Saddles, Studs & Storms

Strangerville Stock & Stud Livestock Expo

The sidewalks of downtown Strangerville shimmered under late-day sun, heat rising off the pavement in lazy ripples. Neon signs flickered awake as afternoon bled into evening—salsa joints, elopement chapels with aggressively photoshopped Elvis billboards, and diners proudly advertising the best steak west of Del Sol Valley. Which was ironic, considering Del Sol Valley itself sat nestled on the western coastline and Strangerville was miles east of it. Meant they were either cooking in open ocean or competing with seagulls.

Currently, oversized vinyl banners flapped above lamp posts, proclaiming Welcome to the Strangerville Stock & Stud Expo! with illustrations of smug stallions and vaguely confused goats. Flyers littered the sidewalks, and portable fencing had been erected around the town square to corral livestock and wandering toddlers alike.

It was the kind of town that made bold promises, offered questionably sourced fried goods, and declared geographical nonsense with unwavering confidence.

Jackson Kershaw walked stiff beside Briar Rose Cameron, a rare scowl pulling at the edge of his mouth. His hand cradled Savannah Rae under one arm like a precious bundle crossed with a ticking time bomb. Bri pushed Eden Leigh’s stroller, bouncing the infant gently, while Beau and Briony raced ahead, caught in the gravitational pull of a street magician and a fried dough stand.

“You been awful quiet,” Bri said after a long stretch of walking. She tried for light—playful. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up about horse bloodlines or boot polish.”

Jackson grunted. “Just takin’ it all in.”

“You hate it,” Bri muttered. “Me being here with the kids when you are in full on horserancher mode.”

“I don’t—” he started, then paused, adjusted his grip on Savannah as she shifted in sleep. “I ain’t hatin’. Just thinkin’.”

“Thinking?” Bri echoed, eyes narrowing. “Since when do you go silent to think?”

“Since now,” Jackson snapped, then softened immediately. “It ain’t nothin’, jeeze woman.”

Bri stopped short on the uneven pavement, forcing him to pivot. “Jackson.”

“What.”

“No, seriously—this,” she gestured at him, then the silence hanging between them, “this is exactly why we couldn’t make it work before. No communication on your end. You just bottle everything up until it leaks out sideways, then blows up in our faces!”

Jackson shifted, jaw tight. Savannah stirred, tiny fingers curling against his shirt. “I said it’s nothin’. Ain’t gotta dig at me like that.”

“Oh, I’ll dig,” Bri said flatly. “I’ll dig until I hit the part you don’t want to say. Because I’m done guessing your moods every time we walk somewhere and you clam up and look like Django. We’re back together, Jackson, but this isn’t play-pretend and I am not some bed bunny—we have kids involved. And if we don’t start talking like grown-ups, we’re just gonna split again and confuse the hell outta the calendar.”

He stared at her for a moment, wind catching the brim of his hat, shadows cutting sharp across his face.

“Goddamn it, Bri,” he muttered. “Fine.”

She folded her arms.

Jackson took a breath, voice lower than before. “Y’all wanna know what’s wrong? I been here before and can’t help remember things I’d rather forget.”

Briar Rose tilted her head, softer now. “Like … what?”

“This is where it all happened,” he said. “Boone and me—we came down here one night after a long day at the ranch, I was tryin’ to drown memories of you, she found me like that and told me not to drink alone. I was outta booze quick, went down to the honkytonk, was closed, busted pipe or somethin’, don’t recall was already pretty well lit, so we went drivin’ chasin’ a good time. Already half-drunk by the time we rolled into town and got slobberknocker shortly after. Dove straight into the party strip. Beer, tequila and bourbon. Cards. Bad karaoke. Don’t remember much of that night, but funnily I remember singin’ ‘Friends In Low Places’ thinking about us. Woke up married and pregnant in some cheap no-tell motel, as we found out in jail. Long story.”

Bri blinked. “Jail. Oh wow, that part I missed. Guess this girl really does like the bad boys. I personally only have been to jail once and it was with YOU. And because of YOU, ironically for trying to keep you from doing something illegal and stupid. Sounds like you have a loyalty card for it.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Ain’t exactly a story I’m proud of.”

His hand drifted to the brim of his hat, fingers ghosting along the edge.

“Weddin’ neither of us remembered, let alone wanted, ya remember Boone hated bein’ tied down and it don’t get more tied down than a weddin’, last thing I ever wanted was to be married to anyone else but you, we got into a fight that ended with me puttin’ a dent in a sheriff’s cruiser. Blood tests at the station—routine stuff—and next thing I know, they’re tellin’ us she’s pregnant. One of those nights back at the ranch where Boone stayed when the other ranchhands left and neither of us could stand bein’ alone with the ghosts of our pasts.”

