San Sequoia Millenium Wiltshire Hotel & Suites, Gala

The ballroom shimmered like a dream carved from glass and old money.

High, arched ceilings gleamed with gold leaf and starlight. Ornate medallions cast soft shadows across polished parquet floors. Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead, their reflections dancing in champagne flutes and mirrored heels. Laughter curled around velvet-draped columns. Violet silks, muted jazz, and the clink of silver made up San Sequoia Medical Center’s annual gala—elegant, reverent, and nearly perfect.

Tonight celebrated the newest cohort of high-honor medical graduates, legacy donors, and the expansive care network stewarded by one quietly magnetic man.

Dr. Bradford Cunningham stood beneath the amber spotlight at center stage, tux crisp, voice warm and rich.

“Medicine,” he said, every syllable as calm as a heartbeat, “isn’t built on ego. It’s built on endurance. On people like you—who don’t just learn to diagnose, but learn to listen.”

He nodded toward the front row, where Dr. Christian Cameron sat beside Dr. Cadence Moore—both radiant in their nerves and gowns, the newest names in a legacy still unfolding. Dr. Connor Cameron, haloed in navy and long blond hair, flanked them like the night’s emotional anchor—CMO of San Sequoia Medical, triage lead when needed, and Christian’s quietly brilliant father. Beside him, Keira, luminous in black velvet, watched their son with a smile that held every year of sacrifice and pride.

On Cadie’s side, her mother, a doctor and acclaimed researcher in her own right, sat poised in sapphire silk, one hand resting gently on her daughter’s shoulder. Her brother, Dean Moore, leaned in to whisper something to his wife—Sloane, Cadie’s best friend since childhood—both dressed in classic black tie, both beaming like the moment belonged to them too.

A commotion broke out at the ballroom’s entrance.

Raised voices. Velvet ropes pulled taut. A security guard stepped back, face flushed.

“Sir, you can’t enter like—”

“I’m here for Briar Rose Cameron,” came a voice thick with grit and fire. “Lemme in or go get her, I don’t care, but I ain’t leavin’ till I see her. BRI! BRIIIII!”

“Sir—please—”

“Git yer hands off me or I swear t’God—”

Toward the back, near the bar, Chase Cameron stood with his wife Hailey, flanked by his former bandmate and lifelong best friend Colton Hargrave and Colton’s wife Maddie—both also Christian’s maternal grandparents.

Chase groaned, passed Hailey his drink, and muttered, “Great. Here we go again with that cowboy-going-rogue bullshit. All I wanted was to watch my grandson get honored…” He didn’t wait for a reply. His tux swayed as he strode toward the entrance, Colton falling into step beside him, Maddie trailing with a sigh and a practiced glance toward security.

“It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s with us,” Chase told the guards, voice clipped but confident.

“Mr. Cameron, with all due respect—”

“With all due respect,” Chase cut in, “the host, Dr. Bradford Cunningham—the man who signs your checks—is my former son-in-law. Father of one of my grandsons. We’re this close. You really wanna tell me ‘no’ and deal with the fallout? You think I’m letting randoms in? Don’t you know who I am?”

“I … of course, Mr. Cameron. I grew up a big fan of your music, but … we’re not to allow entrance without a valid—”

The man limping toward the guard was six-foot-two, every inch stubborn. His suit jacket hung unevenly over blood-stained white linen. Cowboy boots struck the marble like punctuation. One arm dangled off-axis. Shaggy brown hair fell across his striking blue eyes—eyes now clouded with pain and defiance.

“Sir, you’re bleeding,” the second guard said, stepping forward.

“Reckon I know that.” His voice was hoarse but rising. “Now move or I’ll holler her name from the damn steps!”

Chase’s eyes flicked to Hailey, who stiffened. Colton muttered something under his breath. Maddie’s brows lifted in a slow, practiced arch.

“Kid, calm down,” Colton said, stepping forward. “What the hell happened this time? Another argument with wildlife? You need to head down the road to the hospital first.”

Jackson turned toward them, jaw clenched, ready to explain—when a voice rang out, sharp and unmistakable.

“Jackson?!”

Bri’s voice sliced through the gala like glass dropped on tile. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed. Glass clinked somewhere in the distance.

She moved fast—heels slicing silence, plum silk trailing like a comet. When security tried to intercept, her glare landed like a scalpel.

“Let him in. Don’t make me get Dr. Cunningham. He’s my ex-husband. Well, both are, actually—Jackson and Dr. Cunningham. Either way, let him pass.”

She reached him, eyes scanning his injuries, and touched his good arm with a tenderness that made the guards step back.

“Jackson, baby—you’re hurt. What happened?!”

“Long story,” Jackson muttered, voice gravel-thick. “Horse threw me. Fence didn’t give. Thought I’d stopped the bleedin’, but Beau and me had to wrestle me into this damn shirt. Took forever. That’s why I’m late.” He winced, breath hitching. “I tried, Bri. Honest. I heard you—I did. I was tryin’ to do better. To show up. But I couldn’t get here on time…”

He glanced down at his boots, scuffed and streaked with dust and blood. “And about the shoes—sorry. Boots were all I could manage.”

A ripple moved through the crowd. Eyebrows lifted. Whispers curled like smoke.

Connor appeared, sharp-eyed and already calculating. Chris and Cadence lingered behind him, wide-eyed and frozen in their formalwear.

“Chris,” Connor said, voice clipped, “get my car. Then return to the party. Jackson needs the ER, not a damn ballroom.”

