Legacy & Cameron – Of Men and Fainting Goats

The sun wasn’t even high yet, but the heat was already sitting heavy on the ranch like a wet blanket. Chestnut Ridge summer didn’t care what time it was — it cooked you regardless. Blaine had been here for ten weeks now for his rehab. Ten, long, hot, sweaty, rough weeks – and not in the good way.

Blaine followed Jackson out after breakfast, no crutch now, only a slight limp when he stepped wrong. Every now and then he paused to rub the long scar down his thigh, thumb pressing into the muscle the way Lauren had shown him. It didn’t hurt much anymore — just reminded him it existed.

Jackson didn’t comment. He’d stopped commenting days ago.

Cody and Beau were already ahead, working another stretch of fence line. Jackson had Blaine with him — not because Blaine was useful, but because Jackson had decided he was safe enough to learn real ranching.

“Grab ’em tools and all that,” Jackson drawled, jerking his chin toward the wheelbarrow they’d loaded up with equipment.

Blaine walked over, grabbed the handles, and tried to lift it.

The wheelbarrow lurched sideways.

Then forward.

Then backward.

Then nearly took him with it.

“Jesus—I had better balance when I was moments from alcohol poisoning. This thing’s broken or something. Wobbly AF!”

Jackson finally looked up, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me ya never used one of these.”

Blaine snorted. “Oh, use them all the time. On stage. While writing music. It’s how I get from airports to hotels. What do you think, cowboy? I know thinking doesn’t come easy for you ranch hicks, but seriously? A wheelbarrow? Where do you see that fitting into my daily life, huh?”

Jackson stared at him like he was observing a rare species of idiot. “All that when ya coulda jus’ said ‘nah, never used one’? Jesus Christ. Ya really like hearin’ yerself talk.”

Then he walked over, grabbed the wheelbarrow handles with practiced ease, and lifted it effortlessly. Balanced. Stable. Perfect.

“Ya hold it like this,” Jackson said. “Center yer weight. Keep the load over the wheel. Don’t fight it. Guide it.”

He pushed it forward. It rolled smooth as butter.

Blaine blinked. “How the hell did you do that?”

Jackson shoved it back toward him. “Now you do it.”

Blaine grabbed the handles again.

The wheelbarrow immediately veered left.

He corrected.

It veered right.

He corrected again.

It tried to tip forward.

“Why is this thing possessed?” Blaine hissed.

Jackson sighed. “It ain’t possessed. Yer just bad at it. Said ya gotta balance it.”

“I am balancing it!”

“Nah, yer fightin’ it. Like I told ya not to.”

“It’s fighting me!”

Jackson rubbed his forehead. “Lord have mercy… ya look like yer tryin’ to walk a damn goose.”

Blaine glared. “This is not intuitive.”

“It is if ya ain’t a city slicker.”

“I’m trying here!”

Jackson smirked. “Shut yer piehole, quit tryin’ and jus’ do it right.”

Blaine wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Okay, okay. Tell me without telling me that someone who isn’t me needed another cup of tar— I mean ranch coffee — to get the sand out of his vajajay.”

Jackson’s head snapped toward him. “What did I jus’ tell ya?!”

“Well, a lot of things,” Blaine said, adjusting his grip on the wheelbarrow, “but between the lines you are screaming for help, saying your mood is shit, ’cos clearly you need to get laid. Makes two of us. Go talk to your wife, have her work out your rank mood, and then we’ll continue. How about that, huh?”

Jackson didn’t hesitate — he reached out and whacked Blaine in the side of the head with the flat of his palm. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

“I get laid plenty,” Jackson said. “And you shouldn’t. Do yer poor wife and all of us the favor and stay off of her. Last thing the world needs is more of ya. Now shut up and keep up.”

Blaine rubbed the spot Jackson hit, glaring. “Assaulting the injured. Real classy.”

“Yer injury’s healed enough for ya to run yer mouth,” Jackson said, already walking ahead. “So it’s healed enough for me to shut it.”

They walked the fence line until Jackson found the post that had come loose. He knelt, inspected it, grunted.

“Need a new one. Git me the digger.”

