Reconcile

Chestnut Ridge
Kershaw Ranch

Connor parked at the edge of the dusty drive and cut the engine. The electric motor fell silent instantly, leaving only the soft tick of cooling metal and the faint hiss of settling gravel. A cloud of dust drifted behind him, catching the early sun in a muted golden haze.

Through the windshield, the ranch moved in its usual morning rhythm — the kind of organized chaos only a working horse ranch could have. Ranch hands crossed between paddocks with feed buckets and halters, barely glancing up as they worked. Horses snorted and stamped in the open shelters, tails flicking at flies. The air smelled like sun‑warmed dirt, hay, and the metallic tang of well water.

In the distance, Beau crouched beside Savannah, showing her something in the dirt — probably a knot, or a hoof pick, or some ranch trick he’d learned too young. Savannah’s little voice carried on the breeze, bright and eager. Beau’s posture was patient, protective.

Then Connor spotted Jackson.

He stood at the front of the nearest paddock, coiling a thick, stiff rope with practiced efficiency. His shoulders were tight, his movements clipped. He looked up once — just long enough to register Connor’s presence — then returned to his task.

Connor sighed, unbuckled, and stepped out of the car.

“Let’s do this,” he muttered, brushing dust off his slacks like it had personally wronged him. He squared his shoulders and headed toward the paddock. “Hopefully the kid isn’t wired for combat today. I’d really hate for things to go that way with him.”

The dry humor didn’t hide the tension in his jaw — but it did make the walk feel steadier, like he was preparing for whatever version of Jackson Kershaw he was about to encounter.

Jackson didn’t stop coiling the rope, but his eyes tracked Connor’s approach, a flicker of recognition under the brim of his hat.

“Morning,” Connor said evenly.

“Was wonderin’ when ya’d show up,” Jackson replied, tone flat, eyes shadowed.

“Well, surprise,” Connor said dryly. “Only took three missed visitations. Jackson, let’s have a chat.”

Jackson paused — just for a heartbeat — the rope going still in his hands. Then he finished the coil, hung it on a hook by the fence, and jerked his chin toward the cabin. No argument. No explanation. Just resignation… and maybe the faintest hint that he’d been expecting this reckoning.

Connor followed him across the dusty yard, Jackson’s boots and Connor’s sneakers crunching on gravel. The cabin door creaked as Jackson pushed it open. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of coffee, leather, and the lingering musk of horses carried in on clothes.

Jackson moved to the counter, grabbed the pot, and poured two cups without asking. He set one down near the edge, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed, hat tossed aside with a soft thud.

Connor didn’t sit. He stayed standing near the table, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other wrapped around the mug. His posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

“So,” Connor began, “why are you keeping Beau from seeing his family?”

Jackson didn’t flinch. “I ain’t. He didn’t wanna go. I ain’t makin’ him.”

“He said that?” Connor asked, voice calm but cutting.

“Yup.” Jackson took a sip, gaze fixed somewhere near the sink.

Connor studied him for a beat. “Something to consider, Jackson — maybe Beau didn’t want to come because he didn’t want to disappoint you. Kids are smart. Maybe he felt like he had to pick a side. And since his mother has seemingly all of us on hers, he chose you.”

Jackson’s jaw twitched.

“That’s your job as a dad,” Connor continued. “To make clear this isn’t about sides. Bri is and will always be his mother. Just like you’ll always be Briony’s father.”

He let that land, then added, quieter: “Hey — I brought Savannah’s things. Since you haven’t been back with her either.”

Jackson’s fingers tightened around the mug. He traced the rim with his thumb, avoiding Connor’s eyes.

“Jackson,” Connor said softly, “look, I get it. It’s rough. But you have kids to think about. Briony is very salty about you ignoring her.”

Jackson’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Last time I saw her, she said things to me no daughter should ever say to a father.”

“Briony is a teenager,” Connor replied. “They act out when confronted with conflict. She’s convinced you don’t want her anymore — and your actions aren’t helping us dissuade her of that. You gotta show up for her, now more than ever, show her she is wrong and just face her abuse like a man, within reason, until she realizes you DO love her the same as Beau.”

Jackson’s jaw clenched. His eyes dropped back to the coffee, shoulders curling inward like he was bracing for a blow.