He paused, jaw tight. “Was meant to be no strings. Just comfort, just quiet. Scratching an itch for each other. But now those strings stretch eighteen years and more. At least for me they will, since Boone checked out of life prematurely.”

He looked up, something tired flickering behind the grit in his eyes.

“You were married to Brad. Carryin’ his baby. I figured I’d do right by her. Thought maybe if I leaned in, gave it a chance, I could let go of you and love her instead.”

Another pause.

“Well, I tried. But truth is, we should’ve never been more than rancher and ranchhand with benefits. She warned me from the start—said she wasn’t the domestic type. Stuck around just long enough to bring Savannah into the world, and the moment she could stand on her own two feet again, she bolted. Told me plain the home life wasn’t for her… and she meant it. Didn’t know where she ran off to until the funeral.”

He shifted Savannah again, brushing a curl from her forehead.

Bri exhaled, tension loosening just enough for sympathy to slide in. She reached out and traced her fingers across his wrist.

“See? Another moment where you just didn’t say what mattered,” she said quietly. “I know we weren’t married anymore, but we were still friends, Jackson. Everybody knew I still cared about you—hell, even you knew it. And yet all I ever got was the Cliff Notes version… until now.”

Jackson’s thumb brushed the side of Savannah’s head, eyes tracking the curve of dusk across the horizon. His voice dipped low, like gravel under water.

“I named her Savannah Rae after my mama. Lost her when I was eight, ya know that story. Sweet voice, soft hands—always smelled like gardenia and lemon pies. Savannah’s got the same way of smilin’ sideways when she’s tryin’ to get outta trouble. Makes it hard, sometimes. Like seein’ a ghost I ain’t ready for.”

Briar Rose shifted, her tone quiet but steady. “She’s beautiful, Jackson. And loved. You’re a damn good father. Everyone sees that. That’s all that matters now.”

He nodded, but it didn’t lift him. “I know I am. I give that little girl everything I got. But… she wasn’t made from love. Not the kind you and I shared. Boone and I—hell, that was desperation, sadness and noise and … lust. Just tryin’ not to feel the ache of havin’ lost ya. No strings, that was the deal. But those strings—for me, they stretch now. Eighteen years and countin’. Hell, my dad and I didn’t have the best start, but here I am lookin’ down the barrel of my late thirties, and I still go to him for advice and help and all. Don’t forsee that changin’ anytime soon neither.”
A beat passed before he added, almost to himself, “She’ll never know. Not from me. But I carry that every time I tuck her in. Conceived from a bad place and most definitely not wanted. At least not initially, I mean. Though her mama wanted to get rid of her right away and I told her not to. Sometimes I catch myself thinkin’ I might have done both of us, Savannah and me, a big disservice there. Shouldn’t have told a woman what to do with her body. Maybe she would still be alive and we would have just gotten a divorce and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Bri leaned her shoulder into his, warm and wordless.

He glanced sideways at her, a soft edge cutting past the worn-out smile. “Savannah’s proof I once had someone that wasn’t you. And that… that’s what kills me. I know ya had a kid with Brad too, but somehow, that feels different to me. Like a reminder of all my mistakes and how I drove ya into another man’s arms … and bed. At least yer lil boy was made from love, as hard as that is for me to say, even harder to know, but I do know that. Just as I know you still carry a little torch for him, but I also know you love me more cos all the things ya did for me, knowing the consequences and ya still chose me in the end.”

Bri didn’t answer with logic or excuses. She slipped her hand over his, thumb smoothing the callused ridges he wore like armor. Then he exhaled, rough and quiet.

“I didn’t want ya to know,” he murmured. “Thought I lost ya for good, and I was tryin’ to learn how to live with it. You know firsthand how well that went.” His gaze lingered on the soft glow of town square lights stretching into dusk. “I can’t, Bri. Movin’ on without ya just ain’t somethin’ I got in me.”

He shifted, watching a breeze rustle the string lights overhead.

“Still never thought I’d be walkin’ through Strangerville with you holdin’ our babies, watchin’ our kids chase some goofy balloon animal feelin’ like I just won the lottery.” His voice dipped lower. “Never thought I’d have another baby with you. And sometimes—hell, I hate admitin’ this—I catch myself lovin’ her more than Savannah.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“I don’t, not really. I love all my kids equal. But some… some come with a better story. One built from somethin’ real.”

