Legacy & Cameron – Ranch Rehab

Lauren’s SUV pulled out of Del Sol Valley in the afternoon, leaving behind the glittering skyline, the palm‑lined boulevards, and the dense hum of city life. For a long while, the road wound through the outer districts — quieter residential edges, industrial strips, the last pockets of urban sprawl.

Then the landscape began to open.

The city faded into wide stretches of dry plains, sun‑bleached grass, and long, empty roads that cut straight through the western territories. The sky grew bigger. The air grew hotter. The world grew quieter.

Channing drove.

Lauren sat in the backseat beside Blaine, her thigh pressed lightly against his locked‑straight leg. Blaine’s wrist was braced, his crutch wedged between the seats, his duffel bag at his feet. He stared out the window with the hollow look of someone being driven toward a reckoning he wasn’t ready for.

He hadn’t spoken since the last time he’d whispered to Lauren, voice breaking.

Lauren kept one hand on his arm, thumb brushing gently back and forth. She’d cried earlier — Channing could tell from the tightness around her eyes — but now she held herself together with the kind of quiet determination she only had when she was protecting her family.

Channing glanced at Blaine in the rearview mirror. “You good back there, dumbass.”

Blaine didn’t answer, but his jaw twitched — the closest thing to a response he could manage.

Channing snorted softly. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Lauren shot him a look — half warning, half gratitude. Channing was the only one who could talk to Blaine like that without breaking him further.

He’d insisted on coming. He’d insisted on driving.

Because that’s what best friends do — especially when the other one is falling apart. Not to mention him worrying about Lauren. She’d be sobbing all the way home, Channing just knew it, and he didn’t think it was safe to let her drive like that. And none of them wanted to be brought there by their driver.

Hours passed.

The plains shifted into scrubland — scattered brush, distant mesas, the occasional ranch truck kicking up dust on a side road. Signs for Chestnut Ridge appeared, weathered and sun‑faded, as larger mountain ridges began to line the horizon. The region — and later the city — had earned its name from those ridges and from the predominantly chestnut‑colored wild horses that once roamed the land in vast numbers. Horses were still the main feature here; the largest concentration of horse ranches in the country sat in this region. One of the biggest eventing centers was here, and alongside horse trade, tourism was a major source of income for folks.

By the time they turned off the main road, concrete gave way to dirt, leading into the main town of Chestnut Ridge. The sun was lowering behind the hills, casting long shadows across the pastures.

They kept to the outskirts, following a long, winding road past rock formations and over a large river, past vast farmland and other ranches. Horses dotted the horizon on both sides, and riders came and went along the roads near and far. Cars were replaced by beat‑up trucks. Del Sol Valley was all about being seen and showing off what you had. Here, everything had a purpose — if it didn’t work, it wasn’t there.

The Kershaw ranch sat at the top of a ridge, overlooking the prairie on one side and a waterfall on the other, encircled by fenced pastures on two sides — with a wide porch, weathered wood, a barn to the right, and an old bunkhouse to the left. Horses grazed lazily in the fading light.

Channing slowed the SUV and parked. The cloud of dust that had been trailing them caught up and settled.

The engine ticked softly.

Blaine swallowed hard. “Laur… I don’t— I don’t think I can do this.”

Lauren cupped his cheek, kissed his forehead. “You can. And you will. You have to. For yourself and for us.”

Channing got out first, opened Blaine’s door, and crouched down. “Alright, superstar,” he muttered, slipping an arm under Blaine’s to help him out. “Let’s get your broken ass upright.”

“I think my ass is about the only thing about me that is not broken,” Blaine retorted, sliding out, holding on to his friend.

Channing grinned “Sure it is. Huge crack in it all the way down the middle.”

Blaine let out a shaky laugh — enough that Channing’s mouth twitched in relief.

Channing hugged him tight once he was standing, careful of the leg. “You got this,” he murmured into Blaine’s shoulder. “You hear me? You got this. And if you don’t, I’ll come drag your sorry ass back myself.”

He stepped aside so Lauren could take over, but stayed close — one hand hovering near Blaine’s back, ready if he wobbled.

Jackson Kershaw stepped down off the porch, boots crunching on gravel. He didn’t smile, but his eyes weren’t unkind.

Inside, though? He was cursing Bri for getting him into this mess — and cursing fate for making him stand face‑to‑face with Dr. Bradford Cunningham’s daughter.

Lauren looked so much like Brad it hit him like a slap. Same eyes. Same jaw. Same quiet steel.

Jackson felt his shoulders bristle before he could stop himself. Many decades of bad blood didn’t vanish just because the man’s daughter needed help.

But he tipped his hat anyway.

“Ma’am,” he said to Lauren, voice polite but tight around the edges. Then his gaze shifted to the two men. “Gents.”

Channing straightened, offering his hand. “Channing Cameron. I’m Blaine’s best friend — and designated dumbass wrangler.”

Jackson huffed a quiet laugh and shook his hand. “Jackson Kershaw. Pleasure.”

Channing nodded toward Blaine. “He’s… not at his best today.”

Jackson’s eyes flicked to Blaine, assessing him in one long, quiet glance. “Good t’ finally meet the fella been givin’ folks hell.”

Blaine flushed, embarrassed, looking away.

Lauren tightened her grip on him. “He’s upset,” she said softly.

Jackson nodded once. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Amy came out behind him, wiping her hands on her apron. She approached Blaine gently, touching his arm. “Hi sweetheart. It’s not as bad as it looks — you’ll see. You’ll be just fine here. We’ll take good care of ya.”

She turned to Channing next, offering a warm smile. “And you must be the friend. Thank you for bringin’ him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Channing said, suddenly polite in a way only ranch women could pull out of him. “Glad to help.”

Lauren swallowed hard. “He needs structure. He needs quiet. He needs someone who isn’t afraid to hurt his feelings if the occasion calls for it.”

Jackson’s mouth twitched. “Well, ya came t’ the right place. We’re the no‑nonsense types ’round here.”

Channing stepped back then — not leaving, just giving Lauren and Blaine space. He folded his arms, jaw tight, watching his best friend fall apart.

Lauren turned to Blaine.
This was the moment.
She held his face in both hands, tears already forming.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I’m proud of you for coming.”

His breath hitched. “Laur… don’t leave me here. Please. I’ll be good, I’ll do better. Please…”

She slid her arms around him, holding him tight as he began to shake.
Channing looked away, jaw clenched, swallowing hard — because seeing Blaine like this hurt him too.

“I have to,” Lauren whispered into Blaine’s shoulder. “This is how you come home to us.”

He broke.

He clung to her, sobbing into her neck, shaking so hard Jackson looked away out of respect. Lauren cried with him, but her voice stayed steady — the kind of steadiness that comes from absolute resolve.

“You can do this,” she whispered. “You will do this. And when you’re ready… I’ll be waiting.”

She pulled back, wiped his cheeks, kissed his forehead again.

She turned.

Blaine reached for her — instinct — but Jackson’s grip was firm.

“Easy,” Jackson murmured. “She ain’t leavin’ ya forever. Jus’ long ’nough t’ get yer head straight. But ya gotta let ’er go now, ya hear?”

Lauren stepped back, covering her mouth with her hand, tears streaming.

Amy nodded softly. “Go home, honey. Rest. Take care of your babies.”

Channing opened her door for her, squeezed her hand, and whispered something only she heard — something that steadied her enough to climb in.

Blaine watched her go, shaking, whispering her name.

She looked back once — just once — and mouthed:

“Come home to me.”

Then they drove away, the SUV disappearing down the long gravel road toward Del Sol Valley.

Jackson waited until the vehicle was gone.

Only then did he speak.

“A’right,” he said, turning to Blaine. “Lemme get ya settled. We was fixin’ t’ put ya in the bunkhouse, but fer now, we’ll stick ya in the spare room.”

Blaine wiped his face, took a shaky breath, and limped inside.

The door shut behind him.

Chestnut Ridge had him now.

Week One

Getting Settled

Chestnut Ridge didn’t ease him in.

It hit him like a wall. That first night was horror. He didn’t stay up long, just long enough to meet all the kids, including Beau, who had his own home but worked his father’s ranch daily. He met the oldest daughter, Savannah, who was around Charlotte’s age by Blaine’s guess; there was a younger teen, Lainey, and twin school‑aged kids, Daisy and Bonnie. And another guy, Jackson’s younger brother Cody, who looked young enough to be another one of Jackson’s kids. Blaine could relate to huge age gaps between siblings, but unlike him and his much older siblings — the few who were even still alive — these brothers were clearly close.

Blaine turned in soon after, though sleep didn’t come easy. The scents, sounds, and feeling of everything were off. Jackson kept his meds; clearly he didn’t trust Blaine not to overdose on pain control. Blaine already felt out of control, like another one of Jackson and Amy’s kids.

The next morning, Jackson didn’t knock. He didn’t ask. He didn’t wait.

He opened the door to the spare bedroom and barked, “Up.”

Blaine jolted awake, heart pounding. “What the—”

“Up,” Jackson repeated, slower this time, drawl thick as molasses. “Wash up. Breakfast in ten.”

Blaine blinked at him, disoriented. “It’s barely sunrise.”

“Mm‑hmm.”

“I’m injured.”

“Mm‑hmm.”

“I’m detoxing.”

“Mm‑hmm.”

Jackson didn’t move.

Blaine threw the blanket off with a groan. “Jesus Christ, you’re worse than Ludmila. Didn’t think that was possible, but here you are.”

He tried to get up, but without the assistance he had at home — Lauren or Harrington — he felt like a turtle on his back.

“I can’t,” he finally resolved, flopping on his back with a sigh.

“Put some effort into it,” Jackson drawled.

“I did!” Blaine snarled. “You gonna help me up or what?!”

Jackson didn’t react at first. “Roll on yer side and then get leverage,” he said, drawl stretching the words while stepping closer.

Blaine made a lame attempt, then just lay there on his side. “I can’t! It hurts and I can’t get the legs out from under me. I need something or someone to hold on to, to pull me up.”

“Like hell ya do!” Jackson grumbled, planting his foot square in Blaine’s rear and pushing him nearly off the edge. Blaine flailed and caught himself, legs hitting the floorboards, sitting up to keep from falling off, glaring at Jackson.

“See how that works? Got eight minutes left or ya’ll go hungry till supper!” Jackson drawled.

He left.

Blaine muttered curses under his breath the entire time he pulled on his sweats, almost stumbling and falling over, then limped to the bathroom to do his morning business, washed up — slow, stiff, miserable — then limped into the kitchen, braced wrist pressed against the tabletop as he lowered himself into a chair.

Jackson looked at his wristwatch, but a look from his wife halted whatever he was likely going to say. “Good morning, Blaine. The kids already had their breakfast and are off to school or chores.”

Amy slid a plate in front of him. Eggs. Toast. Bacon. Coffee.

He stared at it like it was poison. This was not what he was used to. The bread looked oddly shaped, likely home‑baked; the eggs were much more orange than he knew them; the bacon looked strange. The coffee was strong and felt like you had to chew it.

Amy smiled gently. “Eat.”

He grumbled, but he ate a few bites, the only thing he really liked was the bacon, so he ate all of it, then pushed back his plate, reached for the creamer, and dumped enough into the dark brew that it resembled a dark caramel shade. He coughed on his first sip.

“I think your milk is off! Tastes weird. Smells worse,” he grumbled in a rough voice.

“Goat milk, from Miller’s farm down the road. Trade it for eggs from our chickens. Tastes different than cow’s milk, but you get used to it.”

“We do almond milk at home.”