“I want to help,” Chris blurted. “I need the training—Dad, come on.”

Connor’s tone didn’t budge. “You stay. This is your night. You’re being honored for top marks and clinical excellence. Don’t miss it.”

“Then let me use that excellence. Dad, please.”

Bri stepped forward, voice like a whipcrack. “Jackson’s not a practice dummy!”

“I’m a doctor now, Aunt Bri—not a kid playing dress-up doing play-pretend!”

Connor shook his head, amused but firm. “Nobody is doubting you, son, but you are also one of the honorees, as is your girlfriend, so you both will go back to the party and I will rejoin as soon as I can. Keke, can you make sure the splendid fruit of our loins listens to his father even though he is a ripe old 22 years old and a doctor in his own right now?”

“You got it, Con-Bear.” Keira leaned in and kissed him, quick and familiar. “Let’s go, guys. Chris, Cadie, you heard him. Back to the party.” She put her hand to the back of both, steering and guiding with determination.

As they left, Dr. Bradford Cunningham slipped between them—tie loosened, sleeves rolled, calm radiating off him like heat from stone. His wife Viola, poised at his side in ivory silk, held his tux jacket over one arm, the other resting lightly on his back. Her presence was quiet but unmistakable—graceful, grounding, and entirely in sync with him.

Brad’s voice cut through the static. “I’ve got him,” he said simply. “Go join the party, Connor, I’ll take it from here. Nobody’s gonna miss me. I gave the speech. I shook the hands. Now I’m just the credit card behind the circus.”

Connor raised a brow. “You’re also the surgeon who built this entire medical network.”

Viola smiled, brushing a kiss to Brad’s cheek. “And you’re the father of one of the honorees, Connor. Let Brad handle it. Go, baby—I know you can’t help yourself.”

Jackson blinked at Brad, jaw tight. “I ain’t goin’ to no hospital. I’m here to be Bri’s date. Just a little late. Call off your suited monkeys and let me in. I promised my girl a dance tonight.”

Brad’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes were sharp. “There won’t be any dancing, Jackson. Once the adrenaline wears off, you’ll be screaming in agonizing pain. Whatever you’re feeling now—it’ll be tenfold. You’re not okay, and you know it. We need to get you looked at—I insist.”

Connor nodded, arms crossed. “Listen to him, kid. I’d hate to manhandle sense into you, but I will. You’re getting treated—your choice: Brad being all gentle and surgical, or me being the opposite.”

He turned to Brad. “This is why I have to be here. That damn cowboy’s stubborn as a mule. You’ve got no prayer against him and his thick skull—but I do, and Jackson knows it.” Then back to Jackson, voice low and firm: “This is my boy’s big night. I’ll be cranky if you make me miss all of it. Let’s go.”

“No, Connor,” Bri cut in, voice trembling but firm. “You stay with Chris. Jackson is absolutely fine and very grateful for Brad’s help, aren’t you?” Her eyes welled up, lashes catching the light.

Jackson’s gaze softened. “If it keeps ya from cryin’,” he muttered, “I’ll be a good boy. If he hurries in patchin’ me up and gives me something against the pain, we can still catch the end of the party.”

Brad pressed gently against the torn sleeve—Jackson winced, breath catching. “We need somewhere private so I can figure out what exactly we are dealing with here,” Brad said. “Before you bleed out in front of the press.”

“Can’t ya just slap on a bandage?” Jackson grumbled, but received angry glares from several pairs of eyes.

Viola gestured down the marble hallway toward the elevators. “Our suite’s upstairs. Quiet, secure, stocked. Brad never travels without his bag.”

Bri was already guiding Jackson toward the lift, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. She was in heels, barely 5’8″, lithe and determined—but Jackson was 6’2″, all muscle and pain, and far too heavy for her to support alone. When he stumbled, his weight shifted hard, nearly taking them both down.

Connor moved like a linebacker—6’4″, broad-shouldered, fast. He caught Jackson mid-fall, practically lifting him off the ground with one arm and steadying Bri with the other.

She didn’t let go. She stayed close, her hand still pressed to Jackson’s side as they ascended in the elevator. Her voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for him.

“You scared me, cowboy. You always do.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped. “I just wanted to show up for you.”

Brad and Connor flanked them, one calm, one muttering about stubborn rodeo idiots and liability forms. Viola moved like silk behind them, already coordinating with hotel staff.

Brad and Viola’s Hotel Suite

The suite was sleek and sterile in the way luxury hotels often are—granite counters, chrome fixtures, soft lighting that tried too hard to be warm. Viola had already cleared space on the bar, laying out towels and a bottle of water with quiet precision. Brad unzipped his medical kit—gloves, gauze, antiseptic, portable monitor, suture packs. Connor moved with practiced calm, eyes trailing the bruising that bloomed across Jackson’s shoulder like storm clouds.

“You set the joint yourself?” Connor asked, kneeling beside the chaise.

“Had to,” Jackson muttered. “Didn’t trust Beau with that. He’s just a kid still. Bigger now, but well…”

“Well, it’s not holding.” Connor’s voice was measured. “I feel subluxation. Probably a SLAP tear.”

Brad tilted Jackson’s arm slightly, fingers probing with surgical precision. “Deltoid laceration. Internal bleeding. This isn’t surface damage.”

Connor began prepping sutures while Brad scrubbed in the marble sink. Bri hovered near the counter, arms folded tight, her breath shallow.

“How bad is it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Brad glanced up, eyes kind but clinical. “He needs surgery. No way around it.”