The cabin felt smaller than usual — dim morning light filtering through dusty blinds, the faint smell of old coffee and saddle soap clinging to the air. Jackson shifted his weight, leaning harder into the counter. Connor didn’t move.

“Jackson,” he said, voice steady, “just like all the other times you and Bri split, you’re still part of the Cameron family. For better or worse, debatable if that is a good thing or not, but it definitely is still a thing. We all love you, you do not have be married to any of us for that.”

Jackson didn’t look up.

Connor continued, voice low. “Yes, it’s awkward being in the same room with your ex. Sure. But to be fair, she’s been your ex for years now. The only thing that really changed is that you don’t get to sleep with my little sister anymore. You should be able to handle that.”

That got Jackson’s eyes up — tired, bloodshot, defensive, but listening.

“I got no say in any of it,” he muttered. “She decided and left me to deal with it.”

Connor arched a brow. “Like you did to her before? You two have been doing that to each other for over two decades now. Back and forth, she walks away from you, you walk away from her and round and round. Toxic, but there was no stopping either of you. May I remind you of the foreclosure drama?”

Jackson’s gaze dropped instantly. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand — the gesture of a man who didn’t have the energy to argue because he knew he’d lose.

Connor softened his tone, but not his message. “Look, Jackson… you’re still welcome. Still invited. And yes, Keira and I are still butthurt about how you handled Savannah. But this was always the plan — that she’d go live with you eventually. You’re her father. No argument there.”

Jackson’s jaw twitched.

“But we raised her for you for years,” Connor went on. “We changed diapers. Potty‑trained her. Kissed her booboos. We showed up. We deserve more than being dismissed like some fling you sobered up from, once the beer goggles fell off. If not for us, then at least for her.”

Jackson closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then opened them again with a slow nod. “I am sorry. I know that wasn’t right, but I just… well. It ain’t a good place to be for any of us.”

“No, we get it,” Connor said. “As long as you correct the course now, we’ll forget about it. Bring Beau and Savannah over and stay a while. As long as you don’t start picking fights with Brad if he’s there too, everything is fine. We’d love to see you again. And the kids. But also you. You are missed. And loved. You do not need to be blood-related for us to love you, kid.”

Jackson stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then, quietly: “She’s his, ain’t she?”

“Eden? Yes, she turned out to be Brad’s biological child.”

“Figured. I always felt it. Somethin’ was off.”

Connor nodded once. No judgment. No gloating. Just truth.

“Jackson… the visitation? I get that it’s rough, and a lot for you to deal with, but I am not leaving here without an answer. This is about my niece and nephew, which means, I get to meddle. And we are worried about you, too. You’re strong, smart, resilient, but last time you and Bri weren’t together, you really went off the deep end, so we are all very concerned about the possibility of that happening again.”

Jackson squirmed, took another sip of coffee, then finally nodded — small, reluctant, but real.

Before Connor could say more, the front door burst open.

“Connor!” Savannah squealed, barreling into the room with all the force a six‑year‑old could muster. She launched herself at him, arms tight around his waist.

Connor smiled, hugging her back. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Behind her, Beau hovered in the doorway — tall, lanky, sixteen, trying to look unaffected but failing. His eyes flicked to his father, then to Connor, then away again.

Connor released Savannah gently and stepped toward his nephew.

“Are you too old to give your uncle a hug?”

Beau hesitated — just a second — then shook his head. Connor pulled him in, clapping a hand on his back.

“Miss you, kiddo,” he murmured.

Beau swallowed hard. “Miss you too.”

Jackson cleared his throat. “We’re going to San Sequoia this weekend, Beau. Keep the weekend open.”

Beau’s head snapped up. “Really? We as in… all of us?”

Jackson glanced at Connor, who gave a faint, approving nod.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “All of us.”

Beau’s face lit up — bright, hopeful, the kind of expression he tried so hard to hide these days. But instead of the excited outburst he clearly wanted to give, he shoved his hands in his pockets and offered the most teenage response possible.

“Cool.”

Beau’s voice hung in the air, and for a moment the cabin felt lighter — like someone had finally cracked a window open.

Connor looked at Jackson, really looked at him. The man was trying so hard to stand tall, but the exhaustion, the guilt, the relief — it all sat heavy on his shoulders.