“You rich folk with yer foolish ideas always. We ain’t got none of that here. No teats on them almonds to milk ’em.” Jackson smirked, downing his coffee. “So yer ain’t gon eat?”

Blaine shook his head. “Not hungry.”

“Ah, ya will be. Just wait.”

After breakfast, Jackson laid out the day like a military schedule:

“Help Amy in the kitchen. Wipe counters. Dry dishes. Do whatever she asks ya to do. No liftin’. No bendin’. No complainin’.”

Blaine scoffed. “I’m not a fucking busboy.”

Jackson didn’t blink. “Ya are what I say ya is. And today, yer helpin’ my wife in the kitchen.”

Blaine’s jaw tightened. “Dream on, bro. I’m not doing chores. I am here to get better, not as free labor.”

“Same thing. If yer busy enough to tire yerself out, ya won’t get silly ideas bored rich folk get. Ain’t nobody ’round here doin’ them fancy drugs you was on, can’t afford ’em and ain’t got no time be be strung out and useless. Ya don’t work, ya don’t eat in this neck o’the woods.”

“I’m not— you know what? Fuck this shit.” He grabbed his phone and started typing.

Jackson reached out and plucked Blaine’s phone from his hands, slipping it into his back pocket.

Blaine froze. “HEY! What the …. Give that back.”

“Nope.”

“Jackson— give me back my property!”

“Nope. Yer property is on my property, so it’s now also my property. How ya like them apples, rich boy? I get ya to listen one way or ’nother, and ya ain’t got yer mind filled with crazy distractions on yer phone.”

Blaine stood — or tried to. His leg buckled, but adrenaline shoved him upright anyway.

“Give me back my fucking phone!”

Jackson didn’t raise his voice. “Ya won’t be needin’ it. Get workin’.” He stepped toward the front door, slipped on his boots, and put on his hat.

Blaine’s breath went sharp and fast. “I swear to God—”

Jackson shook his head, completely unbothered. “Ya can flip all ya want and swear to God if ya like, but he ain’t gon’ help ya. Ain’t gonna change a damn thing.”

Blaine lunged forward. It was pathetic — a half‑step, a stumble, a desperate grab — but he tried.

Jackson didn’t do much. He just put one hand on Blaine’s shoulder and shoved.

Not hard.

Not violent.

Just enough.

Blaine stumbled backward, lost his balance, and landed on the couch with a graceless thud.

He stared up at Jackson, humiliated, furious, shaking.

Jackson looked down at him, calm as ever. “Ya done?”

Blaine’s voice cracked. “Give me my phone.”

“Nope.”

“You can’t do that!”

Jackson’s drawl deepened. “Boy… I jus’ did.”

Blaine’s eyes burned. “Lauren will worry, I told her I would call her so she knows I am okay!”

Jackson cut him off with a slow, heavy exhale. “Lauren’s the one who sent ya here. She knows ’zactly what I’m doin’. My wife and I tell her how yer doin’. Not you.”

That shut Blaine up.

Jackson patted the phone in his back pocket. “Ya get it back when ya earn it.”

Blaine swallowed hard, chest tight. “Earn it how?”

“Ya’ll figure that out too.”

Blaine’s throat worked. “I hate this.”

Jackson nodded once. “Ya ain’t meant to be lovin’ it, son. Yer supposed to get yer head on straight — and that ya will, I promise ya. No way ’round here.”

Amy peeked over from the kitchen, holding up a dish towel. “Sweetheart, I need you to dry dishes.”

Blaine glared at Jackson.

Jackson pointed toward the kitchen. “Did ya not hear my wife?”

Blaine didn’t move.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Ya want me to git ya up again?”

“Fuck off, cowboy!” Blaine flipped him off.

Jackson stepped over, grabbed Blaine by the shirt, and hoisted him up like a doll, walked him over to the kitchen, grabbed the towel from Amy, and slammed it into Blaine’s chest. Blaine caught it by reflex.

“I will let this slide, but next time my wife asks ya somethin’, ya do it — right away — and the only thing outta ya better be a ‘yes ma’am.’ Or ya’ll learn what happens if ya piss me off. I ain’t none of yer fancy rich friends. I don’t give a shit who ya related to or how important ya think ya is. We mean business here, and I ain’t got no dog in the fight with ya. Mess with me, and ya better be ready for the echo — ’cos ya will get it, sure as the amen in church.”

Blaine instinctively felt it wasn’t advisable to defy him, so he dried dishes.

Badly. Slowly. Angrily. Glaring at Jackson several times.

But he did it.

And Jackson watched from the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable — except for the faintest hint of approval.

Tacky

A day later, Jackson sat on a stool in the barn aisle, oiling a saddle. Blaine limped past, muttering curses under his breath.

Jackson didn’t look up. “Grab that rag, ya gonna help.”

Blaine stopped dead. “I’m not oiling fucking saddles. That shit already smells nasty.”

Jackson’s drawl dragged. “Ya ain’t oilin’. Yer just handin’ me the rag.”

“Same shit. Those things are so filthy they stand on their own.”

“Git.” Jackson sat up to full height, warning.

Blaine snatched the rag and tossed it at Jackson’s boots. “Here. Happy?”

Jackson didn’t even blink. He picked it up, wiped the saddle, then held out his hand.

“Hand me that can over yonder.”

Blaine’s jaw clenched. “That shit is rank and nasty. I am not touching that. Get it yourself.”

Jackson finally looked up — slow, unimpressed. “Son… I ain’t askin’.”

Blaine’s breath shook. “Fuck you. I am not your son!”

Jackson stood, slow as sunrise. “Damn straight ya ain’t, no son o’mine would behave anythin’ like you are! Ya keep talkin’ like that, I’ll put ya on yer ass.”

Blaine cursed colorfully and tried to shove him.

Jackson didn’t move. Not an inch.

“Can,” Jackson repeated through gritted teeth.

Blaine handed it over, slapping it onto the workbench in front of Jackson, shaking with anger.

Haltered

Another day, another task.

Jackson tossed a halter at Blaine. “Put this on the rail.”

Blaine caught it awkwardly. “What the hell is this?”

He tried to unravel it, unsure which way was up.

“A halter.”

“It looks like a BDSM harness.”

Jackson’s drawl thickened. “Son… ya say one more dumbass thing ’bout tack, I’m gonna make ya clean all of it.”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Humor, also forbidden around here. Got it. I don’t know where it goes.”

“On the rail.”

“There’s like ten rails.”

Jackson pointed. “That one. That’s a big one, so it’s a stallion’s. They go there. Then mares, young’uns, and foals’ leads on the bottom, ’cos the girls sometimes like to help with ’em and need to reach ’em.”

Blaine walked over and hung it wrong — twisted, upside down, strap dangling.

Jackson stared at it. “Fix it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Nope.”

“It’s a fucking halter, Jackson.”

Jackson stepped behind him. “Look at all them others and then look at that mess ya produced. Does that nonsense look right to ya? It don’t to nobody else. Fix. It.”

Blaine turned and tried to shove him. “How about you just get off my ass for a minute!?”

Jackson caught Blaine’s wrist mid‑air. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t hurt him — just held him still.

“Fix the damn halter, bud.”

Blaine yanked his wrist back and fixed it — barely. Crooked, sloppy, still wrong.

Jackson didn’t even blink. “Do it again.”

Blaine’s jaw dropped. “It’s the same as the others!”

Jackson pointed. “Look at ’em. Then look at yers. Try again.”

Blaine groaned loudly, exaggerated, dramatic. “This is stupid.”

“Mm‑hmm. Fix it.”

He fixed it again — closer this time, but still not perfect.

Jackson folded his arms. “Again.”

Blaine spun around. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

Jackson didn’t deny it. “Yer learnin’. Keep goin’.”

Blaine muttered every curse he knew under his breath and fixed it a third time.

Jackson leaned in, inspecting it like a jeweler checking diamonds. “Almost.”

Blaine nearly screamed. “It’s identical!”

“Nope.”

“Jackson—”

“Fix. It.”

Blaine ripped it off the rail, fixed it with jerky, furious movements, and slapped it back into place.

Jackson finally nodded. “There ya go.”

Blaine glared at him, chest heaving. “You’re such a ….”

Jackson shrugged. “Back at ya.”

Fe(e)d Up

That afternoon, Amy asked him to grab a scoop of mare feed.

Blaine limped into the feed room, grabbed the wrong bin, and brought back the wrong feed.

Amy said gently, “Sweetheart, that’s the senior mix.”

Blaine snapped. “Does it matter? Grain is grain.”

“It does matter. The nutrients are very different.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that?!”

Jackson appeared in the doorway like a storm cloud. “By readin’ them labels and by listenin’.”

“I did listen! And nobody can decipher that chicken scratch on those bins! I thought your daughters doodled on that or whatever.”

“Nope. That one there clearly says Senior, that one says Nursing. So either ya can’t read or yer a damn idiot too. Ya can’t walk, can’t sit, can’t sleep, can’t eat normal food, can’t drink goat’s milk, can’t touch dirty things, can’t wash or dry dishes right, can’t properly clean counters or tables, and now ya can’t read neither? What CAN ya do is what I’m wonderin’ — other than eat pills like they’re candy! Goddamn boy, I don’t think it’s them drugs neither. Yer just stupid as the day is long. Either that, or yer lazy. Which one is it, kid?”

“Fuck you — you’re all insane.”

Jackson’s drawl dropped low. “Ya ain’t gonna talk to Amy like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Ya were.”

“I’m tired. I am gonna lay down for a—”

“Nope.”

“I’m in pain.”

“Yep.”

“I’m detoxing.”

“Mm‑hmm.”

“What do you want from me? You knew I was still healing! I’m trying here!”

Jackson nodded once. “Good. Try again. Right bin this time. C’mon now, man — ya ain’t too sick to run yer mouth and spew profanities around a lady. I’m sure ya can work up the strength to waddle yer lazy ass on over yonder and get her what she asked ya for in the first place.”

Blaine stomped — or tried to — back into the feed room, muttering curses the whole way. He grabbed the correct bin this time, but scooped it wrong, spilling half of it on the floor.

Jackson watched him like a hawk. “Do it right. Quit wastin’ my feed. Costs money and draws vermin!”

“It’s feed! It’s literally feed!”

“Mm‑hmm. All my girls helped with that since they were toddlers, and yet, yer a grown man – supposedly and ya still managed t’ screw it up.”

Blaine scooped again — and got the shakes so bad it spilled out most of it back into the bin.

Jackson sighed. “Boy… ya makin’ this harder’n ropin’ smoke. Lord above, if incapable sprouted legs and wandered the earth, it’d answer to Blaine Cameron.”

Blaine’s voice cracked with frustration. “I hate this place. And I hate YOU!”

Jackson shrugged. “Yup, place and I ain’t so fond of ya right now neither. C’mon get crackin’ or them horses died of starvation before ya get yer ass in gear.”

Blaine finally brought the right scoop, breathing hard, face flushed with anger and humiliation.

Jackson didn’t praise him. Didn’t smile. Didn’t soften.

He just nodded once. “There ya go.”

Week Two

Chickensh*t

Early one morning about a week later, right after breakfast, Blaine followed Amy across the yard, limping a little harder than usual. The morning sun was barely out, but already too bright, too hot, and too judgmental. Everything on this ranch seemed designed to expose his weaknesses. He was sweatin’ and it has barely been twenty minutes since his shower.

Amy stopped beside a small wooden coop, hands on her hips. “Alright. Today you’re helpin’ with the girls.”

“The girls?” Blaine echoed, wary. “I thought they just all left for school.”

She pointed at the coop.

A dozen chickens stared back at him like a jury.

“Oh hell no,” Blaine muttered. “They look… feral.”