“You could’ve just said you had bad memories here,” she muttered. “You really have no middle ground. It’s either silence or a damn emotional monologue that just hits a certain way. What you just said should’ve been said months ago. Privately. Somewhere with walls and a door. And I know you love Savannah every bit as much as our kids, so you are talking nonsense.”

Jackson gave a sheepish grin. “Ain’t real good at communicatin’, I been told.”

“Well,” Bri sighed, glancing down at Eden, who blinked up at her with that wide-eyed look like chaos was just part of the show. “Good news is, you’re dating a woman who doesn’t do secrets. So if you’re serious about us—about trying again—I’m holdin’ you to better communication. And if I have to torture it out of you, so be it.”

Jackson tilted his head. “Torture? Can’t claim I am not intrigued.”

“No more of this old-fashioned ‘men just endure’ crap. That’s what broke us every time—divorces, the quiet splits between. If you lock up your feelings again, I swear I’ll make your life so miserable you’ll beg to confess.”

Jackson chuckled, low and warm. “Thought that had been your way all along.”

Up ahead, Beau shouted something about buying a pet snake, Briony lobbied for churros with dramatic hand gestures, and Savannah shot up from sleep with wild hair and glassy eyes, shrieking like her hair was on fire. “Potty! Nowww! Daddy!” she wailed, already starting to sob—half from urgency, half from sheer injustice that no one had already read her mind.

Jackson jolted, adjusting his grip and looking around like the solution might be hiding behind a hay bale. “Damn, lil lady, hang on,” he drawled, scanning the chaotic sprawl of the Strangerville Stock & Stud Expo—vendor tents, livestock pens, prize goats in mesh sunglasses, and at least three banners announcing Stud-Off Finals: Noon Sharp! But no bathroom in sight.

“I know we ain’t drunk,” he murmured at Bri, voice like molasses and mischief. “But there’s a stretch right across the street lined with them walk-in wedding chapels—drive-thru style, themed and tacky as sin. Lights always on, Elvis imitators half awake, beach setups with plastic sand, even a cowboy one with neon horseshoes. We could be hitched faster than you can say ‘bad idea.’ Lemme find a place for Savannah to do her business and we can head right on over, darlin’.”
He winked, slow and crooked. “And if bein’ sober’s the issue, well… that’s fixable. Ain’t about the ceremony—it’s the outcome I’m after.” Jackson shifted Savannah in his arms, trying to soothe her wild sobs.

Bri snorted, unable to help the grin tugging at her mouth. She gave him a light nudge with her elbow, playful and fond. “Kudos for communicating your wishes,” she replied. “But no thanks. As tempting as getting hitched to you by fat Elvis in some decrepit chapel is, I’ll have to pass.”

Jackson chuckled, soaking in her amusement like it was a kind of victory anyway.

Without a word, Bri stepped in, calm and decisive, handing him her coffee while reaching for Savannah. “I got her,” she said softly, slinging the diaper bag over her shoulder.

Jackson blinked, a little stunned, while almost automatically drinking from her coffee. She wasn’t Savannah’s mama. Wasn’t obligated. But she took the toddler like she’d done it a hundred times, leaving him with Eden Leigh in the stroller and two sugar-possessed tweens to wrangle.

He watched her head toward the ladies’ room, Savannah sniffling against her shoulder, and felt a pinch of something—gratitude, maybe. Or that quiet awe that hit when someone carried more than their share without being asked. Jackson adjusted the stroller handle and took another sip of her coffee, then exhaled hard through his nose.

“She’s too good at that,” he murmured, mostly to Eden Leigh, who blinked up at him like she agreed. “Just comes in, no fuss, scoops up the storm and walks it off like she’s made of steel and sugar.”

A flicker of guilt crept in—how often had he tried to do it all himself, like accepting help meant admitting failure?

He glanced back at the twin tornadoes, Beau trying to climb a hay bale and while Briony was eating his churro she was supposed to hold for him.

“Your mama’s somethin’ else,” he whispered to Eden Leigh, brushing a finger across her blanket. “And I gotta stop bein’ so damn proud before I lose her again. I gotta start listenin’ to her more or she’ll be gone again.”

Then he whistled sharply. “Briony, do not give the churro to the goat – argh too late. Dammit kid! Beau Wyatt, do not touch that snake! I am not buyin’ ya an animal we got plenty off hidin’ in them bushes! Damn, how does yer mama handle all of y’all in public!?”