“I don’t need no damn surgery!” Jackson barked from the chaise, trying to sit up. “Just wrap it. Let me get mah bearin’s and we can go to the party! I promised Bri I wouldn’t flake again. I’m takin’ her to that party!”

Connor didn’t flinch. He rotated the shoulder gently—then snapped it into alignment with a practiced jerk.

Jackson groaned, loud and guttural. Bri yelped, startled, hand flying to her mouth.

“Don’t move,” Connor said flatly. “Or I’ll do it again.”

Jackson clamped his jaw, sweat beading at his temple.

Bri moved closer to Brad, voice urgent. “He’s not gonna agree. He’s scared. And he’s gonna worry about downtime…”

“I’m okay with a couple days off,” Jackson insisted, breath hitching. “If that gets me patched up and to that party with Bri.”

“More like weeks,” Brad said, turning to him. “You likely tore through the labrum and deltoid. You don’t walk that off. You need the OR or risk permanent loss of function.”

Brad turned to Connor. “I can’t force him. But we’re on a timer.”

Connor met Jackson’s eyes. “You’re gonna do it. Don’t make me call Jack to set you straight—one cowboy to another.”

“Connor, I can’t.”

“Does it look like I’m asking? Jackson, I’m telling you.”

Jackson’s voice cracked. “How’m I supposed to win Bri back flat on my ass while my ranch falls apart? I’ve been puttin’ money aside—for…”

“For Beau’s college? Or Briony’s? Savannah? Eden?” Connor’s voice softened. “Bri doesn’t need your money. She’s the one paying you child support, remember? She’s got the financials handled. What she needs is you—in one piece.”

Jackson dropped his gaze, jaw working.

“Jackson,” Connor said gently, “you know my family’s got that. You don’t have to bleed yourself dry. She wants you, not your bank account.”

“I wanted to take Bri somewhere. A vacation. Just us.”

“She won’t say yes if you’re broken.”

“I’ll lose my ranch. I can maybe manage a week tops…”

Connor glanced at Brad. “You’re going to have surgery. You’ll keep that arm still until I say otherwise. You tear it again, you stall out for good. I’m not guessing. You heard it from both of us.”

Jackson cursed under his breath.

Bri stepped forward, eyes glassy. “You have to do it.”

“I can’t…”

Her voice dropped into steel. “I don’t do ultimatums. But you get that surgery, or we’re just exes from here on out—cordial, polite, coparenting, but done.”

Connor stepped away to wash his hands. Brad leaned toward him, voice low.

“Is she really using what I think she’s using?”

Connor grinned. “Oh yes. She’s got him well-trained. Watch.”

Brad turned, watching Bri wrap her arms carefully around Jackson’s neck, mindful of his injuries. Jackson’s shoulders sagged. His hand—his good one—found Bri’s waist like muscle memory. She pressed her forehead to his, whispering something only he could hear.

Then she turned, eyes wet but voice steady. “He agrees,” she said, looking at Connor, then Brad. “He’s doing the surgery.”

Brad nodded, already dialing. “We operate tonight.”

Connor moved to Jackson’s side, crouching slightly. “Alright, cowboy. Let’s get you to the car.”

Jackson grunted as Connor helped him up, one arm slung carefully around the linebacker-built doctor’s shoulders. Connor supported his weight with ease, guiding him toward the door.

Brad opened it ahead of them, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, this is Dr. Cunningham. Male patient, mid-thirties, sustained blunt force trauma from a fall off a horse into a wooden fence. Presenting with shoulder dislocation, suspected fracture, active bleeding from unknown source, and possible secondary injuries—ribs, clavicle, internal. Vitals stable for now, but pain index high and mobility compromised. I need a surgical suite prepped immediately—orthopedic lead, trauma team, imaging, and post-op recovery. ETA twenty minutes.”

Viola followed, her heels silent on the marble, her expression calm but watchful.

Bri lingered for a moment, watching Jackson limp out of the suite, blood still staining his shirt, boots echoing against polished stone. Her breath hitched. Her hand trembled.

Viola turned back, saw her falter, and stepped beside her without a word. One arm wrapped around Bri’s shoulders, pulling her close.

“He’ll be okay,” Viola whispered. “Brad’s got him. And you’ve got us.”

Bri nodded, tears slipping silently down her cheeks as the door closed behind them.

Recovery Room Rodeo

Jackson lay half-upright in the cushy hospital bed in his private room, arm wrapped tighter than a prize steer at county fair. His shoulder was swaddled in a bulky immobilizer sling, reinforced with medical-grade foam and Velcro straps that looked like they belonged on a tactical vest. Beneath it, layers of sterile gauze and compression bandages held the torn deltoid and labrum in place, stitched and stapled like a patch job on a busted saddle.

His torso bore the bruises of impact—black and blue blooms across ribs and flank, with a few angry red scrapes where the fence refused to yield. A cooling gel pad peeked out from under the sling, hooked to a portable cryotherapy unit humming quietly beside the bed. Brad had insisted on it. Connor had programmed it. Jackson had tried to unplug it twice.

His left hand—thankfully uninjured—rested on the call button, though he hadn’t used it once. Pride was a hell of a drug. Brad had just finished checking vitals, Connor scribbling notes on a hospital-issued tablet like he owned the whole wing. Which, to be fair—he kinda did in a way. Technically Brad owned the hospital, but he always let Connor make all decisions with full autonomy.