“They’re chickens,” Amy said, amused. “They’re sweet. Mostly. Just reach in and grab the eggs.”

He peered inside. “They’re sitting on them.”

“That’s how eggs work.”

“I thought they… laid them and left.”

Amy snorted. “City boy. I used to be just like you. Poor Blaine. But go on. You will survive; I know that because I have been where you are. Still alive, you see.”

Blaine took a breath, braced himself, and reached under the nearest hen. The chicken made a low, disgruntled noise — somewhere between a growl and a warning.

He froze. “She’s vibrating.”

“She’s talkin’ to you.”

“That’s not talking. That’s threatening. She’s planning to bust my kneecaps.”

“Blaine,” Amy said gently, “just lift her a little. It’s a chicken, not a pitbull. Look, like so.”

She reached under another hen, pulled out the egg, put it in her basket, another hen, and in the basket. Then she looked at him.

He swallowed, slid his hand under the hen, and felt something smooth and warm. He pulled out an egg — and immediately recoiled.

“Oh my GOD — is that POOP?! Eew! She fucking shit on her own kid? Nasty animal!”

Amy burst out laughing. “It’s a ranch, Blaine. Everything’s got a little somethin’ on it. Just wipe it off and don’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to.”

He held the egg away from his body like it was radioactive. “Why is it wet?!”

“Because it came out of a chicken.”

“That doesn’t help, Amy!”

He tried to step back, but his bad leg didn’t cooperate. His crutch slipped in the dirt. At the same moment, the rooster — a big, arrogant bastard with a red comb and too much confidence — strutted out from behind the coop and let out a sharp, explosive crow.

Blaine flinched so hard he lost his balance.

He didn’t fall gracefully.

It was more of a slow, tragic collapse — one leg giving out, the crutch skidding, the egg still held aloft like he was protecting a priceless artifact. He landed on his ass in the dust, staring up at the rooster like it had personally assaulted him.

Amy tried — she really tried — not to laugh. But she failed spectacularly.

“Oh bless your heart,” she wheezed, wiping tears as she plucked the egg from his hand, then helped him up. “He ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“What the fuck is wrong with that thing,” Blaine said, pointing accusingly. “Why does he just randomly scream at people?! Does he have Tourette’s? You seriously expect me to just… coexist with that?”

The rooster puffed up, strutted a circle, and crowed again — louder.

Blaine swung his crutch at the rooster, who flapped away, startled. “Yeah, that’s right. Keep going and you’ll be in the pot for dinner!”

“Oh my God, you sound so much like me when we first decided to buy chickens when the egg prices soared. Wasn’t funny then, but sure is now.” Amy laughed — bright, genuine, delighted — and Blaine felt something in his chest loosen, just a little.

“So, how often do you have to battle these feathery demons?”

“Every day. Twice. Morning and evening. Feed them, let them out, call them in. If you leave them out, you will draw predators. Chickens don’t live long if you don’t lock them up at night. Not around here. Evidently not in other parts of the world — whenever you meet Jack, you are bound to hear all about his passionate hatred for foxes, because they raided his chicken coop more than once, in Henfordshire and here.”

“Is Jack someone different than Jackson or just a nick?”

Amy giggled while quickly collecting the rest of the eggs, then spreading out feed and checking the water. “Jack is my father‑in‑law, Jackson’s dad. He’s a character. Walking encyclopedia on anything related to horses, ranching, and farming, but he has a very colorful way to tell stories. Just picture a grumpy cowboy in your mind who resembles an older version of Jackson, and you have Jack.”

“So Jackson is literally ‘Jack’s son’? Wow, you guys sure let your imagination run wild when naming kids, huh?”

“Trust me, that naming idea goes a lot deeper than you think, but that is a long story for a different day — and one either Jack or Jackson should tell.”

Amy carried the basket of eggs against her hip, still giggling every few steps. Blaine limped beside her, dust smeared across his back and one side of his shirt, looking like he’d lost a fight with gravity and poultry simultaneously.

They headed toward the house, passing the hitching rail where Jackson and Beau were tightening cinches and checking tack.

Beau glanced up first.

“Howdy, y’all.” His eyes dropped to the dirt on Blaine’s clothes — the entire right side of him looked like he’d been rolled in flour and misery. Beau snorted, trying and failing to hide it. “Well damn, Blaine, been checking if gravity still works again?”

Blaine didn’t dignify that with a response. He just kept walking.

Jackson leaned an elbow on the saddle horn, watching them approach with that slow, assessing look he reserved for Blaine’s daily failures. “How’d it go with them chickens?”

Amy immediately looked away, shoulders shaking, lips pressed tight to keep from laughing.

Blaine shot her a betrayed side‑eye. Then he looked Jackson dead in the face.

“Went super,” he said flatly. “Your ‘girls’ shit on their own kids then sit on the mess, and your rooster has Tourette’s.”

Beau barked a laugh and folded over, snorting and wheezing. Jackson’s mouth twitched — trying his best not to reward Blaine with laughter, but Amy could tell he was fighting for composure.

Amy waved at them both, still giggling as she ushered Blaine toward the porch. “We’ll be inside. I gotta show him how to clean these before he traumatizes himself more.”

Blaine muttered, “I’m beyond traumatized,” as he limped up the steps.

Amy followed, basket in hand, laughter trailing behind her like sunlight.

Behind them, Beau shook his head. “Oh good Lord, Dad… how did Momma ever talk ya into this nonsense?”

Jackson adjusted his hat, watching Blaine disappear inside. “Ask Amy. She talked her into it, not me. I’m just the one stuck trainin’ that monkey.”

Beau grinned. “He ain’t built for ranchin’, is he?”

Jackson exhaled through his nose. “Nope. I am tryin’ to figure out what that fool’s built for. So far, I ain’t found nothin’ useful. I think all he can do is play the guitar, howl to that on stage, and put babies in his wife. He better pray to God Armageddon never comes for him, or he’ll be screwed six ways to Sunday. Yer mother was a spoiled little socialite when she came to live here with me, but even Bri managed better than that idiot. Jesus H. Christ, I ain’t never seen a person more useless than that man.”

Cut Off

The next day Blaine limped up to the barn after helping Amy clean up from breakfast and found Beau and Cody just riding off, Jackson still bent unstacking large, heavy wooden crates.

He saw his phone in the horse‑rancher’s back pocket and was reminded of yet another clash the men had the day prior, when Blaine went into the cabin to use the bathroom but then decided to go into Jackson and Amy’s bedroom to find his phone. While digging through drawers he suddenly heard a sharp whistle, turned to the doorway — empty — then to the window, where Jackson was looking in on horseback.

“Ya best be ’bout ready to get yer hide back out here, bud!”

When Blaine limped back off the front porch, Jackson was already waiting to whack him in the head and shower him in what felt like hours of lecture, only half of which Blaine even understood through that angry drawl.

But the need to hear Lauren’s voice had grown unbearable. He wanted to hear that she still loved him, still wanted him, was waiting for him. In his still‑detoxing mind he ran horrible nightmares of her leaving him — even occasionally her with Channing. They matched perfectly, didn’t they? And hadn’t Channing once said he was looking for “a girl like Lauren”?

He had to hear everything was still alright.

Stealthily, he tried to snatch his phone from Jackson’s back pocket.

Jackson didn’t even turn around. He just reached back and had Blaine’s wrist in an iron grip. Still holding it, he rose to full height while slowly turning.

“Son… ya touch mah pocket again, I’m gonna put ya flat on yer back.”

Blaine’s voice cracked. “I need to call Lauren.”

“Nope.”

“You can’t keep me from her. I have to hear her voice, make sure she’s okay.”

Jackson leaned in — slow, dangerous. “Ya ain’t callin’ nobody ’til ya can stand up without shakin’. And ya sure as hell ain’t callin’ her while yer cryin’ and cussin’ and fallin’ apart. Amy and I talk to her. She is fine. Yer ass is still gettin’ off that poison pill ya took, so we speak to her t’ make sure ya ain’t OD’ing in front of my girls.”

He jerked his chin toward the crates. “Now make yerself useful. Go through them crates and start countin’.”

Blaine’s eyes burned. “Fuck you.”

Jackson nodded once. “Thanks for the suggestion, I will take that to heart later today when I am in bed with my wife, don’t ya worry about all that. That’s what happens when ya work hard and are a decent, standup guy, I ain’t got to worry about my wife wantin’ me ’cos I ain’t runnin’ off MY woman with some fancy city‑boy nonsense and gimmicks. We ain’t got no time for that crap ’round here. But we do have time for bein’ a couple, after work is done for the day and the kids are fed and in bed. That’s what adults do. Family first, work second and then ya got plenty of time for the fun part and it’s earned and deserved and nobody wastes no mind on drugs and all that BS. Now sit yer ass down.”

Blaine sat and started tossing items around the crates while counting, even though he had to start over several times — the detox had his mind racing too much to hold on to one single thought, let alone count. But he did get them counted and sorted back into their crates nicely.

Breathing

A few days later, Blaine’s leg seized mid‑task. It wasn’t a small twitch — it locked, hard, a bolt of pain shooting up his hip and spine. He grabbed the stall door, gasping, vision blurring at the edges.

Jackson was beside him instantly, like he’d been watching for it.

“Ya breathin’?”

“No— fuck— it hurts—”

“Yep. Means yer alive. Ya gotta do that breathin’ like Lauren said.”

“Jackson—”

“Sit. And breathe. Slow.”

“I can’t—”

Jackson put a hand on his shoulder and guided him down like he weighed nothing. Blaine didn’t even have the strength to resist; his leg buckled and he sank onto the overturned feed bucket Jackson nudged behind him.

“Drink water. Then breathe slower. It’ll help with that pantin’ reflex.”

Blaine’s eyes filled. His chest hitched. “I can’t do this.”

Jackson’s voice softened — barely, like a shift in wind. “Ya can. Yer just mad ’bout it.”

“Got that right. I need a beer. Can I get one?”

“Ya sure as hell can’t. Think I’m stupid or somethin’? Yer an addict. Like hell yer gon’ be drinkin’ booze ’round here.”

“I hate you. You don’t understand. I am in pain. Physical and… fuck it. You wouldn’t get it.”

Jackson nodded, slow. “Hate me all ya want, but I do get it. I know what I’m talkin’ ’bout here. I been in terrible pain more than once — the kind ya think is gon’ take ya straight to meet Jesus. I was mauled by a damn mountain lion and barely lived to tell the tale. Been thrown off horses, stomped on, kicked, bitten. I coulda died a million different ways.”

He crouched in front of Blaine, elbows on his knees.

“But I didn’t. And the thing that did me in the most wasn’t none of that. It was gettin’ myself off a serious booze addiction. I was worse off than you — and that’s with all them damn drugs and nonsense ya been doin’.”

“What?! You drink beer every damn day! I’ve seen you with whiskey. Don’t tell me you’re a recovering alcoholic, you redneck. You don’t even know what that means.”

“Nah, I am that. But ya’re the one who ain’t gettin’ it. Things go different ’round here. Almost every man — and a lotta the women — been in the booze slump at some point. We heal, we get help, we get over it, and we get back in that saddle.”

He tapped Blaine’s water bottle with two fingers.

“That’s why yer here. Bri knows that. Bri and Jasper were there when I needed their help. They were the ones gettin’ me off the addiction, with Connor and even a little bit of Brad. So they know. Ask ’em how bad I was.”

“I would, but some damn redneck confiscated my phone. So… Bri and Jasper? Not Jasper Hargrave.”

“The very same, yes sir.”

“That’s my neighbor. You know him? He knows you?!”