Blaine handed him the post‑hole digger like it was a surgical instrument. Jackson took it, stabbed it into the ground, and started digging. Blaine stood by, sweating through his shirt, handing Jackson whatever he asked for — shovel, level, bag of concrete mix, then helped Jackson carry a new fence post from strategically placed piles around the entire fenceline.

He wasn’t strong enough to do the hard manual labor by himself yet, but he needed to rebuild muscle, so his recent tasks had included a lot of hauling and awkward lifting. He could carry tools, hold the post steady, fetch water. Ranch rehab wasn’t glamorous, but it was working.

Jackson poured the concrete, set the new post, and started pounding it in with the driver. Each slam echoed across the field.

Blaine stepped back, wiping sweat off his forehead. “I’m gonna grab water before I pass out.”

“Don’t wander,” Jackson said.

“I’m not five.”

“Debatable.”

Rattled

Blaine muttered something under his breath and walked toward the cooler under the shade of a mesquite tree. He bent down, grabbed a bottle, cracked it open—

—and froze.

A rattlesnake lay coiled not two feet from his boot. Tail lifted. Rattle already shaking. Head angled. Ready.

The sound hit him first — that dry, electric buzz that vibrated straight through bone.

His breath locked. His muscles locked. His entire body went cold.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered. “Jackson.”

Then louder — panic ripping through his voice:

“JAAAAACKSOOOOON!”

Jackson didn’t rush. He didn’t panic. He didn’t even sigh this time.

“What now?”

Blaine’s voice was barely a whisper. “Snake. Snake, snake, snake, snake, snake. Right here. Don’t—don’t move. Don’t—just—Jackson. HELP.”

Jackson jogged over, saw the rattler, and nodded once — the kind of nod that meant annoying, but manageable.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not,” Blaine said. “I can’t.”

Jackson grabbed the long‑handled hoe from the wheelbarrow, stepped between Blaine and the snake, and in one clean, practiced motion, pinned the rattler’s head and separated it from the body.

No drama. No hesitation. No fear.

Just ranch life.

Blaine’s knees nearly buckled. “Jesus Christ…”

Jackson nudged the body with his boot. “Yer fine.”

“It was going to kill me.”

“Only if ya stepped on it.”

“It was coiled.”

“Yup. That’s what snakes do. Rarely find one sittin’ upright in no dang chairs or somethin’.”

“It was rattling.”

“Means it was warnin’ ya.”

“It was aiming at me. With its head.”

Jackson shrugged. “It was lookin’ at ya. Yer loud. Ya startled it.”

Blaine stared at him, horrified. “I’m loud? That thing was about to send me to Jesus and you’re telling me I’m loud? It doesn’t even have ears!”

Jackson smirked. “City slickers always think rattlers are out to get ’em. They ain’t. They tell ya first. If it were jus’ me here, I’d’ve flung that sucker over the fence and wished it good riddance, but I knew ya wouldn’t be able to focus on nothin’ no more.”

Blaine swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Jackson pointed at the cooler. “Welcome. Put the body in there. Makes good belts and boots. But stay away from the head — can still bite ya and kill ya, even now.”

Blaine stared at the snake, then at Jackson, incredulous. “You want me to what with the what‑what? Ah, hell no.”

“Jus’ get it done.”

“With my hands.”

“I don’t care how, jus’ do it and get back to workin’. Ya can use yer teeth or that wiener yer so proud of if ya want. Jus’ do it and move on.”

“Jackson—”

“Ya ain’t gonna die. Just stay clear o’ the head. Even you should be able to manage that. One would think ya never seen no snake before.”

“I have seen plenty, but the ones I know walk on two legs. Again — where would you imagine snakes fitting into my usual life, huh?”

“Put it in the cooler and come back to work.”

Blaine exhaled shakily, grabbed a shovel, and lifted the body into the cooler — shuddering, cringing, grimacing, keeping as much distance as humanly possible.

Jackson tipped his hat. “Good. Now grab that level. Post ain’t gonna straighten itself, and I’ll teach ya how to do that.”