The Stud-Off banners snapped overhead. Jackson squared his shoulders, one hand on the stroller, the other wrangling whatever emotional clarity he could muster between livestock and churro diplomacy.

Jackson didn’t get far into wrangling when Bri reappeared—calm as ever, Savannah perched on her hip, grinning like she’d won the fairground lottery. Her cheeks were smeared with shiny pink lip gloss, lips pursed in pride as if she’d just been crowned toddler royalty.

Bri raised one brow as Jackson caught the shimmer. “It was a bribe,” she said dryly, letting Savannah slide back into his arms. Savannah squirmed happily, lip gloss catching the sunlight like glitter on a parade float.

“Look, Daddy,” she said proudly, smacking her lips together. “I’m a princess cowgirl now!”

Jackson grinned and kissed her forehead. “Well dang, your highness,” he drawled. “You’re the fanciest cowgirl this side of the Ridge. And probably the other side too.”

Chuckling, Jackson then pulled Bri in by the waist without a word, tipping her into a kiss that was deep, slow, and full of every quiet promise he hadn’t said yet.

“Gross,” Briony groaned, appearing from nowhere with churro dust in her hair. “Do you have to do that all the time?”

Beau added, “Do y’all have to do that in public? There’s people here, Pa. They can see ya.”

Jackson grinned against Bri’s lips and whispered, “Let ’em watch, son. I ain’t got nothin’ to hide but maybe they got somethin’ to learn.”

Beau squinted up at them, churro crumbs stuck to his cheek. “Ain’t no way I’m ever kissin’ a girl. That’s just gross.”

“As if any girl would ever WANT to kiss ya, Stinky!” Briony shot back.

Jackson reached out and flicked the brim of Beau’s Stetson, just enough to tilt it over his eyes. “Mhm. I’ll remind ya of that when you’re sixteen and every last brain cell’s been replaced by hormones and heartbreak and all ya can think ’bout is girls.”

Briony cackled, already halfway through Beau’s third churro. “Don’t worry, daddy, I will remind him for you.”

Beau planted his boots and puffed up like a little ranch foreman. “Nobody gotta remind me of nothin’! I ain’t never kissin’ a girl. Not unless she’s got a prize stallion with a real big herd or a hundred acres of good graze and some cattle—branchin’ out, Pa. That’s how ya do it,” he declared, clearly parroting something overheard at the expo and proud of it.

Jackson snorted and tugged Bri closer, nearly dropping the coffee. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest weddin’ Strangerville’s seen.”

Briony wrinkled her nose and crossed her arms. “Like you even have a choice, Beau Wyatt. You’re always filthy, you smell like horses, and your idea of romance is teachin’ a foal how to sit. NO girl EVER would want that. Or you.”

Beau blinked. “I don’t smell that bad. And you smell like a perfume aisle exploded. Can’t go anywhere with ya without bees and wasps swarmin’ after ya!”

“I smell like a spa. And spa days are personal care days, you should try it sometime, even though you look like you would need to shower with sandpaper to get all the crusty off you,” she shot back.

Jackson raised a brow, trying to look stern. “Y’all done?”

Beau narrowed his eyes and gave Briony a shove—not hard, but enough to prove she couldn’t sass him and get away with it. “Almost Pa. Gotta tell yer daughter first that one day I’ll smell like money when I’m sellin’ cattle and girls line up for me. But I ain’t ever tyin’ myself down—I like my freedom. No girl is ever gonna be the boss of me.”

Briony didn’t flinch. She spun like she’d rehearsed it, dropped him clean onto his back, and straddled him in the dust like a smug rodeo queen. “I told you not to push me, dummy,” she said, arms crossed like she was giving a TED Talk. “Brad taught me self-defense, so I’m never helpless. He taught Lauren too. Try me again, I’ll hogtie you with your own shoelaces.”

Beau blinked up, dusty and stunned, shoving at his sister. “Get off me, ya fury! Mom, Dad—can someone collect their daughter before she reenacts the Alamo!”

Jackson chuckled, stepped over, and lifted Briony off with one arm, pinning her to his side like wrangling cattle was just parenting on expert mode. “Easy now, killer.” he rubbed his hand across her back.

Bri crouched beside Beau, helping him up, brushing dirt off his flushed face. He tried to wiggle away but she yanked him into a hug and kissed his cheek loud and firm.

“Moooom,” he groaned, melting into dramatic limpness. “There’s people ’round – they can see us! What’s with all that kissin’ all the time? Why all y’all hate me so!? Y’all are embarrassin’!”