“That’s how that customarily works, yeah, if a man’s yer brother‑in‑law for a while. You numbnut — ya forgot I was married to Bri? Iris is her twin sister and Jas is her husband. Course I know ‘im. I know the whole bunch of them. Bri’s the reason yer even here. She’s the one who talked my wife into stickin’ me with ya. Damn Bri. That woman will never stop bein’ bad news for me, and she ain’t been my woman in forever!”

Blaine stared at him, exhausted, overwhelmed, hurting everywhere.

“Okay, fine. What do you want me to do?”

Jackson stood, arms folding across his chest, looking down at him without pity.

“I want ya to breathe the way yer doctor wife told ya to.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Didn’t offer a hand.

He just stood there, letting Blaine break — but not fall.

Week Three

Reality Check

At the end of week three of his stay here, Blaine was feeling stronger physically, could even manage shorter distances and move inside the house without his crutch, but the withdrawal still hit him in unpredictable waves — shakes, flashes of heat, sudden nausea, and the kind of irritability that made every sound feel like an insult. His anger sat just under his skin, ready to break through at the slightest touch. Brad had warned him about this part — something called PAWS, the post‑acute withdrawal symptom mess that hit long after the worst was over. “It’s the brain rebooting,” he’d said. “You’ll feel fine one minute and pissed off the next. It’s normal. Doesn’t mean you’re failing. Doesn’t mean you get to give up, but you need to power through it and try hard to keep yourself from snapping.”
Blaine had, for the most part. He had his headbutt moments with Jackson but had managed to keep himself together around the others.

Until one night.

Lainey had some typical teen girl moment, being snippy and annoying — and before one of her parents of older siblings could reprimand her, Blaine snapped. He yelled at her, sharp and loud, the kind of tone that made her flinch and shrink back in her chair.

The room froze.

Amy’s hand flew to her mouth. Beau and Cody stiffened. Even the twins stopped dead in their tracks.

Jackson stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. He didn’t shout. He didn’t warn. He just grabbed Blaine by the back of his shirt, lifted him clean off his chair like he weighed nothing, and marched him toward the door.

“Jackson—” Amy rose, but Beau and Cody stopped her, shaking their heads.

“He had it comin’ a long time,” Beau murmured. “Relax, Amy. Ya know Jackson.”

Outside, Jackson didn’t slow. He walked Blaine toward the barn, boots hitting the dirt with purpose. Halfway there, he halted and shoved Blaine backward — hard enough that Blaine nearly landed on his rear. He caught himself, breathing hard, furious, humiliated.

Jackson’s voice was low, dangerous. “Ya yell at my daughter again, I’ll tan yer hide so bad ya won’t sit for a week.”

Blaine’s anger surged. “I am sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t care.” Jackson stepped closer. “She’s a kid. Yer a grown man. Act like one.”

Blaine’s face twisted. “Fuck you.”

Jackson didn’t blink. “Yeah, ya keep sayin’ that, ain’t ya go no different tune? Curse at me all ya want, I don’t give a damn, but don’t ever talk to my women like that ever again. I don’t want to hear those words near them ever again. And I don’t want to ever see ya raise yer hand at anyone with them around ever again. They all know the men on this ranch are strong, we don’t need to display it like ragin’ fools. So, get it out of yer system. Come on. Let it all out. Been wantin’ to for days, so let’s go. I ain’t no thirteen-year-old girl, but I am whatcha gon’ get now. So let’s go, let’s rumble.”

Blaine limped forward, fast and reckless, and shoved Jackson — a real shove this time, full of humiliation and rage.

Jackson didn’t move.

He stood firm like a stone statue. Not an inch. Not a sway. Not a blink.

He just looked down at Blaine like he was a kitten trying to fight a bull.

“Son… if that’s the best ya got, even if ya were at full strength, ya still wouldn’t get one single hit in with any man here on this ranch.”

Blaine’s voice cracked. “You don’t know that! You don’t know me! I’m not some weak fool. I work out every damn day! You think being on stage and giving people a real show is easy? I can take a punch almost as good as I can dish one out! You don’t know anything, you damn hick!”

Jackson’s drawl went slow, heavy, final.

“I do know. Seen one, seen ’em all. Yer all the same. I been doin’ this since I was knee‑high. Ranch boys don’t quit. We don’t break. We work with broken bones, after serious injuries, and with mean hangovers. And we sure as hell don’t lose to city folk who ain’t slept in three days and can’t lift their own damn leg.”

Blaine’s breath shook.

“Fuck you!”

He ran forward — or tried to — and threw punches. Wild, sloppy, desperate. Jackson blocked each one with lazy ease, then shoved Blaine backward, much harder than before.

Blaine stumbled, legs tangling in a patch of tall grass. He tried to catch himself, but his balance was shot. Before he could figure out what was happening, he went over the edge and landed on his back with a loud splash.

Cold water swallowed him.

He broke through the surface, sputtering, and realized he was in the pond outside Jackson’s home.

Jackson stepped back, hands on his hips.

“Now ya done? Cos I’m already bored.”

Blaine flipped him off.

“Yup.” Jackson turned and walked back inside without another word.

Blaine threw a fit — splashing water, cursing, kicking at the pond like a maniac. Eventually the rage burned out, leaving only exhaustion. He tried to get up, failed, tried again, failed again. When he finally crawled out of the pond, he collapsed face down in the dirt and cried — angry, humiliated tears, then softer ones, because he missed Lauren and his kids so much it hurt.

Time passed. The sky darkened. The ranch quieted.

Eventually he heard boots crunching on dirt. They stopped in front of his face. Blaine lifted his head and saw Jackson looking down at him.

“Ya calmed down now? Ready to come back inside,” Jackson said. “Take a shower and go to bed?”

“Yeah, if only I could get up. Thought you came back to piss on me now too. Life’s already taken a shit on me.”

“Yeah, boohoo, poor lil rich boy, you have it so hard, I know. Ya gon’ behave like a decent human bein’ now?”

“…Yeah.”

Strong hands grabbed him, hoisting him fully upright, Jackson steadying him so he wouldn’t fall.

“Ya good?”

Blaine nodded. Jackson pulled out a rag and handed it to him.

Blaine frowned at it, so Jackson just wiped it across his entire face, ignoring Blaine’s weak, exhausted attempts to fight him off.

“There now. Let’s go get ya in the shower. Unless ya wanna keep bein’ nasty — then I’ll hose ya off in the trainin’ pen and ya can go see if one of them horses lets ya share their stall with ’em.”

Blaine lifted his hands in surrender and sighed.

“You won. I just wanna feel clean. And my bed.”

“Ya mean my bed that I let ya have while yer here. Come on, Blaine.”

Jackson walked him inside, steady as a wall.

Week Four

The Round Pen Clash

Jackson worked a stallion in the round pen — calm, controlled, authoritative.

Blaine sat on the bench, bored, irritated, twitchy from withdrawal.

“This is fucking pointless. Why am I sitting here?”

Jackson didn’t look at him. “Ya can stand if ya don’t wanna sit.”

“This is boring as balls watching you make that poor animal run in a circle, he’s probably dizzy now. I don’t see the point.”

“Ya will, eventually.”

“This is so stupid. Tell me why at least. You keep telling me to do shit, but if I ask why, I never get any straight answers.”

Jackson finally turned. “Alright, fair ‘nough… ya see that horse? That’s a 1000-pound animal, full to the brim with testosterone, with a mean bite and a worse kick, if he wanted to. He’s fightin’ me. But he’s learnin’. He’s scared. But he’s tryin’. He’s stubborn. But he’s listenin’. Sound familiar?”

Blaine’s breath hitched.

Jackson pointed at the horse. “He’s stronger’n ya. Faster’n ya. Meaner’n ya. He could kill me without breakin’ a sweat if he wanted to. But he don’t. And I still got him mindin’ me. Ya ain’t got no prayer against me, even if ya were fully intact, kid. What makes ya think I can’t do the same with ya? Make sense now? Ya ain’t no match for me. So, we can keep buttin’ heads or ya start listenin’ to me and takin’ away lessons. Longer ya resist, longer ya’ll gon’ be here. Faster ya learn, faster ya’ll go on back home. Deal was that I get to say when yer ready. And I ain’t gon’ say that until I think yer ready. And buddy right now, ready ain’t even on the horizon for ya. Yer a grown man, ya don’t like it, I am sure ya can find a way to leave, but I know yer wife ain’t gon’ want ya ’round herself nor yer kids and I am sure ya are smart enough to work out how that’ll end. There, that all the answers ya need?”

Blaine looked away, throat tight.

He sighed. Nodded.

“Alright Jackson, you won. What do you want me to do? Give me a real task. Just remember I am not 100% yet, that’s not me playing, I really can’t do everything, okay? Let bygones be bygones and start over.” Blaine rose up while he spoke, approaching the fence, holding out his good hand.

Jackson had his thumbs hooked into the beltloops of his worn in jeans, the stallion still running the same circles around him, until Jackson let out a sharp whistle, the horse’s ears flickered and he slowed to a walk, before stopping and heading over to the hayrack.

Jackson walked over to Blaine, spat out to the side, then looked at the man, then his hand, then Blaine again.

“Ya sure yer ready?”

Blaine nodded.

Jackson nodded once, then took the offered hand, shook it while patting Blaine’s shoulder with the other, making him stumble forward.

“Hey, watch it Lurch!”

“If it don’t kill ya, …” Jackson told him, then swung over the fence with a jump that made Blaine jealous. Even without his injuries he wasn’t sure he could do what that man almost twice his age just did.

“You know what, Jackson? Maybe I really could learn something from you.”

“I know you could, just gotta wanna. Ya thirsty?”

“I could drink something, unless it’s goat’s milk. You can keep that nasty crap.”

“You can go milk yerself some almonds.” Jackson chuckled, nudging Blaine, who couldn’t keep a straight face.

Amy was mending clothes on the couch, TV turned to some daytime talk show when the men entered. Blaine was pulling off his shoes, which took him longer than Jackson, whose boots were already neatly lined up, his hat already on the hook while he walked over to Amy to kiss her, as she smiled up at him. Blaine looked away.

He wanted that. So much. And he realized how close he had come to losing it, several times now. Amy had lots of help with her kids, all older now, but he left Lauren alone so much with their little ones, and now he was gone again, leaving her with a newborn. It was almost Ashton’s birthday, and she would have to plan it alone, again. Easton’s wasn’t long after, and at this point he wasn’t sure he’d make it to either. Damn it!

He felt a nudge and realized Jackson had been talking to him.

“What? Sorry I missed that, I was … never mind.”

Jackson gave him a long look, then looked at Amy, she smiled and nodded as if they were having a conversation without words, Jackson looked back at him, sighed and pulled Blaine’s cell phone from his back pocket.

Blaine took it, carefully.

“What’s that for?”

“To call yer drug dealer, Einstein. Whaddaya think, huh?”

“You let me … have it back?”

“Nah, but I’ll let ya call yer wife.”

Ignoring the screaming of his leg, Blaine hurried to the guest room.

“Hey, buddy…”

Blaine froze, turned, to find Jackson pointing with his thumb towards the front door.

“Why? I want some privacy …”

“Ain’t gon’ get that ’round here, if ya wanna make a call. Only reception ya’ll gon’ have that worth a damn is out yonder, on the front porch, ya can sit in mah rockin’ chair and get comfy.”

Blaine limped onto the front porch, settled into the wooden rocking chair, which was surprisingly comfortable, and dialed. The dial tone sounded like a caress to his ear.

Hearing Lauren’s voice had felt like medicine. He cried, she cried, both cried. He even managed to talk to Ashton for a moment. She sent him a new photo, taken that day, of the babies playing by the kiddie pool.