Blaine groaned but obeyed, limping only slightly as he returned to the fence line, mumbling to himself:

“I almost got off’ed by a fuckin’ snake and bro is gonna teach me how to level fence posts, ’cos that’ll come in handy at my luxury mansion in Del Sol Valley. Gawd my life is so fucked right now.”

But he realized something:

He wasn’t just surviving this place anymore. He was adapting to it. Even the parts that made no sense — or wanted him dead.

Egged On

Two mornings later Amy handed Blaine the egg basket without a word — just a little nod that meant you know the drill. He took it like a man who’d done this a hundred times. Because he had.

Jackson was by the front door, sitting on the bench, pulling on his boots. Blaine passed him with a polite, “Excuse me,” like he lived here now.

Jackson watched him go, then glanced at Amy when the door shut behind him, the sound sharp enough to say that fool’s gettin’ comfortable here.

“He looks just about ready to go home,” she murmured, folding the dish towel they’d used to clean up after breakfast and hung it over the sink, and Jackson could see it in her face — she was measuring Blaine’s progress the same way he was.

Jackson’s mouth twitched as he rose. “Almost. Not quite.”

Amy smirked, crossing the kitchen and placing her hands on his chest. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His grin was pure trouble.

“Jackson… baby…” she said, the kind of patient smile only a rancher’s wife could pull off.

“Darlin’, this is finally gettin’ fun. And I told Bri and Lauren I wasn’t gon’ send that fool back home till I’m certain he can handle himself without runnin’ off the next cliff like a damn lemming followin’ the other lemmings.”

Amy laughed softly. “I think he’s long past lemming stage.”

“He is,” Jackson admitted, “but he’s still too much at faintin’ goat stage and too far from real man for my taste. Last night at turn‑down he saw a scorpion and screamed like a girl. Need him a couple more weeks. He’ll be home for his son’s birthday. But not a damn day sooner.”

Amy giggled, leaning in to kiss him. “I love your evil side.”

Jackson grinned. “Love ya too.”

In the meantime, Blaine walked the familiar path to the coop, basket swinging at his side. He still limped sometimes, still rubbed his thigh when it tightened, but he moved with confidence now.

Ranch confidence. Chestnut Ridge confidence.

He opened the coop, reached under hens like he’d been born doing it, collected eggs with practiced hands.

Then the rooster strutted in like he owned the place — puffed chest, murder in his eyes, full Tourette’s episode loading.

Blaine didn’t flinch.

“Oh, shut up,” he said, waving him off like a drunk fan at a concert.

The rooster squawked, offended, then retreated.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m the big bad cock on this ranch. You’re lucky I’m not into bestiality, or you’d be out of a job and all your girlfriends. Come sideways at me again and you’ll be Sunday’s dinner.”

Blaine laughed. He actually laughed.

Whistling one of his newer songs, he finished collecting the eggs.

Jackson and Amy stood a distance away — Jackson about to head to the barn, Amy having just seen the younger kids off to school.

“I think he’s defintely ready,” she said.

Jackson shook his head. “Nah. ’Nother week or couple. Like I said, he ain’t no droolin’ dumbass no more but he ain’t no real man yet.”

Amy stepped in front of him, hands on her hips.

“I think he’s about as good as he’s gonna get. He’s almost pleasant to be around — with a few little drawbacks, but that’s just his natural character. You’re not gonna change that without breaking his spirit, and we don’t want that. Do you really think he needs more time, or are you just making him stay for your own personal amusement?”

Jackson grinned. “Love ya, Ames. Have him help ya with them eggs and then send him to the barn for today’s program of turnin’ city trash into a real man.”

He bent down, kissed her, winked, and turned to walk off.

“Jackson Cole Kershaw, I don’t believe you…” she called after him, half‑amused.

He kept walking without turning, just waving his right arm.

Chicken or Fish?

Another morning, later that week, another day of the usual routine.

Blaine finished collecting the eggs, whistling as he walked back toward the house. Jackson intercepted him halfway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Alright,” Jackson said. “What ya want for dinner? Fish or chicken?”

“You sound like a flight attendant now.”

“Again with that talkin’, ya ain’t on stage paid to entertain … Jus’ pick somethin’ for Christ’s sake!”