Briony snorted, Savannah giggled, Eden squeaked from the stroller, and Jackson laughed until the coffee nearly sloshed. Even the goat behind them looked entertained.

“That’s called smothering with love,” Bri said, tousling his hair.

Beau huffed and sighed like the world was ending right now.

Jackson shook his head. “Kid, one day you’ll fall for a girl when ya least expect it and ya will forget everythin’ ya’re swearin’ to now. It’ll turn ya into a damn fool and y’all be lovin’ every minute of it.”

Briony grinned. “And I’ll be right there reminding you.”

But both twins were already side-eyeing each other, grinning underneath the bickering. Bri just sipped her coffee and muttered, “God help their future prom dates.”

“God help up when that time comes, ya mean?” Jackson winked at her, both laughing.

*

The electric SUV slid silently down the road, tires kissing pavement without protest. In the back seat, three little hands waved through tinted glass—Briony with her sunglasses on, Beau practically vibrating with exit energy, Savannah Rae mouthing something. Eden Leigh babbled softly, already halfway to sleep. Bri gave a quiet two-finger wave as the car disappeared around the bend.

Jackson tipped his hat, looking oddly lighter.

“Well,” he said. “Thanks to yer amazin’ brother with nerves of steel and a heart o’ gold, we’re officially childless for the next 48 hours and change.”

Briar Rose stretched her arms overhead and exhaled. “Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts, my ears are still ringing. Our kids are noisy when exited and high on fairground foods.”

“I am enjoyin’ my time with you,” he drawled. “but I am so hungry now I could eat the butthole outta a dead skunk. So, I say, take ya to dinner first, then we go somewhere with bad lighting and a jukebox older than my first buckle.”

She arched a brow. “You’re in the mood to party?”

“More like pretend I’m twenty and don’t have a feed bill waitin’ at home. Listen Bri, I am here with the purdy girl I love and I am gonna make a night of it.”

They headed for 8 Bells Bar and Grill, tucked on the edge of the desert ridge where neon met sandstone. The exterior looked like half saloon, half roadside steakhouse—tin roof, big porch, string lights, and an actual swinging door that Jackson refused to admit he loved. Inside, country music hummed low, and the smell of grilled meat and green chiles carried through every floorboard.

Dinner was pure Southwestern comfort—messy and flavorful and loud enough to count as foreplay. Jackson dove into a plate of smoked brisket tacos topped with charred onions and tangy slaw, his hands somehow messier than a toddlers’ as Bri pointed out, trying to help clean him up, while she opted for chipotle-lime shrimp over cilantro rice with blistered veggies and a side of queso that threatened to ruin her lipstick.

There were roasted elote spears dusted in chili salt and cotija, skillet-fried jalapeño cornbread that Jackson swore could win state fair trophies, while Bri still thought it tasted like regret, and a shared bowl of black bean soup with a lime wedge too bold for its own good. He ordered churros for dessert. She stole three before he noticed.

Everything smelled like cumin and history—love, mistakes, spice.

When the plates were cleared, they lingered at the bar where a live guitarist crooned something sultry and worn about dust and devotion. Bri leaned her elbows on the counter, amber beer catching light between them.

“Jackson, be honest: Did you really asked me to come along tomorrow so I could distract people?” she murmured.

Jackson grinned around his bottle. “I asked ya because I like spendin’ time with ya, and this is as close as I get to a business trip. Ain’t gonna lie. Purdy girls make cowboys generous. So yeah, I had ulterior motives when I asked ya to come.”

“Oh, I see.” She tapped her glass. “I’m part of your stud-fee strategy now.”

“Yep. You’re my secret weapon. My Lady Luck.”

She smirked. “What do I get out of it?”

His hand slid toward hers, thumb grazing her wrist. “Free beer, cornbread, and me whisperin’ about wedding chapels every time you look at me sideways.”

Briar Rose froze—just for a beat.

Then she lifted her chin, eyes steady. “Oh, I am a lucky girl.”

“Yup,” he said, leaning in. “And yer still here. Tells me ya like it.”

The guitarist shifted into something slower, something smokier. Without a word, Jackson stood and offered his hand. Bri took it.

They danced close on the open balcony, wind skimming their faces, the red rock view stretching wide like a postcard too stubborn to fade. Below, porch lights flickered. Music carried through the rafters. Somewhere in the silence between verses, Jackson brushed her cheek with his knuckles and murmured low against her ear.

“I ever tell you I only wanna marry one woman again?”