After a while, Jackson showed up, and in mid-conversation wrestled the phone away from Blaine.

“Ya weren’t that good to warrant ya talking yer battery dead. Hello Miss Lauren, yeah, it’s Jackson. All good here. Don’t listen to him whinin’, ya got yerself a real baby there, but we’ll set ‘im straight for ya. He’s healin’ and gettin’ better. Ya’ll have a nice evenin’ now. Bye.”

With that he slipped the phone back into his pocket and held out his hand.

Blaine was gonna argue but didn’t have any fight left in him. He grabbed the hand and let Jackson pull him up.

Week Five

CUTTIN' HORSES

Another week later, the late‑morning sun poured over the wide pasture, turning the grass into molten gold and baking everything beneath it. It was already hotter than hell — the kind of heat that made the air shimmer and the dirt feel like it was trying to cook Blaine alive.

The Kershaw herd grazed in a loose sprawl — mares, geldings, yearlings, and a handful of young stallions kept separate by a fence line. Ranchhands leaned on the rails, watching Beau and Cody ride out.

Blaine limped behind Jackson, crutch thudding against the dirt. Sweat glued his shirt to his back. “So what’s the torture today? More poop scooping? More lifting light‑to‑medium‑weight things from point A to point B? More things that make me question why humans ever left cities?”

Jackson didn’t slow. “We’re cuttin’ horses. Brace yerself, gon’ be a very long day.”

Blaine stopped dead. “Cutting… horses.”

“Yep.”

Blaine blinked. “Like… cutting them. Please tell me that doesn’t mean butchering them. Because every time you say a ranch word it’s something horrifying.”

Jackson turned, giving him the slow, unimpressed stare of a man reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. “Boy. If there were an award for dumb questions, you’d run outta shelf space. They’re workin’ horses — we use ’em, breed ’em, compete ’em, or sell ’em. We don’t eat ’em, you genius.”

“I don’t know!” Blaine threw up his hands. “You people do weird and nasty things around here! I’m just trying to keep up with the local customs!”

Jackson’s daughters burst out laughing from the fence line. Amy covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

Jackson rubbed his face. “Lord above. No. We’re cuttin’ horses outta the herd. Separatin’ ’em. For vet checks, farrier work, brandin’, movin’ ’em to other pastures. Watch.”

Beau nudged his copper sorrel mare forward — Wildfire, sharp‑eyed and quick‑footed, her fiery coat catching the late sun like she was lit from within. She wasn’t the biggest horse on the ranch, but she was the most responsive, the kind of mare who could turn on a dime and read Beau’s intent before he even touched the reins.

Cody followed on Whiskey, his tall black stallion, the one everyone on the ranch recognized instantly. They rode into the herd with the kind of confidence that came from growing up in the saddle. The horses parted around them like water.

Blaine squinted. “So… they’re just… moving horses around?”

Jackson leaned on the fence. “Quit yappin’ and watch.”

Wildfire locked onto a bay yearling. The yearling tried to slip left, but Wildfire cut it off instantly, sliding sideways with that coiled, explosive precision Beau never had to ask for. The yearling spun right — Whiskey mirrored the move so fast Blaine’s eyes struggled to keep up. The two riders worked in tandem, isolating the yearling with surgical ease.

Blaine’s mouth fell open. “Holy—”

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “Ain’t just movin’ ’em. It’s readin’ ’em. Predictin’ ’em. Stayin’ one step ahead.”

The yearling feinted, juked, tried to duck behind Wildfire — but Beau was already there, blocking, pivoting, keeping the his mare collected and razor‑sharp. Whiskey swooped in, pushing the rest of the herd back.

It was fast. It was fluid. It was beautiful.

And then something went wrong.

A young stallion — too curious, too energetic — bolted from the far side of the herd, ears pinned, tail high. He wasn’t attacking, just being a dumb teenage horse trying to prove how big and strong he was, but he barreled straight toward Wildfire.

“Shit,” Cody barked. “Beau, heads up!”

Beau turned Wildfire sharply, but the young stallion was already too close, too fast. Wildfire took offense and started getting defensive, rearing and screaming, copper coat flashing in the sun.

Jackson didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t think. He didn’t pause for a saddle.

He vaulted onto the nearest horse — a big palomino mare grazing by the fence — bareback, grabbing only her mane. The mare jolted, then surged forward as if she’d been waiting for the cue.

Blaine’s jaw dropped. “What the— ?! What kinda fuckin’ stunt shit is this now?! That crap looked CGI!”

Jackson thundered across the pasture, bareback, no reins, no saddle, riding like the horse was an extension of his own body. Dust exploded behind him. The palomino cut across the young stallion’s path, blocking him cleanly. Jackson leaned, shifted his weight, and the mare pivoted so sharply Blaine felt the motion in his own ribs. Jackson hollered at the young stallion, sounding like the wrath of the gods in movies.

The stallion skidded, snorted, tossed his head — then backed off, chastened.

Beau exhaled, calming Wildfire. Cody laughed. The ranchhands clapped.

Jackson guided the palomino back with nothing but his legs and a handful of mane. He slid off like it was nothing, patting her neck.

Blaine stared at him, speechless.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “That’s why young stallions don’t stay stallions long. They get sold, or they get snipped — ain’t no third option unless ya wanna make the vet rich. Otherwise they’ll run ya broke and run ya over.”

Blaine opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Amy stepped beside him, smiling softly. “He’s been doing that since he was Beau’s age.”

Jackson corrected her with a grin. “Nah, I been doin’ that since I was Bonnie and Daisy’s age.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist — brief, warm, familiar — kissed her once, quick and sure, then gave her a playful pat on the hip. Amy nudged him with her shoulder, cheeks flushed, eyes soft.

Blaine swallowed. “I… I didn’t know… I have never seen anything like this. I guess I thought you can just train or teach stallions to all get along or something.”

Jackson smirked. “Ya don’t know a lotta things. But ya gon’ learn. And I reckon by the time ya leave here, ya already learned things. A stallion ain’t ruled by manners — he’s ruled by hormones. Even the best trained stud won’t listen when his testosterone’s runnin’ hot.”

He pointed toward the herd. “Ya get another stallion he don’t like, or mares in heat, or—worst case—both at once, and ya might as well call an ambulance ’fore ya try steppin’ in. They’ll tear the stuffin’ outta each other, and outta anyone dumb enough to get between ’em.”

Blaine didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have a comeback.

He just watched Beau and Cody resume cutting the herd, watched Jackson walk back toward the fence like he hadn’t just performed a stunt that would’ve killed Blaine instantly.

And something in Blaine’s chest shifted.

Respect. Real respect.

BRAND IDENTITY

The herd had been cut cleanly — Beau and Cody’s precision work leaving the pasture divided into neat temporary pens made from portable fencing. Ranchhands moved with practiced efficiency, guiding horses into the right sections.

Jackson jerked his chin toward the setup. “Come on, Blaine. Lemme show ya why we cut horses.”

Blaine followed, suspicious. “Yup, I already guessed it wasn’t just for show.”

Jackson ignored him and pointed at the first pen. “That one’s for shots. Vet’ll run through ’em quick. Savannah’s helpin’ him today — girl’s workin’ with the clinic while she trains up. Says she’s fixin’ to be Chestnut Ridge’s first resident veterinarian in… hell, decades. I couldn’t be more proud. We needed one so badly for so long. My girl’s great at it too. Still got a lot of learnin’ left to do, but she graduated with high marks, thanks to Amy and she is so damn smart. She’s got ranchin’ in her blood, which helps.”

He pointed at the next pen. “That one’s for the farrier. Hoof trims, shoein’, checkin’ for cracks. I can do some of that, but with a herd this size, it’s easier to hire the farrier for a couple days.”

He pointed at the third. “That one’s for the vet to look at. Couple mares need checkups, few actin’ odd, just gettin’ ’em looked over. Savannah’ll shadow him there too.”

Then he pointed at another pen — the one with a rig set up, ranchhands already preparing equipment, smoke drifting from a small fire pit where metal irons heated.

“And that one,” Jackson said, “is where we’re goin’ next. Come with.”

Blaine blinked. “What happens there?”

Jackson didn’t answer. He just handed Blaine a pair of thick leather gloves and a small metal bucket.

Blaine frowned. “What’s the bucket for? Am I picking up more shit?”

“Nah, yer handing that to Cody,” Jackson said vaguely. “Git.”

Still clueless, Blaine followed him toward the branding pen — straight toward Cody, who was busy with something Blaine couldn’t see yet.

Then the smell hit him.

Hot metal. Burning hair. Dust. Sweat. Horsehide. Smoke curling upward in thin, sharp ribbons.

Blaine gagged. “What the— what is that smell?!”

Jackson didn’t budge. “Brandin’. Smells like horse ranchin’.”

Blaine froze. “BRANDING?! Like… like… like the old cowboy movies?!”

“Yep.”

“YOU STILL DO THAT?!”

“Yep.”

Before Blaine could protest, two ranchhands wrestled a young gelding to the ground — not violently, but firmly, controlled, practiced. The horse kicked once, then settled, pinned safely between strong arms and steady hands.

Blaine’s eyes went huge. “OH MY GOD THEY’RE TACKLING HIM—”

Jackson didn’t even look at him. “Ain’t tacklin’. It’s holdin’. Keeps ’em safe.”

“SAFE FROM WHAT?!”

Jackson pointed at the glowing iron being lifted from the fire. “That.”

Blaine’s soul left his body.

The ranchhand pressed the iron to the horse’s flank. A sharp hiss. A puff of smoke. The smell intensified.

Blaine staggered backward. “OH— OH GOD— OH GOD— THAT’S— THAT’S—”

Jackson finally looked at him. “Brandin’. Identifies ’em. Keeps thieves from takin’ ’em. Helps us track bloodlines. Ranch life, son.”

Blaine stared, horrified, clutching the bucket like a lifeline.

Someone tossed a glowing metal thing into it — it hissed loudly. Blaine yelped, nearly dropping the bucket.

Then the ranchhands released the gelding.

The horse exploded upward — a full‑body surge, dust flying, legs scrambling, tail snapping — then bolted three strides before stopping, snorting, shaking himself out, and trotting off like nothing had happened.

Blaine screamed. Everyone else laughed.

Another horse was led in. Another controlled takedown. Another iron pulled from the fire.

Blaine’s knees wobbled. “I’m gonna— I’m gonna faint— I’m gonna die— I’m gonna—”

Jackson smirked. “Ya ain’t gon’ die. Ya just ain’t used to real work.”

Beau and Cody were laughing openly now, leaning on the fence, wiping tears.

“Look at his face,” Beau wheezed. “He’s gonna puke,” Cody added.

Jackson ignored them and pointed at the next horse. “Bring me that bucket.”

Blaine stumbled forward, still clueless, still horrified, still thinking the bucket was for tools or water or maybe vomit.

He handed it over.

Jackson took it, set it beside the branding rig, and nodded. “Good. Ya did fine.”

Blaine blinked. “Fine? Fine for what? What am I even doing?!”

Jackson didn’t answer.

He just nodded toward the next horse being brought in.

“Keep up, son. We ain’t done yet. Ya wanna have a go?”

“NO! No, absolutely not!” Blaine said quickly.

Everyone in the pen laughed.

SLICIN' 'N DICIN'

A whistle came from the far side of the pasture, near another temporary pen setup. “Jackson! We got the young studs ready!”

Jackson jerked his chin. “Come on, Blaine. Need yer help.”

Blaine followed, suspicious. “Help with what?”

They reached a small pen where three young stallions stood, restless and snorting. Ranchhands were already preparing equipment, calming the horses, keeping everything controlled and professional.

