Connor stepped out of the cabin, walking straight into a scene they hadn’t expected—and one Jackson clearly wasn’t ready for.

A distance away—far enough that they couldn’t hear, only see—Brad stood, tall, slender, almost lanky, the kind of man who belonged in boardrooms and country clubs, not fistfights with exes in the dirt.

Blond curls neatly combed, blue eyes sharp, still dressed like he stepped straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad—pressed slacks, tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up like he was here for a conversation, not a brawl.

And Briar Rose was right there, close, her posture soft, careful, fingers trailing lightly along his jaw, brushing over the bruising, checking it with the kind of tenderness that made Jackson feel something sharp twist in his gut.

She leaned in, lips close to his ear, saying something low, private, something meant only for Brad. Then she kissed him.

And Jackson saw it. Head snapped sharp, body going rigid, something burning deep inside him, crawling up his throat like fire.

Because this wasn’t just Bri standing beside Brad.
This was Bri tending to him.
Caring for him. Touching him like he needed her.
Like she was his.
Like Jackson had no place in this moment.

And that Jackson couldn’t stomach.

He moved.
Fast. Hard. Zero hesitation.

Stormed straight toward them, boots kicking up dust, shoulders squared, steps relentless, with the velocity of a steam engine.

Brad barely had time to breathe before Jackson grabbed Bri—firm, decisive—yanking her straight out of his hold.

She let out a sharp shriek, startled, stumbling straight into Jackson’s arms.

Then—before anyone could react—before anyone could stop it—

Jackson bent her back and kissed her, full, deep, unrelenting—something reckless, something undeniable, something that shattered every perfectly composed inch of her.

And the sound of shock hit the air, sharp, immediate, collective.
A murmur rippling through the onlookers—Connor’s parents, his sister, every damn familiar face in town.

Connor cursed outright, quick, resigned—

“Ah, fuck. Here we go. Doesn’t even leave time to grab a beer first.”

Then—he moved.
Fast. Toward Jackson. Toward the wreck about to unfold.

Jack kept pace beside him, cursing under his breath.

And right as they reached the chaos, Brad snapped forward, shoving Jackson, hard. Fast. Sharper than anyone expected.

For all the money-polished, Ivy League weight he carried, when Brad was angry enough, furious enough, backed into a corner deep enough, he could fight.

Jackson staggered back a step, just barely, catching himself before he lost footing, eyes burning with something dangerous.

Brad breathed heavy, ran a hand over his injury, as if steeling himself, standing taller, his face tight with fury.

Jackson spat to the side—quick, sharp—wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then—he lunged.

Brad barely had time to brace before Jackson swung—fast, hard, reckless, nothing controlled.

Brad ducked, dodged—

But he wasn’t fast enough.

Jackson’s fist connected—sharp, solid—knocking Brad sideways.

Brad caught himself, rubbing his jaw, blinking hard, breath short, pulse hammering.

He stood straight again, shoulders squared, jaw tight, voice clipped—

“You think this is how it works? You think you just—come in here, swing like some wild animal, drag her off, and that’s supposed to mean something?”

Jackson exhaled slow, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, just stared him down.

“Well, hell, doc—seems pretty damn simple so far.”

Brad’s jaw clenched, breath coming fast, his polished control starting to crack.

“You’re delusional. She’s mine, and you better come to terms with that before this gets real ugly.”

Jackson smirked. Sharp. Lethal. Something that carried weight.

“Buddy, it’s already ugly.”

Brad stepped closer, trying to hold his ground, trying to hold onto whatever authority he thought he had.

“She doesn’t want you anymore.” His voice came low, precise, cutting clean like a surgeon—sharp, cold, meant to wound.

“Accept it, cowboy. Move the hell on.”

Jackson’s smirk faded.

Now?

Now, he was done playing.

“She don’t want me?” His voice dropped, low, knowing, dragging out slow enough to make the weight settle. “Funny, didn’t seem like that when I kissed her. When I had her again. She’s mine, Brad, and she will always be MINE! You had your moment with her, your son with her, time for ya to take a bow and fuck off on outta my life! And hers!”

Brad snapped forward, punched Jackson. Hard. Full force.

Jackson nearly fell, his knees hitting the ground, but he caught himself, then struggled back up. Came at Brad like an angry bull.

Brad stumbled, nearly lost his footing, palms catching the dirt, rising again quick—breathing faster, pulse hammering hard, trying to force the calm back into his expression.

But Jackson wasn’t waiting anymore.
He was already coming back at him—no pause, no space, no room for escape.

And just as the fight spiraled—just as the fists really started to fly—

Connor and Jack rushed in, fast, grabbing both of them, tearing them apart.

Connor locked onto Jackson, gripping tight, dragging him backward—

Jack hauled Brad back, keeping space between them, shaking his head like he’d seen it all before.

Bri stood frozen, eyes wide, breath short, chest tight watching in horror. The whole damn town and her family watching, waiting, knowing this wasn’t just a fight.

She knew.

Jackson wasn’t just lashing out, wasn’t just grieving, wasn’t just lost in what they used to be.
Something had shifted—deep, permanent, irreversible. He wasn’t gonna step back, wasn’t gonna accept his fate as her past, her ex-husband.

He wanted to be her present. Her future.

And he damn well would make it so—or die trying. Because Jackson wasn’t just coming back. He was coming back full force, no regrets, no hesitation.

It would be Armageddon.