Briar Rose stilled, gaze dropping just briefly to the faded wood floor beneath their boots.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice – in the last 10 minutes,” she said, voice soft. “You just keep forgetting I’m not signing up.”

He smiled faintly—crooked, slow. “Don’t mean I’ll stop askin’.”

“Jackson,” she said, not unkindly, “why though? We tried that life. Twice.”

“Didn’t try it with Savannah Rae in a crib and Beau growin’ into his big boy boots,” he said. “Didn’t try it with Briony’s meds packed into your purse and my jacket and her shots and Eden learnin’ both our voices.”

Bri brushed her thumb along his jaw, tracing the line where the sun had etched itself into his skin. “You belong on a ranch. I belong under a spotlight. We’re never gonna call the same dirt home, and you know that, Jackson. I can’t live at your ranch knowing we nearly lost Briony to her allergies twice, I don’t care what meds we throw on her, I could not take the risk long-term, let alone when I travel for weeks or even months at a time for work. And she doesn’t want that life. She loves her daddy, loves visiting you—loves the horses, her brother, all the fun. But she won’t thrive out there. She’s a city girl through and through. Brindleton Bay, San Sequoia, even Del Sol Valley—she blooms in places like that. Chestnut Ridge would smother her.”

She exhaled, the words heavier now. “And Beau? He’s the same story flipped. He can visit me all he wants, but by day three he starts pacing like a caged animal. Just like his daddy.”

Her hand lingered a moment longer, then dropped. “I don’t have an answer. You don’t either. We tried the obvious one—Healing Hooves Ranch, remember? Sounded like salvation. Like somebody hand-delivered it straight from God himself for us. But it flopped so hard I can’t even think about it without wanting to strangle you on the spot.”

Jackson didn’t reply. Just pulled her in closer, eyes locked on hers.

They swayed until the song faded. Until the quiet felt like a lullaby too honest to interrupt.

And somewhere, just below breath, he whispered:

“Still think you’re mine.”

She leaned her forehead to his.

“Always have been,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever be Mrs. Kershaw again.”

He nodded once. Then kissed her like that was okay, too.

Hotel Room, Strangerville

The door clicked shut behind them with the weight of desert heat and music still clinging to their skin. Jackson kicked off his boots, hands already finding her waist, tugging Bri gently against him like gravity had a say.

Her heels hit the floor first, then the jacket. Then his hands cupped her jaw and she melted into the kiss—familiar, fiery, edged in history.

“Marry me again,” he breathed into her ear, voice rough as saddle leather.

Bri stilled mid-kiss, fingers on his collar. “Jackson…”

“You feel that?” he whispered, hand splayed against her back. “Tell me that ain’t real.”

She pulled back, eyes flashing. “This is exactly what gets us tangled every time. You want the dream without the logistics. My life isn’t built for ranch fences and feed schedules while I shovel shit up to my knees.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to shovel nothin’,” he muttered, trying to draw her back in.

She grabbed her jacket and heels, stepped toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

He reached for her, gentle but firm, hand catching hers like a lasso. “No, ma’am. Not tonight.”

His kiss wasn’t polite—it was searing. Honest. The kind that dragged every stubborn piece of her heart back into her ribs. Her breath hitched. She let go of the handle. Jacket and heels dropped with thuds.

And stayed.

Morning, Strangerville Hotel

“Babe!” Bri hollered through the steam. “We’re gonna be late! Stockyard show opens in twenty!”

Jackson stuck his head in. “Shower’s already runnin’. Y’wanna share?”

“No time!” she snapped, while he stepped in anyway, blocking her from leaving.

They tangled beneath the spray, hot water slicking across skin, shampoo barely staying in her hair. He grinned against her neck. “Y’ever think about marryin’ me again?”

“No,” Bri said flatly. “But I am thinking about asking Connor for vasectomy brochures. Clearly, we suck at staying off each other and I am NOT having more kids. Just no! Get off me, cowboy.”

Jackson chuckled, hands sliding down her back. “We sure make some purdy babies, though.”

“Yeah, but enough is enough. I am not one of your brood mares.”

He pressed his mouth against her temple. “I’ll get snipped, swear it. Minute ya say y’all take me back as yer husband …”

She groaned, shoved him lightly with her hip. “Rinse fast, Kershaw. You still smell like tequila.”