Savannah was there too, shadowing the vet — sleeves rolled, gloves on, focused and steady. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this before, handing the vet tools, checking notes, keeping the horses calm. Jackson grabbed a small metal bucket.

He handed Blaine a long-handled tool — something simple, safe, and impossible for him to mess up. “Here. Hold this. When I tell ya, ya bring me the bucket. Keep the tool in case someone misses, ya can use it to pick up.”

Blaine frowned. “Bucket for what? Pick up what? What is it with you and your strange obsession with buckets? All day you have been handing me buckets. To collect shit in, to haul feed in, then haul water, then haul whatever those metal thingies were. Then a bucket to toss tools in. Now another bucket…”

Jackson didn’t answer. He pushed up his sleeves, slipped on long dark gloves, and crouched down next to another ranchhand by one of the horses.

Beau and Cody were already helping restrain another stallion, keeping him steady and calm. The ranch vet stepped in, efficient and practiced — Savannah right beside him, handing him instruments like she’d been born doing it.

Blaine watched, confused. “That looks— that looks kinda brutal, man. And should your other daughter be watching all that? Isn’t she a bit young?”

Jackson didn’t look up from his work on the other horse. “Ain’t brutal. It’s controlled. It’s necessary. Vet stuff that needs doin’. Savannah’ll be doin’ it herself one day.”

He added, almost casually, “And don’t worry ’bout Lainey. She’s talkin’ ’bout bein’ a doctor. Been on Connor and Chris all the damn time to let her watch ’em. Connor finally did, and told me he was shocked how nothin’ fazed her — she just asked a lotta questions. Says she wants to be the first doctor in town since before I was born, and Connor thinks she’s got the brains and the stomach for it. Guess my girls’re fixin’ to drag this place into the twenty-first century. I wanna tell her no so bad, but we need a clinic in town. I was almost gon’ talk to Brad a few times to see if he wouldn’t wanna open one here.”

Blaine simmered on that for a moment. Two sweet little girls, blonde and pretty, wanting to do the kind of stuff Lauren did — but luckily never really talked about.

“Bucket,” Jackson said.

Blaine walked over, holding the bucket like he expected manure or tools or something boring.

With a practiced flick, Jackson dropped something into the bucket.

Wet. Heavy.

Blaine looked down.

His soul left his body.

“ARE THOSE— ARE THOSE THE POOR HORSE’S—”

Jackson didn’t even look up. “Gonads. Yeah. Keep it movin’, son. Beau’s ready for the bucket over yonder. Git.”

Blaine made a noise that wasn’t human.

Beau doubled over laughing. Cody slapped the fence, wheezing. “Damn, he’s ’bout ready to poop his wiener!”

Horses came in, were secured, and Blaine had to go over with his bucket. Over and over. Some of the horses weren’t even Jackson’s — other ranchers evidently brought them as it’s the neighborly thing to do such tasks in bulk at whosever ranch is planning it next.

Savannah kept pace with the vet, calm and focused, unfazed by the chaos. She didn’t flinch, didn’t gag, didn’t blink — just worked, steady as a heartbeat. Something about seeing a twenty-year-old girl handling all that made Blaine feel inadequate.

Jackson reached for the bucket again, still working, calm as ever. “Don’t freeze up now. Git movin’. Bucket’s gettin’ full. Burn pit’s over yonder. Dump ’em in, then come back, make it speedy. And son — just remember these moments next time ya think ya need to test me. I got plenty of ’xperience cuttin’ off nuts. Don’t be next on my list.”

Another set landed in the bucket.

Blaine whimpered, swaying — not from his injuries, not from withdrawals, but from a very queasy stomach. “Those poor stallions…”

Cody wiped tears from his eyes. “Ain’t stallions no more, Blaine. Ya asked me the other day what a geldin’ was. Well, now ya see firsthand.”

Beau shook his head. “I didn’t think anyone over the age of ten needed that explained. Wait till he finds out how goats and sheep get the rubber bands when they’re lambs and kits. Too bad it ain’t spring, or I’d take ya over to Walton’s ranch and let ya figure out what ya keep steppin’ on in them fields.”

Blaine walked over to the fire pit, dumped the contents of the bucket into it — suddenly acutely aware of his own manhood — while the stallions’ was eaten by the flames. He walked back stiff‑legged, frozen, bucket in hand, face pale, eyes glassy, questioning every life choice that led him to this exact moment as more and more wet thuds landed in his bucket.

Jackson finally looked up at him — calm, steady, amused.

“Welcome to ranch life, son. We’re done with geldin’. Ya did better than I thought. I coulda sworn ya’d be face down in the dirt, passed out by now. Tougher than I ’xpected.”

“That was… scarring.”

Beau leaned in. “Nah, scarring is when we use offal for bait. Keeps the varmints away from the feed. Nothin’ like bein’ passed by a rat carryin’ a set of poisoned horse ding dongs. Ya ain’t lived till ya seen that.”

Blaine swallowed hard. He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. He just knew he would have nightmares that night.

Beau and Cody, of course, couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“Hey Cody, ya stayin’ for supper t’night?”

“Maybe, what’s Amy makin’?”

“Meat BALLS!”

Everyone started laughing.

Everyone except Blaine.

This week and the next were filled with repetitive tasks. Blaine was settled into the cadence of the ranch schedule, had his own set of chores and got them done without Jackson breathing down his neck with a minimum amount of palaver.

MAKIN' BACON

The morning began like all the others — slow, dusty, and painfully routine.

Breakfast had become its own strange chapter of Blaine’s exile. He finally ate the eggs — still that alarming shade of orange, like someone had dyed them for Halloween — but they were rich and buttery and annoyingly delicious. The bacon was his favorite, thick and smoky, the kind that tasted like it had lived a noble life before ending up on his plate. The bread was dense and chewy, clearly baked by someone who believed joy should be earned, not given; still, it filled him up in a way city bread never had. On good days, Amy made muffins, and Blaine swore those were the only things keeping him from hitchhiking back to civilization.

The rest of ranch breakfast was a gamble. Biscuits and gravy were incredible but so heavy they made him want to lie down afterward and accept death. Fried potatoes were perfect — crispy, salty, addictive. Sausage patties were aggressively seasoned, as if Jackson had personally declared war on blandness. Grits, however, remained a crime against humanity. And the goat’s milk? Still awful. Still traumatic. Still something he refused to drink unless he was dying of thirst and Jackson was watching. The coffee, at least, was strong enough to resurrect him every morning.

He could walk steadier now, get up on his own without too much hassle. He looked better — good color, a little weight back on him.

Now he sat on the fence rail, condemned to watching Jackson work the stallion again — except he wasn’t a stallion anymore. He was one of the batch of colts that had been cut two weeks earlier, the same day Blaine helped haul away the “leftovers.” The horse moved fine now, healed enough to work, but Blaine still pitied him, mourning the stallionhood he’d lost. Probably burned away in one of the cutting sessions… unless his contribution had been used to poison varmints somewhere on the ranch.

He sighed, slumping further. “This is my life now,” he muttered. “Watching cardio for eunuchs.”

“Ain’t no eunuch,” Jackson said without looking up. “He still got his pecker. You really don’t know nothin’ about real life, do ya kid?”

“Same difference,” Blaine said. “Lost his balls, his identity, and his self‑respect. I can relate…”

“Well, somethin’ tells me ya still got yer balls — at least for the time bein’ — or ya wouldn’t have three kids under the age of two.”

“It’s the principle of it all. I feel emasculated by my injuries. Same difference. I definitely vibe with that poor gelding.”

“Good Lord above…” Jackson grumbled.

Then Cody came tearing across the pasture on his black stallion like the devil was on his heels.

He wasn’t just riding fast — he was riding like he meant to scare the earth itself.

He slid to a stop so violently that a cloud of dust erupted upward, rising higher than the barn roof and swallowing half the fence line.

Blaine nearly fell off the rail. “What the actual hell—?!”

And just like that, the boredom was gone.

“Jackson! Breach on the south fence — wild hogs got in. Dusty’s hurt bad.”

Jackson’s head snapped up. “Dammit. How bad? Where is he?”

“Beau and Rich are takin’ him to Amy. The others are drivin’ them hogs back and keepin’ the herd in. Got some major fixin’ due.”

“Git back there. I’ll check on ’em.” Jackson jerked his chin toward Blaine. “And I gotta get rid of Blaine.”

“You don’t have to get—”

“Shut up. Get up.”

Jackson was out of patience and out of gentleness. He hauled Blaine upright, slung him over his shoulder like a sack of feed despite the protests, and sprinted toward the cabin. Inside, he dumped Blaine on the couch and bolted for the kitchen table — where chaos had already erupted.

A man lay across the table, screaming, ranchhands crowding around him, voices overlapping in a thick drawl Blaine couldn’t parse. Blood soaked the wood. Tools clattered. Someone prayed under their breath.

Jackson cut through the noise like a blade.

“Blaine! Cabinet! Whiskey! Move!”

Blaine scrambled, shocked they kept alcohol in the house — more shocked he’d never noticed. He grabbed the bottle and rushed it over just as Jackson barked at the ranchhands to get out and make themselves useful. They scattered instantly.

Jackson snatched the bottle, propped the injured man upright, and poured the whiskey down his throat in one brutal, steady stream.

Blaine stepped closer — and saw it.

The bone. White. Jagged. Punching through the skin on both sides of a gaping wound.

His stomach flipped. His vision tunneled. He staggered to the sink and vomited until his ribs hurt.

By the time he wiped his mouth, Amy and a red‑haired woman were already working — calm, efficient, terrifyingly competent. They set the bone with a sickening crack, stitched the wound, wrapped it tight. Beau burst in just as they finished, and Jackson helped him carry the man out to the truck.

Blood smeared the floor. The smell clung to the air.

Amy and the red‑haired woman began scrubbing.

A soft voice behind him: “Ah, there ya are, young man — Blaine, is it? I’m Izzy, Jackson’s stepmam. I expected you lookin’ a fair bit rougher, so that’s a pleasant surprise. Come on now, take a drop of quinine; it’ll ease that churnin’ belly of yours.”

She didn’t sound like the others — her Irish lilt cutting through the chaos like cool water. Blaine, still shaking, took the bottle and drank. Bitter. He didn’t care.

Jackson stormed back inside, went straight to a cabinet, and pulled out a shotgun. He loaded it with the kind of practiced speed that made Blaine’s blood run cold.

Then Jackson was gone.

Blaine limped after him, adrenaline overriding pain. Jackson grabbed a horse that had been lingering near the fence, minding its own business, swung up bareback, and thundered away like it was nothing.

“What are you doing, dude?!” Blaine shouted, but Jackson was already a blur across the pasture.

Blaine spotted one of the kids’ bikes leaning against the fence. He grabbed it, sat, and pushed himself forward with his good leg along the outside of the fenceline — pathetic speed, but still faster than limping. He could walk fine for short distances, sure. Inside the cabin, or even over to the barn. But nothing on this ranch was short distance aside from that, and he wasn’t about to hobble through a herd of horses like some wounded city slicker waiting to get trampled.

He reached the south fence just as the shouting started.

“What?! I don’t understand you!” he yelled back at the ranchhands waving frantically.

Then he heard it.

A low rumble. A thudding. A thunder that didn’t belong to horses.

He turned.

A massive wild boar charged straight at him — tusks long, eyes furious, body built like a battering ram.

“FUCK!”

He tried to jump off the bike — stumbled — crashed into a tree. The boar hit the bike full force, sending it flying, metal twisting in the air before slamming into the dirt beside him.

He barely had time to breathe before the boar turned, snorted, and charged again.