The door creaked open, and Briar Rose stepped in like she’d been holding her breath since sunrise. Her heels clicked softly against the tile, Eden perched on her hip, her eyes scanning Jackson’s face—searching for color, clarity, him. “Oh baby…” she pressed out, looking ready to cry, but didn’t.

He blinked, slow and groggy, but smiled. “Hey, darlin’.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed him—soft, lingering, full of relief and reprimand. Then she gently angled Eden toward his good side.

“Say hi to Daddy,” she whispered.

Jackson’s right hand—his only free one—lifted with effort. He brushed Eden’s cheek with his knuckles, and the baby cooed, then drooled on his hospital gown. Bri laughed, quiet and shaky, and kissed his temple again.

Behind her, the twins shoved through the doorway, shoulder to shoulder like they’d been bickering in the hallway.

“Pa!” Beau drawled, voice cracking with emotion.

“Daddy,” Briony said at the same time, her tone clipped but warm.

They moved to Jackson’s right side, squeezing in together, their teenage limbs awkwardly coordinated. Jackson wrapped his good arm around both of them, pulling them close—his fingers curling into Beau’s shoulder, Briony’s back.

He held on tight. Just for a moment longer than expected.

Briony mumbled into his chest, “You smell like antiseptic and barn and horse sweat. So does Beau. It’s tragic.”

Beau snorted. “It’s rustic.”

“It’s rank, never heard of deodorant,” she shot back, but didn’t pull away. The moment the twins did, the bickering commenced, so Connor pulled them off to a corner of the room, talking to him with a low but stern voice of an uncle who didn’t have to do this for the first, or last, time.

Savannah toddled over, pigtails bouncing, clutching a plush bear. Nathaniel, Bri’s little whirlwind with Brad, shrieked, “Papa Jacksie!” and climbed up without clearance. Savannah followed, with some help from Brad, who quickly removed the shoes from both, with the usual reprimands of a doctor.

Eden Leigh, cradled in Bri’s arms, cooed softly. Jackson’s eyes softened on her—their latest chapter in baby form.

Behind them, Viola stepped in wearing sunshine and airy cotton, waving and smiling. Brad joined her, kissed her cheek, and she handed him Charlotte—wrapped in pastels, already yawning.

“I think you’ve got an army here,” Connor said dryly, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, I got me a fan club here,” Jackson drawled, grinning like it physically healed him. Beau looked awkward standing beside his father’s bedside, Briony sat down and started scrolling through her phone, and Savannah landed in his lap with a squeal, followed by Nathaniel, who wasn’t even Jackson’s but nobody would know unless they deduced paternity by the curls he had inherited from his father Brad.

Bri leaned in, lips pressed to Jackson’s forehead—soft, lingering, and just shy of biting.

“I’m glad you’re better,” she murmured. “Now you can hear me yell at you properly.”

She straightened, eyes blazing. “Why didn’t you drive yourself straight to a hospital? Brad and Connor said it was almost irreversible. Another hour and—” Her voice cracked. “You idiot.”

Jackson winced, then grinned. “Yes ma’am. No argument here. But I did show up—just a little late and a lotta dinged up. Still counts.”

That earned synchronized headshakes from every adult in the room—Brad, Viola, Connor, Bri. Even Briony, still perched beside Beau, didn’t look up from her phone.

“Yah, cool story, Daddy,” she said, deadpan. “Still prefer you with two functional arms. Duh.”

The door opened again, and in strode Chase and Hailey Cameron—Connor’s parents, Bri’s too, and the unofficial monarchs of controlled chaos. Chase still rocked the faded leather jacket and his now silver hair was still fully and shaggy like he’d just walked off a tour bus. Hailey followed, elegant and unbothered, her smile sharp enough to cut through hospital-grade tension.

“Jesus, Jackson,” Chase said, eyeing the sling. “You trying to one-up my motorcycle crash from ’98?”

Jackson chuckled. “Just keeping up with the Camerons here. Or tryin’ to.”

Chase leaned down and hugged him—careful of the arm, but firm. “You scared the hell outta my daughter, son. And she lives with me, so I get the fallout.”

Hailey kissed Jackson’s cheek, then turned to greet Connor with a warm hug, Brad with a kiss to the cheek as well, and Viola with a gentle squeeze.

Briony finally looked up. “You’re late.”

Chase raised a brow. “You’re mouthy.”

Briony smirked. “Genetics.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you little brat,” Chase shot back, then turned to the crowd of kids and teens. “Alright, how about ice cream in the cafeteria for everyone under eighteen?”

Nathaniel shrieked. Savannah perked up. Even Beau looked tempted.

Briony narrowed her eyes. “Bribing us with ice cream now? Seriously? You know this isn’t the 19-whatevers you’re from, and kids nowadays get an allowance. I can buy myself ice cream whenever I want. And I’m thirteen, not three. Ice cream is for babies. I like Starbies.”

“All right—black coffee and cigarettes for Briony, and ice cream for the rest,” Chase said dryly. “Let’s go, kids, so the grownups can yell at your dad without witnesses. That includes you, Briony. Don’t make me ask twice or I’ll have your grandmother tell you. You won’t like that.”

“Fair,” Briony muttered, already standing. She gave Hailey a look. “He’s lucky I’m emotionally mature for my age.”

Hailey didn’t miss a beat. “Emotionally mature, my ass! You? You’re thirteen. I’ve met more emotionally mature houseplants. Let’s go and think about what ice cream you will have or I will pick for you and spoon-feed it to you in front of everyone!”