Dalton Ranch, Late Morning

The Dalton Ranch sat wide and proud beneath the high Strangerville sun, all red earth, white barns, and fences that stretched like intention. Jackson had both Blaze and Patches in the trailer—Blaze dark as old molasses, Patches painted like somebody couldn’t choose—pedigree folders tucked under his arm. Bri walked beside him in denim and designer shades, boots stylish but still dusty, purse swinging like she owned half the valley.

They were greeted by Mr. Dalton himself—cordial, old school, and grinning like he already liked the look of Jackson’s horses.

“Mrs. Kershaw, so good to meet ya,” he said warmly, handing Bri a mason jar of lemonade.

She blinked. “Actually, it’s—” she started, but Jackson leaned in and kissed her, effortless.

“Y’all sit anywhere ya like,” a ranch hand chimed in. “Missus gets the shaded bench, yeah?”

Another passed her a clipboard and called her “darlin’.”

Jackson fought a smirk. Bri narrowed her eyes and mouthed don’t start.

As pricing talks kicked off—Jackson knee-deep in stud fees and competitive lineage—Bri sipped her lemonade, content to let the cowboys weigh in while she catalogued every time Jackson played casual and charming like it wasn’t half weaponized.

“Your husband’s got fine stock,” one rancher drawled.

“Sure does,” she said eventually, half-distracted.

An older rancher leaned in. “You two been together long?”

Jackson answered before she could. “Long enough to have three kids together, plus two bonuses—but that’s a story for a couple beers.”

Bri rolled her eyes. “Actually, I can tell it real fast. Jackson and I were married. Now we’re dating. That’s all—for now. I’m not lookin’ to wear any man’s ring or name ever again. There, all caught up. And for what it’s worth, it’s Miss, and Cameron, if you don’t mind.”

The rancher winked. “Ah lil lady, all the same to me. Don’t need no ring to be a rodeo wife and rodeo wives always say that. It’s a rough life, no one blames ya for not wantin’ in again. Your husband’s one of the best, though. If all y’all excuse me then so I can take a gander at the stallions.” he turned his full attention to the trailer with Patches and Blaze.

“Kershaw, any chance I could borrow them both and see which one my girls like better?”

“No Sir, can’t do. I need one of them back at the ranch.” Jackson called back, Dalton nodded and averted his attention while Jackson smirked at Bri. “Y’know I could still drag ya to that chapel tonight and make that story even shorter.”

“You could,” Bri replied sweetly, “but unfortunately for you I don’t have a terrible brain injury or amnesia, so let’s not.”

“Could be romantic though. Even if it ain’t no fancy weddin’ like ya had with Brad. C’mon darlin’—just say yes,” he snickered.

“The only way you get your ring back on my finger, Kershaw, is by trickery, brute force, and probably an illegal dose of roofies. Stop asking.”

“Darlin’, I’m guilty of a lot of things. But givin’ up just ain’t one of ’em.”

By then, Mr. Dalton had finished inspecting Patches—running a palm down his flank, nodding with the practiced eye of a man who’d seen every kind of stallion except one like this.

“Well, son,” he said, straightening up. “Got yerself some fine stock here. Temperament’s solid. Pedigree checks out. We’ve been lookin’ to add some bite to our bloodline, and I reckon Patches here’s got fire in him.”

Jackson offered a quiet nod, more pleased than proud.

Dalton scribbled his name on the paperwork and handed it over. “You got yourself a contract. Welcome to the spread.”

Jackson grinned, slapping the trailer side as Patches snorted like he’d just won a trophy. Blaze, meanwhile, stood tall and unimpressed, still a stallion on standby.

Dalton turned toward his ranch hands. “Get Patches unloaded and walked—he’ll be stayin’ on. Let’s make sure he doesn’t think he owns the joint just yet.”

As the men moved off, Jackson turned to Bri and kissed her slow and sweet. “See? It worked. You brought me luck. He didn’t even try to price-gouge me, not with a purdy lady watchin’. Didn’t want you thinkin’ he was cheap.”

Bri chuckled. “Or maybe he knew I’d call him out on it and write a Yelp review so vicious his cattle would have gone on strike for shame.”

Jackson laughed, then climbed up to check on the trailer. Blaze stood firm, head high, while the two mares—Choco Belle and Prairie Rose—nickered gently, tails flicking as they waited their turn.

Jackson stepped ahead and swung the truck door open like a gentleman bred for dust and dramatics. Bri smirked, slid in with one smooth motion, and leaned out to catch him by the collar as he lingered.

Her lips found his in a quick, unapologetic kiss—more promise than prelude.

He shot Bri a look. “Got three ranches between here and Chestnut Ridge, all waitin’ on romance. You comin’ with me, or am I droppin’ ya off somewhere?”