He froze. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

The boar was close enough that he could see the rage in its eyes when—

BANG.

The boar jerked sideways with a harsh, guttural grunt — a sound punched out of its body more than made — skidding across the dirt, sliding to a stop an arm’s length from Blaine’s boots.

Blaine stared at it, chest heaving, until Jackson galloped up, slid off the gelding, and strode over, shotgun still smoking.

“You okay?”

Blaine nodded, unable to speak.

“Buddy, are ya hurt? Did he get ya?”

Head shake.

“Ya sure?”

Another nod.

Jackson exhaled — then smacked him upside the head.

“What the hell were ya thinkin’, comin’ out here after seein’ what them damn hogs can do?! Thought Dusty got hurt playin’ hide‑and‑seek with them other ranchhands?!”

“I… I wanted to… help.”

“Help? How in the world did ya think you were gon’ help us with a wild boar? See that fence?”

Blaine looked over. A whole section of the wooden horse fence was splintered and bowed inward, rails cracked like snapped bones. One post leaned at a crooked angle, its base chewed up and gouged where the boar had slammed into it. Fresh dirt was kicked up everywhere, hoofprints and deep churn marks showing where the horses had panicked and scattered. The damage looked violent, sudden — like something big and furious had tried to tear its way through.

“That was him gettin’ angry,” Jackson said. “That there, and Dusty’s leg. And Dusty is a fast sunnovabitch, but not faster than a hog. Nobody is.”

“Sorry.”

“Well hell, it’s alright. I know ya meant well for once, and I thank ya.” Jackson pointed at the dead boar. “But since ya so eager wantin’ to help, I got just the job for ya.”

“What’s that?”

Jackson grinned. “We just got ourselves a new supply of that bacon ya like so much. You get to help us make it. Hog’s dead — now it’s work time.”

Blaine blinked, still shaky, still processing the fact he was alive. “Ba… bacon?”

“Yeah. Mighty fine pork chops. Belly’s a dream for BBQ. Earl gets some to make his famous sausages — best ya ever had. Amy makes stew with the rest. And the head’ll make them Indians happy — they like that stuff.”

“Indians?”

“Yeah, we got several tribes.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to call them that.”

“That right? Now ya sound like Bri. Hey Chay! Come over here!”

A Native man rode up — mid‑fifties, same age as Jackson, but built like someone who’d never taken a soft day in his life. His hair was long, dark, and braided back, streaked lightly with silver. His skin was sun‑warmed and weathered from decades outdoors, and his eyes were sharp, assessing, the kind that saw everything and judged nothing too quickly. He sat his horse with the kind of effortless balance that made Blaine feel like a toddler in comparison.

“This here’s that guy I told ya about — Blaine Cameron. Blaine, this is Chayton Greywolf, grandson of a chieftain. Chay, I just got told again not to call ya Indian.”

Chay groaned. “Urgh, you white folks with all yer homebrewed nonsense.”

He looked at Blaine — not unkindly, just tired of the conversation before it even started.

“Listen, kid — you really think the real problem we have is terminology? That doesn’t even make our list of grievances with ya white people. I don’t give a shit what ya call me. Nobody does.”

He nudged his horse forward, already done with the topic.

He rode off, leaving Blaine speechless.

Jackson clapped Blaine’s shoulder. “There ya have it. I will tell ya this — Chay calls himself an Indian. Most folks on the rez do. And if ya go out there, half the signs, half the paperwork, half the damn community boards’ll say ‘Indian.’ No white man put that there.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t a problem they concern themselves with. Folks out here got bigger things to worry about than what word ya use.”

Jackson pointed toward the pasture. “If ya wanna be technical, they’ll say First Nation. Some’ll say Native. Some’ll say Indian. Depends who ya talk to. All of ’em work.”

He smirked. “I call ’em by their given names. That’s the respectful part. Unless it’s yer best friend. Chay makes racist jokes at me and I’ll return the favor. We can do that. He’s my brother in any way but blood. We don’t give a shit about bein’ politically correct. He would give his life to save mine and vice versa. That’s all that matters.”

Then he jerked his chin toward the hog carcass. “So, come on, hero. Now yer gon’ learn how to really bring home the bacon.”

“Is that ranchhand… Dusty… is he at the hospital? Is he gonna be alright?”

“There ain’t no local hospital. We ain’t even got no doctor. Closest one’s in San Sequoia. And Dusty’ll be fine. Few days, he’ll be back workin’.”

“You’re shitting me! I could see the bone!”

“Told ya — we’re tougher out here.”

“How often does this happen?”

“Broken bones or hogs?”

“Both.”

“All the damn time someone here stubs, nicks, twists, or breaks somethin’. Part of ranchwork. Often it’s a horse someone misread. One kick can send ya up to meet God.”

“How often do you have to shoot things? You seem pretty comfortable with that gun. You really got me scared of you now.”

“Let’s see, ya here to hurt or steal my family or horses? Take somethin’ that mine? No, well, then ya got nothin’ to worry about, at least not from my gun.”

“Let’s just say I shoot it enough for real that I don’t need to waste bullets on cans. And hogs? We ain’t never run outta bacon before.”

“Okay, I hate to admit it, but you were boss today. So was Amy. And that redhead — your stepmom?”

“Izzy. Yep. Pa robbed the cradle — she’s seven years older than me. Don’t wait for me to call her Mom. She’s a great woman tho. Love her like a sister. She’s Cody’s mother, if ya can believe it.”

“Oh, wow. Is she a doctor? Or Amy? They really knew what they were doing.”

“Nope. Amy was some manager in San Myshuno. Izzy was a horsetrainer at Royal Cromwell Stables.”

“What? Amy is from San Myshuno? Are you kidding?”

“Nope. Ya thought we’re all just dumb rednecks ’round here?”

Blaine opened his mouth — then shut it.

Jackson smirked. “Thought so.”

Jackson whistled sharply, a piercing sound that cut through the prairie air. Two ranchhands jogged over with a heavy canvas tarp — the kind used for hauling feed sacks or injured livestock. Dust swirled around their boots as they spread it out beside the fallen boar.

“Alright boys, roll ’im,” Jackson said.

They grabbed the hog by the hind legs and shoulder, heaved, and rolled the massive carcass onto the tarp. The weight of it thudded against the ground. Jackson tied the tarp corners together with rope, then waved at a sorrel mare one of the ranchhands had brought over — saddled, reins looped neatly, steady as a rock. She saw him and trotted over.

He hooked the rope to her saddle horn. The mare shifted once, snorted, then planted herself like she understood the job.

“Hiya, home,” Jackson murmured, patting her neck. “Paced walk.”

The mare stepped forward, dragging the boar behind her across the prairie. The carcass slid over dirt and grass, leaving a long dark trail in its wake. Blaine watched, stunned — the simplicity of it, the efficiency, the sheer matter‑of‑factness of ranch life.

Jackson glanced at him. “That’s how ya bring home the bacon, city boy.”

Blaine swallowed hard. “Can I… ride with you? That’s a long way back and my ride got destroyed. Sorry about that, by the way. I’ll get your kid a new one.”

Jackson looked him over — the stiff leg, the crutch, the way Blaine had barely stayed upright on the bike. “Nope. Ya ain’t ready. Ya’d fall off and break the other damn leg.”

Blaine nodded, accepting it without argument.

Jackson whistled again, three short blasts. Three ranchhands looked over. Jackson jerked his chin toward Blaine. “Git the truck. Git ’im back.”

Jackson swung onto the bareback gelding, gave a sharp whistle, and the horse started forward — keeping pace beside the mare dragging the boar toward the ranch house. Ranchhands followed behind, hooves kicking up dust.

Blaine limped toward the truck pulling up, slower but determined. One of the ranchhands helped him climb in, and off they went. They arrived around the same time as Jackson, the boar sliding to a stop near the outdoor work tables.

The men unhooked the rope, dragged the tarp aside, and immediately began dressing the hog. Blaine stood frozen, horrified and fascinated all at once — until Amy appeared beside him, tying an apron around his waist with a firm tug.

“Alright sweetheart,” she said, handing him gloves. “You’re on prep duty. Don’t faint.”

Izzy gave him a sympathetic smile pointing at the gloves in his hand. “Put these on. Keeps the mess off ya.”

Jackson pointed to a table. “Stand over there. I’ll tell ya what to do.”

And he did.

Blaine held legs steady while Jackson and Cody worked the knives, bracing the carcass so it wouldn’t roll. Amy showed him how to separate usable fat from scraps — clean cuts, no hesitation. He carried bins of meat to the shade where Savannah sorted and seasoned everything. Izzy set him at the grinder, feeding chunks of meat while she turned the crank, humming under her breath. He laid out strips of belly for curing, rinsed tools in the outdoor sink, fetched ice from the cooler, and hauled buckets of water back and forth.

Nothing glamorous. Nothing easy. But everything useful.

Around him, the ranch moved like a machine.

Jackson and Cody broke down the boar with practiced precision. Beau and the ranchhands rode back out to repair the fence breach. Amy sorted cuts into bins — stew meat, roasts, ribs, sausage, bacon. Izzy trimmed fat and cleaned organs. Savannah mixed spices, rubs, marinades, cures. The younger girls ran back and forth with bowls, jars, towels, and ice, their braids bouncing as they worked.

It was loud, messy, efficient — and Blaine was suddenly part of it.

By late afternoon, the ranch transformed. Tables were dragged outside. Lanterns hung. Smoke rolled across the yard like a warm blanket. The smell of roasting meat filled the air.

It became a feast.

Ranchhands dug in like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Amy, Izzy, and Savannah cooked like it was a restaurant kitchen, shouting instructions, flipping pans, laughing. The younger daughters set tables, refilled drinks, carried plates.

Blaine had never seen anything like it.

Amy explained it to him later, wiping sweat from her brow. “It’s how we thank ’em. Hard work today. Risk too. They deserve a feast.”

Blaine nodded, overwhelmed.

He had prepared meat. Helped make actual boar bacon. Helped grind sausage. Helped feed a ranch.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it was real.

And for the first time since arriving, he didn’t feel useless.

He felt part of something.

That night, he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.

BARBEQUEIN'

Three days later, the ranch smelled like smoke and spice.

The sun hung low and gold over Chestnut Ridge, the kind of late‑afternoon light that made everything look softer — even the dust. Jackson and Cody stood over the big pit, flipping slabs of pork belly and ribs, smoke curling around them like a halo. Beau chopped wood. Savannah mixed sauce. Amy set out more plates. The younger girls ran around with mason jars of sweet tea, shrieking and laughing.

And Blaine… Blaine was outside.

Not because he was told to be.
Because he wanted to be.

He stood near the picnic table, leaning one hip against it, chatting with Izzy and Amy. No crutch. No brace. Just Blaine — walking almost normally, moving with a steadiness nobody expected from him. His gait still had a faint hitch, but it was nothing like the man who’d arrived here shaking and terrified.

He wasn’t hiding.
He wasn’t locked up.
He wasn’t clenched.

He looked… present.

Ranchhands drifted in, grabbing plates, teasing each other. Someone tossed Blaine a soda, which he caught one‑handed without even thinking. Someone else asked how his leg was doing. He answered without sarcasm. Without defensiveness.

It was the first time he didn’t feel like an outsider.

Then the crunch of tires on gravel cut through the chatter.

A car rolled up the drive. Jackson looked up. Amy wiped her hands on a towel and smiled at Blaine.

“You got a visitor, sweetheart. Go say hi.”

He turned — and froze.

Lauren stepped out.

She looked tired — new‑baby tired — but beautiful in that soft, real way Blaine always loved. She scanned the yard, expecting chaos, expecting him to be miserable, expecting… something.