The younger crowd began to shuffle out, Chase and Hailey corralling them with the ease of seasoned roadies wrangling a band. Bri watched them go, her hand resting on Jackson’s immobilized arm, her expression unreadable.

Jackson lay at the center of it all—bruised, bandaged, and surrounded by love, sarcasm, and the kind of family that never lets you forget you’re alive.

Within moments, the swarm vanished, leaving only Bri, Connor, and a man stitched like a scarecrow and grinning like a schoolboy.

The Real Prognosis

Bri pulled up a chair, folded her arms, and angled herself with determination.

“So. How is he?” Briar Rose asked her older brother, but her eyes were already narrowing at Jackson. “And I mean the truth, not whatever bullshit the cowboy here feeds me.”

Jackson grimaced, still smiling. Connor shrugged, tapping the edge of the tablet.

“Surgery went great. Prognosis—strong. If he stays still. No ranch work. No lifting. And absolutely no horsing around—pun fully intended, but I’m serious about the rest. If he screws with it, he could end up with a stiff arm and low to zero mobility. Just to be clear, I’m not guessing. I’m telling you. Both of you.”

Jackson groaned.

Connor added, “Every time Brad or I try to emphasize this, his eyes glaze over like he’s calculating hay bales. So Bri, make sure he behaves. I’m putting this on you, because your honey-bun over there is high on strong painkillers and has a decent excuse not to listen. Unless you want him in less-than-mint condition from here on out, make sure he rests that arm. As in, completely still.”

Bri turned her full attention to Jackson. The glare: potent. Nuclear-grade.

“Oh, he’ll be still,” she said sweetly. “Guess what? He’s traveling with me once he’s released. For several weeks straight. The heaviest thing he will lift is a tropical cocktail with an umbrella in it.”

Jackson blinked.

Connor didn’t look up. “No booze. Not with his meds.”

Bri rolled her eyes. “Fine. Lemonade with an umbrella in it. And a bendy straw. Happy now, Doctor Buzzkill?”

Connor gestured vaguely, voice flat. “Ecstatic.”

“I’ve got a shoot in Sulani, and I was invited to Keanu’s wedding. You remember Keanu, don’t you Jackson? One of Stryker’s kids? Stryker and Sophie said they left you several messages, but guess what, you don’t listen to your voicemails. So, we are going to that, you’ll be my date. Yup—I already packed your bag when I picked up Beau. Oh, and since I am not just a good face who can sing pretty, I had my staff arrange for local nurses to assist wherever we may go, especially for those moments when I am busy and can’t babysit my ex-ball-and-chain here. Aren’t you excited, baby? You move that arm, and it will be superglued in place by me. Copy that?”

Connor snorted.

“After that, we’re off to San Myshuno for two, three days, then back to DSV for four, maybe five—interviews and an award show. We’ll figure out how to get you into a suit. We will be staying with Jasper and Iris there, no nurses needed, Iris volunteered. We both know you try to do something you shouldn’t and my sister will ride your ass into the sunset and it won’t be pretty. Then it’s off to Tomarang for five days and Mount Komorebi for six, or the other way around. Either way, you’ll be busy for a few weeks.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a velvet threat.

“You will not be alone for one moment. Not even on the crapper. I will tear off the toilet paper and hand it to you, so you won’t have any excuses for moving that arm.”

Jackson groaned again, Connor and Brad smirked into space, both trying hard not to burst out laughing at the images forming in their minds.
Bri was unimpressed.

“Oh, and the kids are taken care of. My parents have the girls, Beau’s staying with Chay since he has school, until his grandpa gets there and he’ll be back at the ranch, oh, did I mention Jack’s heading to Chestnut Ridge as we speak—because somehow, your dad still didn’t know about the injury. You told Connor you’d call him. Funny thing: Jack remembered vividly talking to you, but an injury, somehow had never come up. Imagine his surprise. Let me guess, the pain meds made you forget you were in a hospital recovering from emergency surgery? Really Jackson?! And you wonder why I am over here going nuclear on you?”

“Bri…”

“You can argue all you want, Jackson,” she said with a shrug. “But I don’t care. This is happening. Or you and I never will again. Your choice. Travel with me or lose me forever.”

“Bri—come on…”

“You keep talking about wanting another chance. Saying no now is not gonna help your case. That’ll get you the exact opposite. I am not joking. This is too much.”

“That just ain’t fair—ya can’t spring this—”

“Oh, can’t I?” Her smile tightened into steel as she cut him off. “Feels like I just did.”

Jackson sighed, turned to Connor. “How long?”

Connor gestured toward Brad. “I’d say five, maybe six weeks minimum. But hey—let’s ask the attending surgeon.” he gestured at Brad, who glanced at his wife Viola, who traded winks with Bri, the women had grown to be close friends, then leaned in and whispered into Brad’s ear with a grin. Brad looked up, freshly amused.

“Eight weeks minimum,” he said, looking straight at Jackson.

Jackson gawked. “Eight?! Brad, ya little—she told y’all to say that!”

Viola raised both hands. “Me? What have I to do with your recovery, Jackson? I am not a doctor. I just told my sweet and sexy hubby here with those dreamy curls how much I love him and what all I would love to do with him …” she cooed, making Bri and Connor eyeroll simultaneously.

Brad turned crimson, ears burning, but the goofy smile foretold he liked it. Connor blinked slowly, unimpressed. Jackon shook his head.