Bri swung her legs into the truck and slammed the door with practiced flair, sunglasses sliding into place like armor.

“I’m coming,” she said, pulling her hair up with a snap of an elastic. “To keeping bringing you luck. Plus, somebody has to make sure Prairie Rose doesn’t fall for a stallion with a criminal record and a gambling problem and tries to run away with him.”

Jackson snorted, settling behind the wheel. “Darlin’ this is all about sex and nothing else, so we’re safe. Takin’ all my girls home with me tonight.”

Bri kicked off her boots and curled one leg under her. “Well, I’d rather watch some horses getting pimped out by my ex-husband than sit at some hotel or alone on some long car ride back home. At least this way, I get scenery, some horsies are getting some … and you get supervision.”

“You can get some anytime ya like too, darlin’, all ya gotta say is ya wanna. I even let ya supervise me all ya want.”

“No thanks, not looking to get studded by you again. Just drive. We have places to be, cowboy.”

Jackson glanced at her sidelong as he started the engine. “Yes Ma’am, But hot-damn. Here I was hopin’ for a reward after a hard day’s dealin’.”

“Get Choco Belle and Prairie Rose knocked up by some handsome stallions,” Bri teased. “THEN we’ll talk about rewards.”

Jackson chuckled, checked the mirror, and tipped his hat. “Sounds like a plan, saddle up, darlin’. Reckon we’re in for one hell of a love tour.” The truck rumbled onto the dusty road, trailer swaying just enough to make Blaze stomp and remind them who was still top billing. Bri rolled the window down, letting dry air rush in, and the sun dipped low enough to paint everything in gold.

Three ranches. Two mares. One stallion with stored swagger.

And one couple daring the desert to test their heat.

Chestnut Ridge, Kershaw Ranch

They made it home to Chestnut Ridge after nightfall, took care of the horses together then it was their time.

The desert wind was nowhere to be heard inside Jackson’s bedroom—just the hum of his ceiling fan, a soft flicker of light from the lamp near the bed, and the scent of lavender mingling with steam from the bathroom.

Bri emerged, skin flushed from the shower, wrapped in a towel the color of sun-bleached denim. Her hair was damp and wild, trailing water over bare shoulders. Jackson was stretched out across the bed, one arm propped behind his head, the other holding out a sweating glass of something dark and smokey.

“Gimme,” she said.

He passed the glass wordlessly, watching her take a slow sip. She closed her eyes at the burn—let it linger.

Then Jackson reached out, hooked two fingers under the edge of her towel, and tugged gently. “Careful, darlin’. I might decide not to be so gentlemanly about it.”

Bri smirked. “Since when were you ever a gentleman?”

Jackson raised a brow. “Since about six minutes ago—felt wrong wastin’ the moment.”

She moved toward the bed, climbed in beside him without fuss or ceremony, towel slightly askew but her expression quieter now. They talked—about cornbread disasters, about Prairie Rose’s judgmental glances, about how Dalton’s signature had looked like a chicken ran across the page.

Jackson’s fingers traced slow circles along the side of her thigh. “We’ve done a hell of a lot together. Not just the past two days, damn Bri, we’ve been through it all, haven’t we?”

Bri nodded, her hand settling over his chest like it belonged there. “Too much. And not enough.”

He swallowed, eyes trained on her. “We keep sayin’ it’s complicated. But it’s always been simple to me. You’re it, Bri. Always were. It’s the world that’s complicated, not us.”

There was a pause, not heavy—just honest. And then, softly:

“Marry me again?” he asked. No grin. No dramatics. Just the words, laid bare in the quiet.

Bri inhaled, gaze steady now, lips parted with something softer than sarcasm.

“Ask me tomorrow,” she whispered. “Ask me a thousand more times. I’ll keep saying no… until the day I might say yes, knowing full well we’ll crash again. Because we will. You’ll burn me. It’ll break us. I will run again. We love like wildfire and rebuild like fools. The same story, over and over, just told a little different each time. That’s who we are.”

She touched his jaw, thumb grazing the line where sun had deepened his skin.

“But you’re it for me too, Jackson. That’s why I keep coming back—scorched and stubborn every time. Just don’t make soft promises we both know you can’t keep. I’d rather be burned honest than sweet-talked blind.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. Just leaned in and kissed her—slow, deliberate, like the desert had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing them toward forgiveness.

Outside, the moon dipped beneath the horizon. Inside, two hearts curled toward each other—bruised, unfinished, but quietly brave.