What she found was Blaine already standing, already walking toward her, steady and upright.

Her breath caught.

“Lauren?” Blaine said, stunned.

She walked toward him slowly, eyes flicking over him — his posture, his face, the way he wasn’t jittery or defensive or hiding behind humor.

He reached her and pulled her into a hug — tight, warm, grounded.
She felt the difference immediately.

They kissed.

“You… look great,” she whispered.

Blaine swallowed. “I feel… better. You look beautiful.”

Jackson snorted from the grill. “He ain’t been complainin’ for three whole days. Miracles do happen.”

Lauren’s eyes softened. “You’re really doing it. I knew you could.”

Blaine nodded. “I’m trying. Still got a ways to go. That guy is hard to please.”

“Yes sir, ya got that right,” Jackson retorted without looking up.

Lauren touched Blaine’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly. “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked hard. “I didn’t know you’d come.”

“Amy invited me,” she said. “She thought… we should see each other. And she was right. I needed this. God, Blaine — the worries I had about you. I’m so glad they were unfounded.”

Amy called from the table, “Lauren, sweetheart — Blaine — come get a plate! We made enough to feed the whole county!”

Lauren laughed — a real laugh — and Blaine felt something warm bloom inside him.

She looked back at him. “Can you walk over with me, or want me to make you a plate?”

Blaine grinned, already reaching for a rib. “I can do better than that. You sit. Long drive. What do you want? It’s all shockingly good — I hate to admit it.”

She sat, Amy already sliding a glass of homemade lemonade in front of her. Blaine walked off — barely limping — and returned with two loaded plates.

Lauren stared. “Who is supposed to eat all that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Blaine said, already tearing into a rib with his fingers, sauce on his knuckles. “It’s shockingly good, trust me. You think that now and suddenly, it’s all gone.”

She blinked. “Where’s your crutch, baby?”

He mumbled around a mouthful of rib, “Don’t need it.”

Lauren froze. “You… don’t need it?”

“Nope.” He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Haven’t used it in days.”

Amy sat down across from them, laughing. “He helped make all of this, too.”

Lauren raised her brows. “Make what?”

“The food,” Blaine said proudly. “Everything you see here — potato salad, ribs, sausage. I made it or helped making it. Eat up.”

“Jackson is grilling them,” Lauren said, bewildered, clearly confused whether he was joking.

“I wasn’t talking about the grilling part…”

Amy giggled. “He’s right. He helped make all of it. Including the sourcing of the meat. That is a fun story he can tell you one day.”

“Yeah babe, I’m a hunter and gatherer now. I can provide. Like actually provide — not run to a store or restaurant.”

Lauren squeezed his hand under the table. They ate. They laughed. Ranch stories flowed — some about Blaine — and he actually laughed at them, surprising everyone, including himself.

When the noise died down, Lauren leaned close. “Can we go inside? I want to check you over properly.”

Blaine nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Lauren went to the car and grabbed her doctor bag and a tablet, then she and Blaine slipped inside, the noise of the barbecue fading behind them. The guest room smelled faintly of cedar and clean linens.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, spreading his arms.

“Can you take off your shirt? Need help or …”

“Nope, I got it.” he smiled and slipped the shirt off with ease.

Lauren set her doctor bag and tablet on the dresser, Blaine pointed to the bathroom down the hall from his room, she washed her hands, and when she returned she gestured for him to sit.

He did — steady, calm, trusting.

She ran through a full exam: vitals, mobility, reflexes, swelling, pain response, incision checks, muscle tone, gait assessment. Blaine followed every instruction without complaint, without dramatics, without the old defensiveness. She drew blood and ran it through an analytics tool.

Her brows knit. Then lifted. Then knit again.

She checked the numbers twice.

Then a third time.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I need something from my car. Stay here.”

She stepped out and found Jackson in the kitchen, rinsing his hands under the tap. He turned when he heard her.

“Well?”

Lauren exhaled, still processing. “I’m… shocked. Amazed. Flabbergasted. I didn’t have too much hope when Bri suggested this — no offense.”

“None taken,” Jackson said, drying his hands on a dish towel.

Lauren hesitated, then slipped into doctor‑mode. “Before I go back in — can I see his remaining meds? I want to cross‑check his taper schedule.”

Jackson nodded, reached into a cabinet, and set the pill bottles on the counter.

Lauren froze.

The painkiller bottle was still almost full.

She picked it up, shook it lightly, listened to the rattle — far too many pills for this stage of recovery.

Her voice dropped. “Jackson… he should have used at least half of these by now.”

Jackson shrugged. “Boy ain’t been takin’ ’em.”

Lauren stared. “I’m sorry… what?”

Jackson leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Last week or so, he’s been refusin’ his painkillers. Says he don’t need ’em. I ain’t one to force pills down a grown man’s throat, so I let it be.”

Lauren’s eyes went huge. “He declined them?”

“Yup.”

She shook her head, stunned. “Blaine doesn’t decline pain medication. Blaine takes pain medication if he stubs his toe. He’s— he’s dramatic. He’s avoidant. He’s… Blaine.”

Jackson’s mouth twitched. “Not these days.”

Lauren checked the bottle again, then the date, then the count. “He’s been under‑using them. Voluntarily.”

“Sure has.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead, overwhelmed. “This is… clinically significant. His pain tolerance, his inflammatory markers, his mobility — they all match what I just saw. His healing trajectory is accelerated. Tissue recovery is ahead of expected benchmarks. His labs are near‑optimal. And now you’re telling me he’s self‑tapering his analgesics?”

Jackson nodded once. “I don’t right know what that means but think yer talkin’ about him choosin’ to take less pain meds and then yes, seems so.”

Lauren let out a breath that was half‑laugh, half‑disbelief. “You really are a healer. This is fantastic. At this rate, maybe three more weeks and—”

Jackson held up a hand, smiling. “Miss Lauren, thank ya kindly for the nice words and confidence. But the agreement was — and still is — he stays till I say he’s done. Might be three more weeks. Might be six.”

Lauren met his eyes. Nodded. Soft. Respectful.

“Yes. Yes, that was the agreement. Forgive me.”

“Nothin’ to forgive,” Jackson said. “I just don’t half‑ass things, pardon my French. When ya get him back, he’ll be a lot closer to the man ya deserve — and the father yer kid needs. I agree with ya, he’s doin’ real good, but we both know progress ain’t a straight line. Sometimes it stalls. Sometimes it backslides. If that happens, I’ll make ’im stay till he’s stable.”

He tapped the pill bottle with one finger. “So yeah — this might be two‑thirds done, might be halfway. But what ya dropped off was a damn mess, and what ya’ll get back oughta be a whole lot less worrisome. Got a mouth on him, though, and good graces is that man whiney. I ain’t never met another fella who thinks every single thing ya ask ’im needs a full debate first.”

Lauren laughed softly. “Yeah… I think that’s his default setting. I don’t mind it. I’m used to it. Honestly, that charming feature is how we met — in high school. His school sent him across the country for an exchange year. They don’t offer that unless it’s international, but it was Blaine Cameron, so they bent the rules. He argued too much with his teachers, and when they wouldn’t entertain it, he spewed profanities. So yes — it’s probably part of his DNA. His father was the same way.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Lauren blinked. “You’ve met his father?”

“Yup,” Jackson said, jaw tightening. “Too many times for my likin’. Well… every man’s their father’s son, one way or ’nother. If ya don’t mind him bein’ like that, then I guess it’s jus’ what it is.”

Lauren’s eyes warmed. “He isn’t like that with me. Not too much. But I really cannot thank you enough. Can I be brutally honest with you for a moment?”

“Prefer it. Whatcha got?”

Lauren took a breath. “When Bri and Dad came to me with this idea, I was going to turn them down. Your… um… issues with my dad are legendary, and while you and I never really met, I had a completely different image of the type of man you’d be. My dad is the gentlest soul, and any man who doesn’t like him can’t be good. But you are… not… um… what’s the word?”

Jackson smirked. “Think yer husband likes ‘country hick’ and ‘redneck’ best.”

Lauren laughed, nodding. “Yeah, probably something like that. I didn’t know you at all. All I knew was that you caused my dad a lot of pain — physically and emotionally. So this was hard on another level. I was afraid you’d try to kill Blaine, knowing how he gets when he’s in pain. Which is why him tapering off pain meds is particularly remarkable.”

Jackson’s expression softened — just barely. “Honestly? Back at ya. Yer father’s sins ain’t yers. And trust me, Miss Lauren, I don’t doubt for one second that Brad’s a great father. But to me, he’s the man who broke up my marriage — twice — and the relationship Bri and I had before that, he broke that up more times than I can count.”

Lauren’s breath caught — she hadn’t expected that level of honesty.

Jackson continued, voice low. “I know I returned that favor, so he don’t look too kindly at me neither. It is what it is. And you’re that man’s daughter. Add that I never saw eye‑to‑eye with yer husband’s father, and what little I did know about the son didn’t give me the warm and fuzzies neither.”

He paused, then shrugged. “But Bri asked me to do this. And if Bri asks, it’s urgent — cos she knows all that history too.”

Lauren swallowed. “I didn’t know any of that.”

Jackson nodded. “I’ll never admit sayin’ this, but I think deep down yer husband’s got potential. And that’s why I think he needs another three to six weeks here. Might be able to crack ’im open a little more. But at least I know it’s there now.”

Lauren exhaled, relief and gratitude mixing in her chest.

Jackson tipped his hat. “I will say though — might wanna have a good long talk with yer daddy. Cos I’m thinkin’ Brad don’t like Blaine much if he wanted ya to send him to me, knowin’ our history.”

Lauren laughed, shaking her head. “No, that was Bri. She has a way with him — gets what she wants somehow. He has a hard time telling her no.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Jackson muttered. “I was determined to tell her no, but she don’t take no for an answer. Went straight over my head to my wife — and here we are.”

“Sounds about right,” Lauren giggled.

Jackson pushed off the counter. “Well, I best get on out there. Can’t have my women deal with all that food servin’ alone. And ya got yer man to deal with.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kershaw. Really, from the bottom of my heart — thank you. You impressed the doctor in me as well. I don’t even know what to call this type of therapy, but I need to study your ways and maybe implement them professionally.”

“Call me Jackson,” he corrected gently. “Mr. Kershaw is my daddy, and his grumpy self is out there stirrin’ people up.” He tipped his chin toward the yard. “It’s called ranch rehab. Cure a man by takin’ away all the nonsense and leavin’ only what matters. That’s how that goes.”

“It works,” Lauren said softly.

Jackson nodded once. “It’s fixin’ to get dark. Enjoy what time ya got with ’im before ya need to start headin’ back. Cos I think yer a fine young lady, but I ain’t puttin’ ya up overnight. He’s been doin’ good — real good — but not that good for me to allow these kinda shenanigans.”

He winked, tipped his hat again. “Ma’am.”

Lauren laughed under her breath, nodding, then returned to the guest room. She closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock.

Blaine looked up.

“What’s the verdict?”

“Well…” she said, stepping toward him, voice dropping, eyes warm, as she unbuttoned her blouse. “The verdict is that you are doing very well and you have impressed me. The real question is — how healthy do you really feel?”

His grin bloomed, slow and wicked, as he reached for her.

Thirty minutes later, when they rejoined the others, Amy and Jackson traded a look. Blaine and Lauren were holding hands, both flushed, both seemingly worn out, hair mussed, Lauren’s makeup softened and slightly smeared by heat and affection.

Everyone saw, everyone noticed. Nobody said a thing. Except one grumpy old cowboy.

“Musta been one helluva checkup…” Jack muttered.