Connor took a slow step toward him.

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t ya dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” Connor said, voice low, almost threatening in its softness. “You know what this means. You’re getting a hug too, Jackson.”

Jackson groaned, half‑hearted. “Y’all are like a damn freight train with feelin’s.”

“Yup,” Connor said, and pulled him in before Jackson could dodge. “Keep talking and I’ll start smooching around on you too.”

It wasn’t long — just a solid, bracing, brother‑in‑law grip. Jackson’s hands hovered awkwardly for a second before he finally returned it, jaw tight, breath shaky.

“Thank you,” Jackson muttered, barely audible.

“Love you, kiddo,” Connor murmured back, giving one firm clap on his back before stepping away like nothing happened.

Jackson sniffed once, cleared his throat aggressively, and pointed at the door. “Alright. Enough of that. Get outta here before you start knittin’ us matching sweaters. I got plenty of work to be done. If ya don’t leave, I’ll put ya to work.”

Connor smirked. “No problem. I’ll help you. Just remember I know zilch about horses, less about ranching, so the orders better come with good instructions.”

“Hell, not in that damn white designer outfit, ya ain’t. I don’t want ya near mah horses like that. Attractin’ them skeeters is all ya’d do out there.”

“Daddy, I’m hungryyyyyyyyy,” Savannah piped up.

“Yeah, Dad, me too,” Beau added.

Jackson jerked his chin toward Connor. “Well, talk to him. Y’all wanted to help — can ya manage to feed mah kids?”

“On it, cowboy,” Connor said.

Savannah giggled. Beau tried not to smile. And for the first time in months, this felt like something that could be fixed.

Brindleton Bay
Old Downtown District – The Bay Café

Bri walked up to the small café with the great view and the artisan coffees and the pastries that always looked too pretty to eat. The Bay Café.

She paused at the door, exhaled once, then stepped inside. A few people glanced up from their laptops or conversations, but her eyes went straight to the back—where a pretty woman lifted a hand in a small, tentative wave.

Bri waved back and approached. Viola rose, and after a brief, awkward half‑second of hesitation, they hugged. It wasn’t stiff, but it wasn’t effortless either—two women who used to know each other well, relearning the shape of that familiarity.

“You came,” Viola said, clearly relieved.

“Said I would,” Bri retorted, pulling out a chair.

The moment Bri sat, a waitress appeared.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Bri murmured, scanning the menu before her gaze drifted to Viola’s mug—steaming, crowned with an unapologetic mountain of whipped cream.

“What is that?”

Viola smirked. “A caramel lavender mocha. Artisan. Seasonal. Probably five thousand calories. Worth every one.”

Bri laughed. “Sold. I’ll have the same.”

The waitress nodded and left them alone.

For a moment, they simply took each other in.

Bri—soft, wavy long blonde hair in warm honey‑gold tones, light green eyes, golden‑ivory skin that always looked sun‑kissed even in winter.

Viola—ashen blonde hair, cool‑toned and silky, blue eyes bright against fair skin with a summer undertone.

Two very different palettes. Two very different histories. Brad was the common denominator between both. And yet, here they were.

Conversation started slow—small talk, gentle, careful.

“How have you been?”

“Dazed and confused, mostly, so pretty much the usual. How are you? How’s Charlotte doing?”

Viola’s face softened at the mention of her daughter. “She’s good. Talking nonstop. Obsessed with blueberries. And she’s figured out how to unlock doors, so… pray for me. Twice now I locked Grant out because of the childproofing. Poor man can’t even come home after a long day’s work. You’ll see her soon, I think, Brad’s got her for a week. I would like to apologize in advance.”

They both laughed, and Bri answered the same questions about her own kids. Which led—naturally, inevitably—to Eden.

Bri talked about her daughter briefly, then hesitated only a moment before saying it. “Eden is… actually Brad’s. As it turns out. DNA test confirmed it. Talk about plot twists.”

Viola’s brows lifted. She set her mug down. “Plot twist indeed, but not really such a shocker. So the rumors are true? You and Brad…?”

Bri didn’t answer with words. She simply held out her hand.

The ring caught the café light.