Blaine didn’t hesitate. “Okay, okay, Grumpy. Chicken. Obviously. I don’t like fish much. Too … fishy.”

Jackson’s mouth twitched. “Ya need to learn when things should be a thought, not out loud. But fine, chicken it is. Come on then.”

Blaine followed him toward the coop, still whistling, still proud of himself for surviving the rooster’s morning tantrum.

Amy was already there, sorting feed buckets. Jackson pointed at her.

“Ames, which ones ain’t layin’ worth a damn no more?”

Amy glanced over the hens, then pointed casually. “That one. And that one. And the mean one over there. They’re done.”

Jackson nodded. “Perfect. Blaine, grab whichever one ya want.”

Blaine blinked. “Grab…?”

Jackson pointed again. “For dinner. Ya said chicken. Take yer pick.”

Blaine stared at the hens. Then at Jackson. Then at Amy.

Amy gave him a sympathetic smile — the kind reserved for city men who didn’t know better.

Jackson waited.

Blaine’s voice cracked. “You mean… like… that chicken?”

“Yup.”

“The… the live chicken.”

“Yup. Only it won’t be alive much longer now.”

“The one with the face.”

Jackson sighed. “They all got faces, Blaine. Git to it. Ames show ‘im how to do one. Have ‘im do the other two.”

Blaine stared at Jackson, paling more and more. “You want to eat that chicken, the one looking at us?”

Amy tried not to laugh.

Jackson stepped closer. “Yep, so pick one, Amy’ll show ya. Quick twist. Break the neck. Pluck it. Gut it. Bleed it out, prep it, grill it, dinner.”

Blaine’s knees wobbled, he had to steady himself by holding on to the coop. “I thought you meant… like… store‑bought.”

Jackson stared at him. “We’re on a ranch. Ain’t no store‑bought other than feed and coffee and such that we can’t grow or make ourselves. And most of that is traded.”

Blaine swallowed. “I… I can’t… I can’t kill a chicken.”

Jackson shrugged. “Then ya ain’t eatin’ chicken.”

Blaine’s breathing hitched. “Jackson, I—”

“Pick one and we’ll git it over with. Goddamn, Amy grew up in San Myshuno and she does it.”

Blaine’s vision tunneled. His ears rang. His stomach flipped.

He fainted.

Straight down. Like a sack of flour.

Jackson caught him by the shirt before he hit the dirt. “Lord have mercy… faintin’ goat stage confirmed. See, what I tell ya Ames. Ain’t ready yet.”

Amy covered her mouth, laughing. “Jackson, stop tormenting him. I hardly think Lauren will ask him to slaughter a chicken.”

Jackson nudged Blaine’s cheek. “Wake up, princess.”

Blaine groaned, eyes fluttering open. “No chicken. No chicken. No chicken.”

Jackson smirked. “So what ya want for dinner?”

“FISH!” Blaine shouted, sitting upright like he’d been electrocuted.

Jackson clapped him on the back. “Good choice. Grab yer boots. We’re goin’ fishin’.”

Blaine whimpered. “I hate this place.”

Jackson grinned. “No ya don’t.”

“But I hate YOU!”

“Nah, ya don’t.”

“Well, then you hate me.”

“If I hated ya, buddy, ya would know and ya wouldn’t be sleepin’ in my spare bedroom.” Jackson smirked.

Fishy Business

Jackson didn’t slow down as he walked toward the truck. Blaine trailed behind him, still pale from the chicken incident, still mumbling under his breath like a man processing trauma.

Jackson tossed two rods into the bed, grabbed a tackle box, and jerked his chin toward the passenger door. “Git in.”

Blaine climbed in, buckling up like they were about to drive into a war zone. “I can’t believe you were gonna make me kill a chicken.”

Jackson shut his door. “I wasn’t gonna make ya. I gave ya a choice. Ya chose poorly. Story of yer life.”

“It was false advertising!”

Jackson started the truck. “Was it? Or was ya just bein’ stupid again? How many times have we gone to the store and come back with anything but feed and coffee and such?”

Blaine groaned. “This is hell.”