“Nah, ya didn’t. Y’all are plottin’ against me—and Viola’s got Brad’s balls wrapped tighter than a rodeo bull’s flank strap! Blind man can see that! That Brad would say anythin’ right about now if y’all asked him to! I ain’t gonna be laid up for eight weeks!” Jackson protested. “Two whole months, that’s forever at a horse ranch!”

Bri leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

Jackson’s eyes widened. His head snapped around to her. She nodded. He stilled. Then relaxed. Then sighed.

“Okay. Fine. I ain’t no doctor. What do I know. If ya say eight weeks can’t be helped, then I’ll take a vacation for eight weeks I guess. Mah dad and Beau can handle that ranch just fine without me, I s’pose.”

Later, after the kids returned from the cafeteria riding solid sugar highs, Jackson was preoccupied with teens, toddlers, and cartoons. Brad leaned closer to Bri.

“I have to know,” he said. “What did you tell him?”

Bri smirked. “Well, Braddy, that’s classified. Or should I ask—what did Vee tell you? Gawd, you’ve always been so cute when you’re embarrassed.”

Brad blushed, making Bri giggle and gently stroke his cheek. He snickered. “What my wife told me is not exactly something I’d repeat in polite company. I think you can imagine the gist. Use your imagination.”

Bri laughed, leaned in, and whispered in his ear.

Brad’s eyes widened.

“You told him that?!”

Bri pulled back, grinning wickedly. “Oh yes, I sure did. And look—it worked like a charm.”

Brad stared, then burst out laughing. “Who knew you could be so manipulative. A-plus for creativity.”

Connor, from the armchair, glanced up. “You two are insufferable. Always have been.”

“You mean adorable,” Bri corrected.

Departure at Dawn: Sulani Bound

The sun hadn’t fully crested the bay when Connor steered his sleek silver SUV, his younger sister in the passenger seat looking like she’d stepped off the cover of Island Vogue, and Jackson dozing in the back beneath a tangle of pillows and bandages. The pain meds did a fine job keeping the aches at bay, but made him very drowsy so he kept nodding off constantly throughout the day.

The SUV pulled up to the private terminal at San Sequoia International just as the sky began to blush with morning. Connor parked with his usual precision, but Jackson was already groaning in the back seat, shifting beneath the weight of bandages, sling, and pride. His shoulder was locked into a rigid immobilizer, thick foam and Velcro hugging him like a tactical vest designed by someone who hated comfort. Beneath it, gauze and compression wraps held the torn deltoid and labrum together, stitched and stapled like a patch job on a busted saddle. The mobile cryotherapy unit clipped to his belt buzzed faintly, a constant reminder that he wasn’t allowed to be the man he usually was.

He moved like a man trying not to spill a tray of drinks balanced on his own ego. His boots hit the pavement with a thud, his gait stiff, his sling pulling awkwardly against gravity. Briar Rose was already out of the car, radiant in wide-leg trousers and a linen blouse, sunglasses perched like a crown. She circled the SUV, opened his door, crouched beside him, and offered her hand.

“Ready?” she asked.

“No,” he muttered. “But I reckon that don’t matter.”

She smiled, soft and sharp. “Correct.”

Inside the terminal, staff greeted her like royalty. Jackson got a polite nod and a wheelchair offer, which he declined with a drawl so dry it could sand wood.

“How’s a wheelchair gon’ help with a busted shoulder, ya damn knuckleheads—unless y’all want me to headstand into the damn thing.”

Bri didn’t miss a beat. She offered the staff a gracious smile.

“Sorry about him. He’s just grumpy ‘cause he had to ride in a car instead of a horse. And the pain meds make him crankier than a teething toddler. Keep that up, Jackson and I will buy you a damn binkie at one of the airport stores!”

Jackson muttered something about dignity and diesel fumes. Bri patted his good arm like she was soothing a fussy colt.

Security was a comedy of errors. The sling set off the metal detector, and the TSA agent looked apologetic as he scanned Jackson manually. Jackson looked like he wanted to disappear into the carpet. “I ain’t takin’ off that sling. Y’all want it off, ya gotta do it yerself and answer to that lil lady over yonder, I rather her yellin’ at ya than me.” he told the agent who decided Jackson was cleared.

Briar Rose kissed his cheek. “You’re doing great, cowboy.”

On the charter jet, Jackson collapsed into the plush seat with a groan that sounded like it came from his soul. Briar Rose tucked a pillow behind him, adjusted the sling, and handed him a bottle of water with a bendy straw. He grumbled something about not being helpless, and she replied, “You’re healing. Big difference.”

Once airborne, he stared out the window, watching the clouds roll past, thinking about how she’d packed his bag, dressed him, arranged everything. He didn’t deserve her. But she was here. And she hadn’t left. Wasn’t that what he wanted? If only he weren’t so immobile.

Sulani was a dream. The upscale rental cabin sat on a private stretch of beach, tucked between volcanic cliffs and turquoise surf. The villa had wraparound decks, glass walls that opened to the sea breeze, and a master suite that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Briar Rose had her own dressing room, a production team rotating in shifts, and a schedule that read like a pop star’s fever dream. Jackson glared at a hammock he couldn’t use. He spent most mornings on the shaded porch, arm in sling, watching her film.

She danced barefoot in the sand, hair braided with shells, voice like honey and thunder. The camera adored her. So did the crew. So did he. She wore a sequined wrap that caught the sun like fire, moved with the kind of grace that made him forget every ache in his body. He watched and still saw that sixteen-year-old spunky socialite he had fallen in love half their lives ago now. He sipped coconut water and tried not to stare too long. “Damn,” he muttered once, watching her twirl with a sway of her hips that made him hot under the collar. “She always did know how to make a man forget his own name.”