Viola’s face bloomed into a delighted gasp. “Oh my God—Bri! Congratulations!” She reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you. But damn, Brad moves fast.”

Bri smiled, a little shy. “Thank you. And I kinda started this. I proposed to him first, ironically on the same evening he had planned to propose to me.”

Viola leaned back, exhaling. “You two. I know I should be sad or jealous or something, I really did love him, you know, for a while. But the more I realized how much he still loved you—and probably always would—the more mine faded. I fought jealousy and anger longer than I should have. Eventually something just… broke. Nobody’s fault. The heart wants what it wants. And while the divorce was happening—fast, smooth, uncontested—I met someone. A good man. And those feelings woke up again. Brad’s love felt great, but undivided love feels better. Hate to admit it, but starting to understand why his first wife acted the way she did.”

Bri nodded, then shared her own truth.

“I get that. Sometimes you just can’t see the truth, even though it is very obvious. I kept trying to make things work with Jackson. Chasing rainbows, building castles in the sky. And then one day it was like the rose‑colored glasses fell off me and shattered. Everything he did that he shouldn’t bothered me suddenly. Everything he didn’t do that he should have… I couldn’t ignore anymore. He just makes me angry each time I see him. And I realized I’d been trying to force something that wasn’t love anymore.”
She paused, breath catching.
“Maybe I grew up, or maybe Jackson and I just grew apart. And then I wondered how I ever let a man like Brad go. He’s the love of my life. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. He’s… medicine to my soul, while Jackson was always like a drug, you take it and get so high, you just don’t care about consequences. But they are there, piling up to bury you beneath and there is always a crash-landing waiting for you with him. Not his fault, he never pretended. I was just too obsessed to see what everyone kept telling me. Sorry. Sappy. And probably TMI.”

Viola shook her head with a soft smile. “Not at all. I felt the same way about Brad. And now I feel that way about Grant.”

A quiet moment passed.

Then Viola’s expression shifted—more serious, more vulnerable.

“Bri… can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“How mad is Brad at me? Just asking because the last few times I dropped off Charlotte it was the housekeeper taking her. No sight of Brad.”

Bri blinked, then shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think he’s mad at all. I think he realized the same things you did.”

Another pause. Viola took a sip of her drink, then looked up again.

“Are we good?”

“We?” Bri echoed. “You and I, you mean? Yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Viola’s voice softened. “I don’t know. You always seemed so protective of Brad. And I figured… if someone hurts him, you just hate them. I know I hurt him. Even though I never meant to.”

Bri reached across the table, palm up. “We’re good, Vi. Really. I get it. I know exactly how that feels—especially in hindsight. I hurt him too. More than once. But the only way forward is… well, forward. Brad isn’t one to hold grudges.”

Viola let out a breath she’d clearly been holding.

And just like that, the air between them warmed—two women who had once shared a friendship through the same man, now choosing to share something gentler: understanding.

Bri leaned in a little, her voice softening. “Tell me about the new man at your side. Name, photo, what’s he like?”

A slow smile spread across Viola’s face, the kind that started in her eyes before it reached her mouth. “His name is Grant Whitaker, and he is very handsome.” She pulled out her phone, tapped a few times, then handed it to Bri. On the screen, Bri saw Viola holding little Charlotte while a handsome, middle‑aged man wrapped his arms around them both, all three smiling into the camera like a small, effortless family idyll.

“He’s… good. Really good. No, he’s great,” Viola said. “Really amazing. He’s forty‑three, an architect, divorced for years now — cleanly, no drama. He’s got a twelve‑year‑old son, Miles, who thinks Charlotte is hilarious. And Grant… he’s the kind of man who remembers exactly how I take my coffee without asking. The kind who listens. Who doesn’t get scared when I’m overwhelmed or when Charlotte decides she’s a tiny dictator.”

A small laugh escaped her. “He’s a father figure to her without trying to take Brad’s place. He’s steady. Warm. He makes me laugh. And he only has eyes for me. I’m not sharing my space in his heart with an ex. No offense, but it doesn’t feel good.”

Bri’s expression softened. “Vi… that sounds wonderful. I’m really happy for you.”

Viola looked down at her mug, tracing a finger along the rim. For a moment she was quiet—thinking, feeling, sorting through something tender.