“Nah, not even close, buddy. If ya think this is so bad, ya ain’t lived yet.”

They drove out to the prairie, where the big river winding through Chestnut Ridge was wide and deep like a lake — a quiet stretch of water tucked behind cottonwoods, dragonflies skimming the surface, the air thick and blurry with summer heat.

Jackson killed the engine and stepped out. “Grab the rods.”

Blaine did, still shaky. “I’ve never fished before.”

Jackson paused. “Yeah, I figured. What did yer daddy and ya do when ya were growin’ up?”

“I don’t know. Travel, make music, learn how to mix music, write music…”

Jackson stared at him like he’d confessed to never having eaten food. “Lord have mercy… ya really are city trash. All that is useless. Goddamn.”

Blaine lifted his chin. “Different lifestyles. What can I say.”

“Barely can call that life.” Jackson pointed at the river. “Answer me this, Blaine. If — heaven forbid — you and yer family ever fell on hard times, or got yerselves lost somewhere with no stores, no money, no nothin’, how do ya think ya’d survive? Never occurred to ya to learn a lil bit of real life?”

Jackson opened the tackle box and pulled out a container of worms.

Blaine recoiled. “Oh hell no. Why is everything — literally everything — you do gross?!”

Jackson raised a brow. “They ain’t gonna bite ya.”

“They’re moving.”

“They’re alive.”

“That’s the problem!”

Jackson sighed, grabbed a worm, and threaded it onto the hook with practiced ease. “Nah, that ain’t no problem. It needs to move or them fish don’t want it. There. See? Simple.”

Blaine gagged. “That’s disgusting.”

Jackson handed him the rod. “Hold it.”

Blaine held it like it was radioactive. “Oh God, that worm is still moving, impaled AF and still alive. You are a monster.”

Jackson stepped behind him, ignoring the whining. “Alright. Thumb on the spool. Swing back. Let it fly.”

Blaine tried. The lure plopped two feet in front of him.

Jackson blinked. “That was pathetic.”

“I’m new to this! Chill out, brosef!”

“Try again.”

Blaine tried again. This time the lure flew backward and nearly hit Jackson.

Jackson stepped aside. “Boy, ya tryin’ to kill me? Can’t ya listen to directions? I told ya—”

“And I told you I’m new to fishing!”

Jackson repositioned him, adjusted his grip, and guided his arm. “Now. Cast.”

Blaine cast.

The lure sailed out across the river, landing with a clean splash.

Blaine lit up. “I did it!”

Jackson nodded. “Finally.”

They waited. Cicadas buzzed. Water lapped. Heat pressed down.

Nothing moved.

Jackson stood next to Blaine with his own rod. Blaine got bored. Tapping his foot until Jackson stepped on it, glaring. “Shhh.”

“This is boring! There are no fish here!”

“Hush.”

“Yeah, because fish are famous for their keen sense of hearing. Everyone knows about the lop‑eared river eels and all those other perky‑eared—”

Then Blaine’s rod jerked.

“Oh my God — Jackson — JACKSON — something’s happening!”

“Ya got a fish. Reel.”

“I don’t know how!”

“Turn the damn handle!”

Blaine reeled, panicked, stumbling backward as the fish fought.

Jackson grabbed the back of his shirt to keep him from falling into the water. “Stop actin’ like yer bein’ mugged. Reel steady. And pull.”

Blaine reeled. The fish broke the surface — a decent‑sized bass, thrashing wildly.

Blaine screamed. Not the cheering kind. The high‑octave girl‑who‑saw‑a‑rat kind.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Lord give me strength…”

He reached down, grabbed the fish cleanly, and held it up. “Dinner.”

Blaine stared at it, horrified. “It’s… alive.”

“Not for long.”

Jackson handed him the fish. “Hold it.”

Blaine held it with two fingers, arms locked straight out like he was holding a bomb. Jackson folded Blaine’s hand firmly around it, feeling the entire man cringe and gag.

Jackson shook his head. “Ya gotta kill it. Hold it firm and go—”

Blaine’s voice cracked. “Jackson, I—”

“Quick hit to the head. Rock’s right there.”