She caught his gaze, waved, and blew him a kiss between takes.

Dinner that night was on the deck, candlelight flickering against the surf. Briar Rose served him herself—grilled fish, mango salad, rice wrapped in banana leaves. She poured his drink, tucked a napkin into his collar, and adjusted his sling when he shifted wrong. He wanted to protest. Wanted to say he could do it himself. But then he remembered all the nights he’d missed her. All the mornings he’d woken up alone, wondering if she was happy somewhere else. She was here now. Wanting to take care of him. And that was love, too.

So he let her. Let her pamper him, fuss over him, kiss his temple and call him “cowboy” like it was a promise. And he fell deeper. Not like a man tumbling, but like someone finally sinking into the warmth he’d been chasing for years.

The rest of the trip blurred in color and light. Flights were rough—his shoulder hated turbulence, and the sling made every seat feel like a trap. But Briar Rose was there, every time, smoothing his brow, whispering jokes, bribing flight attendants for extra pillows and pain patches. They went from Sulani to San Myshuno, where she filmed a rooftop sequence in a glittering gown while Jackson watched from a lounge chair, sipping some mocktail and wondering how he’d ever let her go. Then to DSV for interviews and an award show, where she walked the carpet in red silk and he wore a tailored suit that Jasper had arranged and wrestled him into with Bri and Iris’ help, sling and all.

Tomarang was next—lush jungles, ancient temples, and a private tour arranged by someone who owed Briar Rose a favor, the highlight of which was a tiger sanctuary where both got to pet actual grown tigers. Jackson had never seen places like this. Never imagined he’d be the kind of man who got VIP treatment, private dinners, and backstage passes to places most folks only saw on postcards. He was starting to like it. Not the fame. Not the flash. But the way she moved through the world—confident, kind, unstoppable—and the way she pulled him into it like he belonged.

And the nights. The nights were everything. Not just the occasional weekend together, not just stolen hours between ranch chores and city shoots. Every damn day for weeks. Waking up beside her. Falling asleep with her hand on his chest. Laughing over breakfast, bickering over sunscreen, kissing in the rain. He was starting to blossom into it. Into her rhythm. Into the life she’d always offered, the one he’d been too proud to accept.

And somehow, even with his shoulder wrecked and half his body out of commission, she made love to him like he wasn’t broken at all. Gentle, yes—but never pitying. Passionate in a way that made him feel wanted, not fragile. She knew exactly how to move, how to touch, how to make him forget the pain and remember he was hers. And she his.

He still wanted her back. Wanted the ring on her finger again. But she’d sworn off marriage, said she was done pretending they knew how to live together. She needed the city. Their daughters needed the city. He and Beau needed the ranch. They didn’t have answers. But they had this. This trip. This time. This chance.

And Jackson, stitched and bruised and slowly healing, was starting to believe that maybe love wasn’t about fixing everything. Maybe it was about showing up. Every day. Sling and all.

Back Home

The estate in San Sequoia wasn’t Briar Rose’s childhood home. She’d grown up in Brindleton Bay, where the ocean met old money and Brad had been the boy next door. But this place—this sprawling house above the bay with its view of the red bridge and the city skyline—was where her parents had landed after the twins went off to college. Chase had traded tour buses for garden beds, sold the East Coast estate, and bought this one with a separate guest house with street access for when Iris, Jasper and their kids needed a break away from Del Sol Valley and a pool house tucked beside the roses.

Briar Rose lived there now, permanently. Briony and Eden had their own rooms, their own routines. Beau was back in Chestnut Ridge for school, and Jackson was here. Not in the guest room. Not looking down from the main house like he used to when Brad was the one beside her.

He climbed the stairs to fetch a puzzle for Eden, something with glitter and unicorns. The hallway was quiet, lined with relics from Chase’s grunge rock days—platinum records, backstage photos, a signed guitar pick from a tour that ended before Bri was born. Jackson passed the guest room he used to sleep in. The one with the windows facing the pool house.

He paused.

The glass was cool beneath his fingers. Below, the pool house glowed warm and golden. Bri was in the living room, barefoot, front door wide open and their daughters dancing to whatever song Chase was strumming on the patio. Jackson remembered standing here during her marriage to Brad, watching the lights flicker on and off, wondering if she was happy. Wondering if she ever thought about him.

He had lived through a thousand nights like that. Silent. Separate. Wishing.

Now he was here. In her bed. In her rhythm.

It wasn’t Brindleton Bay. It wasn’t Chestnut Ridge. It wasn’t the fancy villa in the Del Sol Valley hills with the rooftop pool, where they’d visit Iris and Jasper soon enough.

But it was hers. And tonight, it was his too.

Jackson turned from the window, puzzle box in hand, and walked back toward the stairs. His shoulder throbbed. His heart did too.

But this time, he wasn’t looking down from the guest room. He was walking back to her.

Del Sol Valley, Hargrave Haven

The rooftop pool shimmered in the fading light, casting gold across the glass railings and the sleek lounge chairs Jasper insisted were imported from Milan. The skyline of Del Sol Valley stretched out in one direction—all glitter and ambition—while the ocean glowed on the other side like a promise no one could keep.

Jackson sat stiffly on a cushioned chair, sling finally gone, though the pain and stiffness lingered—duller now, thanks to less effective drugs. ‘We don’t wanna get you addicted to pain killers now‘ as Connor told him. A bottle of beer sweated in his hand, technically Jasper’s, slipped to him with a wink despite Jackson’s strict no booze with the pain meds regimen. Jas and Iris always made him feel welcome, but deep down, that same old nagging truth remained: he didn’t belong here. Not really. The villa was too polished, too fancy, too loud. Too Jasper.