Then she looked up again, eyes bright but steady.

“I really love him,” she said. “I do. And because of that—because I finally know what it feels like to be loved the right way—I can say this and actually mean it.” She paused, then smiled at Bri, small but sincere. “I’m very happy for you and Brad as well.”

Bri’s breath caught, just a little. “Thank you,” she whispered.

And in that moment, the last of the old tension dissolved—two women who had once stood on opposite sides of the same heartbreak now meeting each other in the middle, both finally whole.

They lifted their artisan coffees in a tiny toast, giggling like they were in on some private joke, when suddenly someone stepped up to the table.

“Molly!” Bri blurted, startled.

“She goes by Margaret now,” Viola murmured, correcting gently.

Bri waved a hand. “Please. I grew up with her. She’s Molly to me.”

Molly—Margaret—rolled her eyes with theatrical exhaustion. “My name change is mostly to signal a new chapter in my life. My family and friends still call me Molly. Call me whatever you want, ladies. But what is happening here? Former Mrs. Cunningham convention? Where’s my invite? Are we plotting against Brad?”

“On the contrary,” Viola said, leaning back with a smirk. “We were talking about how sometimes you think you’re in love with someone… until you meet the one you’re actually meant for. Then suddenly everything becomes bright and clear.”

Molly snorted. “Well, yeah, I’d agree with that. All through high school I was obsessed with Brad. But he saw no other girls—just Bri.” She pointed at her. “When I finally got my chance, I was in seventh heaven. Then came the rough landing when I realized I would never be his one and only. I kept thinking he’d see it eventually, change his mind. But the fact that wife number three divorced him now tells me this leopard cannot change his spots.”

“No, he sure can’t,” Viola said, giggling into her cup. “But wife number two is going back in to be wife number four.”

Molly’s head snapped toward Bri so fast her curls whipped. She dropped into the empty chair like her knees gave out. “No, you’re not!”

Bri only smiled and held up her left hand, ring catching the café lights.

“Oh, I need a drink now,” Molly groaned. “I’ll have what they’re having! Hope there’s booze in it,” she called to the waitress passing by.

“There isn’t, but I like the way you think.” giggled Bri.

The three of them dissolved into laughter, trading updates and old stories, the kind that only women with shared history can tell. The air around them warmed, softened, loosened.

Brindleton Bay
Rosebriar Haven

Bri pushed open the front door of Rosebriar Haven, the familiar scent of cedar and the way expensive hotels often smelled greeting her like a soft embrace. Brad stood by the window with Eden on his hip, sunlight catching in his curly hair. He turned at the sound of her steps.

“That looked like Molly’s car dropping you off. I think I need glasses. Or get tested for hallucinations,” he said, brow lifting.

“Nope, your eyesight and mind are both fine. It was Molly dropping me off,” Bri replied, leaning in to kiss him, then Eden.

Brad’s eyes narrowed in mock concern. “Should I be worried?”

“Not at all.” Bri laughed, snuggling Eden in her father’s arms. “I met Viola for coffee, and we ran into Molly there. It was very civil. You’re… hard to get over, which I can confirm personally, but both ladies managed. No grudges left. The three of us are friends.”

“Molly quit hating me?” Brad asked, incredulous. “That’s a stretch. And I am not really sure how to feel about my future wife being besties with my two exes.”

“Believe it.” Bri brushed her thumb along Eden’s curls. “And right now I am still one of your exes too. Sometimes you get so hooked on a person it takes ages to realize you can’t — and shouldn’t — be with them. And while you’re busy chasing the wrong thing, you don’t even see the one you were made for.” She tipped her head up, meeting his eyes. “Speaking from experience.”

Brad’s expression softened, all teasing gone. He leaned in to kiss her, but Eden chose that moment to plant a series of enthusiastic pecks on both their faces, making them break into laughter.

Brad wrapped an arm around them both, pulling them close. “Well,” he murmured, “I’m glad everyone’s finally happy.”

“Me too,” Bri whispered, resting her forehead against his. “Feels like the past finally letting all of us go.”

Brad brushed a kiss against her temple, his voice low and certain.

“Good. Let it go. We’ve carried enough old ghosts. I just want us — this home, these kids, this life we’re building — to be the part that lasts. For good this time.”