Blaine looked at the rock. Then at the fish. Then at Jackson.

“I can’t.”

“Ya can. And ya will. Ya chose fish.”

Blaine froze — until Jackson grabbed his hand, guided the motion, and made him swing hard.

Thunk. Wet splat.

The fish went still.

Blaine opened his eyes, trembling. “I killed something.”

Jackson clapped him on the back. “Good. Now gut it.”

Blaine whimpered. “I am going to keel over again.”

“No ya won’t. Yer a real man now, ’member?”

Jackson handed him a small knife. “Cut behind the gills. Slice down. Pull out the guts.”

Blaine stared at the fish like it was a crime scene. “Jackson, this is barbaric.”

“This is dinner. It’s dead. Might as well use it. If we don’t, some critter will. We’re not out here feedin’ critters, so get to it.”

Blaine gagged through the entire process — cutting, slicing, pulling — making noises Jackson would tease him about for years.

When he finished, he held the cleaned fish up with shaking hands. “I did it.”

Jackson nodded. “Yer gettin’ there.”

Blaine exhaled, exhausted. “I’m gonna need therapy.”

Jackson smirked. “Yer already on ranch therapy. Ya did good. Put it in the cooler and let’s get some more. Got a household to feed.”

The moment Jackson parked his old beat‑up truck, Blaine was out the door and strutted toward the cabin like a man returning from war with proof of victory. He held the fish out in front of him, chin up, chest out, swaggering like he’d just conquered nature instead of shrieking at it. Jackson let him have his moment — every man deserved one victory lap.

They reached the front door and Blaine pushed it open with theatrical flair.

“AMY! Look! I caught dinner! I caught three — big ones! We have a ton of fish, we’ll eat like kings!”

Amy was at the sink rinsing vegetables. She turned, saw Blaine’s trembling hands and the fish dangling like a wet dishrag, and smiled with genuine warmth. “Well look at you.”

Jackson stepped in behind him, took the fish before Blaine dropped it. “Come on. Help me grill ’em. I’ll teach ya how to prep them and all.”

Blaine recoiled instantly. “Absolutely not. I have been out in that ungodly heat all day. I did what you asked. I am staying indoors now, with water and the ceiling fan.”

“Suit yerself,” Jackson said, already heading back out the same door. “I’ll grill them fish. And you help the women.”

“Whatever,” Blaine muttered.

Amy wiped her hands on a towel. “Good job, Blaine. Nice work. Now wash your hands and help the girls at the table.”

Blaine turned toward the table.

And froze.

Jackson’s four daughters sat there — the two eight‑year‑old twins, the thirteen‑year‑old, and the twenty‑year‑old — sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, each one calmly plucking the now‑dead chickens Amy had pointed to earlier. Feathers everywhere. A bucket of steaming water. A pile of pale, limp birds waiting their turn.

One of the girls looked up, cheerful. “Hi Blaine! Wanna help? I’ll show ya how!”

Blaine made a sound no grown man should ever make — a strangled, high‑pitched squeak — then spun around so fast he nearly slipped.

He bolted straight back out the same door, chasing after Jackson across the front yard.

“JACKSON! JACKSON! I WANT TO LEARN TO PREP AND GRILL FISH!”

Jackson didn’t even turn around. He just smirked, flipped a fish on the table, spice jar in hand, and called back, “Thought ya might.”

Behind them, in the kitchen, Amy and the girls laughed so hard they could hardly see what they were doing.

Extra, Extra

A week later, week eleven of his stay, the day’s work was done.
The little ones were knocked out cold. The two older kids out with friends.

Jackson, Amy, and Blaine were slouched on the couch, waiting for some old western to start — the kind Jackson had seen fifty times and still insisted was “real cinema.” Blaine didn’t care, as long as he could watch TV for the semblance of some normality of living in the 21st century and not the settler days.

Before the movie, the TV played one of those celebrity gossip shows — the kind that talked too fast, smiled too much, and always had breaking news about people Blaine didn’t care about.

Blaine had a soda bottle in hand, half‑slouched, half‑dead from ranch labor, pretending it was beer.

Amy was knitting. Jackson was pretending not to fall asleep.