But Bri was poolside, laughing with Iris. Jackson’s daughter Savannah was playing with Jas and Iris’s kids—Tate and Anastasia—and neighbor boy Blaine Cameron Jr., while infant Eden slept inside under the watchful eye of Jasper’s parents, who lived with them to help with the kids when the busy parents were at work.

Jasper dropped into the seat beside him, barefoot and dripping from a few laps in the pool. He looked like a man who’d just walked off a movie set—which, to be fair, he had, just after Bri, Jackson, and the kids arrived.

“You know,” Jasper said, stretching out like a cat, “this view cost me three months of pretending to care about a script I hated. But hey, the Academy liked it. Got a little gold statue to prove it. And now it’s got company—more and more little golden friends for that shelf, so it’s not lonely.”

Jackson chuckled, low and dry. “Ya ever get tired of hearin’ your own voice?”

“Never. It’s melodic—and cost my parents a pretty penny to train, breathing and all. Now it’s award-winning. Sexy, even, or so I’ve been told many times.” Jasper grinned, then nudged Jackson’s healing arm. “You know, maybe you should look into a career upgrade—stunt double, maybe. Studios are always looking for new faces. Every time I turn around, you’ve been mauled by wildlife or testing fences by sling-shooting yourself off a horse. Oh, and let’s not forget the rodeo accidents—like the one that killed your other ex-wife. Honestly, if you’re gonna make dramatic declarations like ‘I’d give my left arm for another shot with Bri,’ maybe don’t take it so literally next time, you country bumpkin.”

Jackson snorted, then winced. “Wasn’t exactly voluntary.”

“Still. Points for commitment.”

They sat in silence for a moment—the kind that only comes between men who’ve known each other long enough to skip the small talk. Jasper took the beer from Jackson just in time, seconds before Bri and Iris turned toward them, smiling and waving—as if he had a sixth sense about the twin sisters’ intentions.

When the girls turned back, giggling at something Iris had said out of earshot, with Bri swatting at her playfully, Jasper shifted to face Jackson.

“She never stopped loving you, you know.”

Jackson looked down, then out at the horizon, tinged in gold now. “Makes two of us. Just don’t change the fact that I’m gon’ go back to my ranch, and she goes off to San Sequoia or wherever—and all I can do is wait for the next time I get to be with her again. I don’t like it.”

“Well, your track record sucks,” Jasper said bluntly. “I mean, really sucks. You’ve had her, lost her, had her again, ran her off, got her back—and now you’re here: injured, moody, and still not wearing a ring.”

Jackson’s throat tightened. “I want to. God, Jasper, I want to. I’d marry her tomorrow if she’d let me. She jus’ don’t wanna let me.”

Jasper leaned back, eyes scanning the skyline. “Thing is, unless I’m missing some puzzle piece, this looks like a rerun. Same old drama. You two love each other, sure. Everyone’s rooting for you. But there’s no place you both fit. Not Brindleton Bay. Not San Seq. Not Chestnut Ridge. Not here. You’re too different. You don’t have an answer, Bri doesn’t have an answer, and I don’t have one either. Nobody does—’cause there isn’t one. All you can do unless one of you seriously changes is perpetually wing it a la que sera, sera, my man.”

Jackson blinked hard, jaw clenched. “I know.”

“You’re not the only one hurting,” Jasper said, voice softer now. “She’s tired. She’s scared. And she’s got kids to think about. You want her for real? Then stop being the cowboy who waits for her to come back and then does some dumb testosterone-steered bullshit to run her off again. Be the man who stays. No more foreclosure signs popping up in the yard of the life she’s trying to build with you. And I think even you redneck realized she still hasn’t given up on you. She’s still trying for you and with you.”

Jackson’s eyes welled up, sudden and sharp. He looked away, embarrassed. “Jesus. Must be the meds.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jasper said, handing him a napkin. “Blame the pharmaceuticals. Not the fact that you’ve been in love with her since she was sixteen and you were too dumb to not do something country to run her off ever since. I got something to get you less emotional: quit knocking her up, dude! We get it—you make pretty babies. But three are plenty now, plus the two you both have with others. Enough, okay?”

Jackson wiped his face, breathing slow. “To be fair, we all thought she couldn’t have any babies, and none of the ones I was involved in were planned. But, seriously now, I want her back, our family back together, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t fix it,” Jasper said. “There’s nothing to fix, is what I’m saying. You just stop breaking it. The rest’ll fall into place. I know Bri. She’s my sister from another Mister, and I’m her brother from another mother. I’m telling you—you don’t have to do much. Just show up when you’re supposed to and quit fucking up. Don’t flake on her again.”

They sat in silence again, the city humming below them, the ocean stretching out like a second chance.

Then Jasper stood, clapped Jackson on the good shoulder, and grinned. “Anyway, enough feelings. I’ve got a shoot tomorrow with a CGI dragon and a love interest who’s legally too young to drink. In other words, the wifey’s hating it, and I gotta make sure Iris knows she’s my only one. Hollywood, baby. Suggest you do the same with Bri. Remind her why she can’t seem to send you out to pasture for good. Hey, I made a cowboy funny.”

Jackson laughed—hoarse and real.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t thank me,” Jasper replied. “Just don’t screw it up this time.”