The TV blared:

“Extra! Extra! Hollywood’s hottest headlines tonight—”

Blaine rolled his eyes. He knew how most of them came about. Take a grain of truth and fertilize with piles of BS until some catchy headline blooms.

“This actress got married—”

Amy looked up, mumbling something about ‘oh, pretty dress!’ Jackson just nodded on auto-pilot.

“That singer revealed her new boob job—”

Jackson snorted. “Who needs to know that?!” Amy grumbled. Blaine just rolled his eyes, thinking how few people watching this even realized the boobs were just the key chain dangled in front of everyone’s faces to distract from the other 99 other things going on with her. Addiction, divorce, lawsuits, could be literally anything.

“And this model just welcomed a baby with—”

Blaine tuned it out. The only babies he gave two shits about were five to six hours due west from here. Along with a wife he couldn’t wait to put his arms around again and just hold and squeeze and kiss and ….

“And stepping out in style tonight — Channing Cameron, arriving at the SAA Awards with a mysterious new lady at his side!”

Blaine inhaled sharply, mis-swallowed, choked — then sprayed soda in a perfect high arc, coughing violently, eyes bulging.

Amy jumped. “Oh my goodness!”

Jackson barked, jumping up, wiping cola spray off himself, glaring at Blaine:

“Goddamn it, ya moron! What’s it with ya now? Ya forgot how to properly drink or what the heck is wrong with ya again?! Do we need to bottle-feed ya now?!”

Blaine was already on his feet, bottle in hand, staring at the TV like it had personally betrayed him.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!”

On screen, Channing stepped out of a black SUV in a tux, looking like a million bucks. And beside him — in a sleek black dress, hair in an elegant updo, makeup flawless — was Charlotte.

The camera zoomed in.

The host chirped:

“Sources say the two arrived together, and while Cameron has kept quiet about his dating life, this looks like a very cozy pairing… Reliable sources suggest …”

Blaine’s jaw dropped as he tuned the rest of the report out.

Jackson grumbled, “What about it? Ain’t he allowed to date?”

Amy leaned forward. “She looks sweet. A little like your wife, Blaine. Could be Lauren at the right angle. I think it’s just the fashion trend, everyone eventually always looks alike until the next trend hits.”

Blaine whipped around, gesturing at the TV, still totally wound up.

“EXACTLY! That is Lauren’s little sister Charlotte. MY SISTER‑IN‑LAW! What the fuck is he dating her for now and why do I not know about this?!”

Jackson gestured at the cola mess he was wiping up with a rag.

“Are ya stupid or somethin’? THIS—” He pointed at the dripping coffee table. “THIS is probably why ya don’t know. Here, clean up yer own mess and do it right!”

He slapped the rag into Blaine’s chest.

Blaine still stared at the TV in disbelief, even though the segment had already moved on to which celebrity wore what and why.

“But… I… I gotta call Lauren!”

“Well, ya ain’t gonna.”

Amy reached for her phone, checking it out of habit. Blaine lunged for it like a man trying to stop a nuclear launch.

“Gimme that — I need to call her before she sees this!”

Amy jerked it out of reach. “Blaine, knock it off! NO!”

Jackson grabbed him by the collar mid‑stride, yanking him back and pointing at the damp coffee table and floor.

“Ya ain’t done! And ya better never try that again with my wife!”

“But—”

Jackson rose to full height in front of him, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, staring down at Blaine, who knew this was the final alarm before the five‑alarm fire when Jackson Kershaw lost his cool.

“Yeah, ya gon’ think but(t), cos that’s what I’ll be kickin’ ya in if ya don’t get cleanin’! Ya don’t talk to my wife like that, ya don’t startle my woman like that and ya sure as hell don’t go demandin’ nothin’ from my girl! And ya don’t need to be agitatin’ yer wife with yer dramatic nonsense — give that poor woman a break, will ya. CLEAN UP YER MESS and act like a real man for a change!”

Blaine groaned, slapped the rag onto the table, and started wiping — still staring sideways at the TV like it might explode.

Feedin' them Critters

Blaine couldn’t sleep.

He had gone to bed worn out from all the ranch work Jackson and Amy enjoyed torturing him with — exhausted, aching, sunburned — but his brain wouldn’t shut off. He felt betrayed. Not sure by whom or what, just… betrayed.

He didn’t mind the idea of Channing and Charlotte. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he was the last to know. The entire world — literally — knew before him. The event had happened a week ago. Tonight’s TV segment was just the recap.

His stomach grumbled. Hunger clawed at his insides.

“Go figure! My entire world gets rewritten while I’m living out my worst ‘Survivor: Backwood Redneck Edition’ fantasy here. What the actual fuck is going on with my damn life these days?!”

He gave up, rolled out of bed, pulled on joggers and a hoodie — zipper open. He needed air. Nights were cold here, or maybe they just felt that way because days were hotter than hell.

He opened the window and breathed in. His stomach screamed again.

“Jesus. Why the fuck am I hungry now? My body really is jacked, of all the emotion responses to this bullshit, you choose hunger? Holy shit!”

He left his room, grabbed a couple leftover drumsticks from the fridge, the door clanking as he threw it shut, and walked out of the cabin.

He felt like crawling out of his skin. He needed to do something or he’d explode in this exile vacuum.

“Channing and Charlotte,” he grumbled, stomping across the yard. “Channing. And Charlotte. And nobody told me. Nobody. I’m out here with my blue balls killing fish and peeling chickens and everyone’s just— just— out there in civilization fucking each other like it’s a damn soap opera. My best damn friend and I know NOTHING! What a bunch of assholes. If they couldn’t call me, they could’ve called Jackson and had him tell me! Anything would be better than being the fucking reject over here who finds out by accident. People are just the worst!”

He wandered past the barn, kicking rocks, past the mesquite trees, past the fence line Jackson told him not to cross without someone with him. He didn’t care. He wanted to pout in peace. He wanted to be dramatic without witnesses.

He found a flat rock overlooking the lower ridge and sat down, ripping into the chicken leg like it had personally offended him.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered between bites. “I’m his best friend. I’m her brother‑in‑law. I should’ve known. I should’ve been told. I should’ve—”

A low growl rumbled.

Blaine laughed. “Okay, stomach, chill. I’m eating. You’re fine. Everyone always yelling at me for something.”

Another growl. Louder. Closer.

“That’s… not me,” Blaine whispered.

He turned.

A coyote stood ten feet away, hackles raised, teeth bared, eyes locked on the chicken leg like it was the last meal on earth.

Blaine’s breath left his body. “Ah shit! Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my GOD. No no no no no, bad puppy. Sit, stay! Go home! Just fuck a duck, please just fuck off, will ya?! SHOO! SHOO!”

The coyote stepped forward. Unimpressed.

Gulp.

Blaine scrambled backward so fast he kicked his own shoe off. “JACKSON! JACKSOOOOON! WOLF! WOLF! WOLF! HEEEEEEEEEELLLLLP!!”

The coyote snarled.

Blaine screamed — high, sharp, panicked — and flung both chicken thighs at it like a peace offering. The coyote lunged, snapping at the meat, then snapped at him.

Blaine fell on his ass, scrambling like a crab, hands clawing at the dirt. “HELP! HELP! I’M GONNA DIE! JACKSON! JACKSON!”

A voice behind him barked, “Boy, shut up!”

Blaine whipped around.

Jack Kershaw — Jackson’s father, seventy‑something, grumpy, sun‑baked, half deaf, and twice as strong as any man Blaine had ever met — was stomping toward him with the fury of a thunderstorm.

“Git up,” Jack snapped. “Yer attractin’ it. Make yerself look bigger, not like dinner.”

“WHAT?!” Blaine always had a hard time understanding his drawl, plus his brain couldn’t process where that man came from in the middle of the night. His ranch cabin wasn’t far, but not that near either.

“Git. Up. And get behind me.”

Blaine scrambled to his feet, shaking so hard he nearly fell again.

The coyote lunged.

Jack moved faster than physics should’ve allowed. He grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck mid‑charge — one‑handed — like it weighed nothing, like it was a misbehaving puppy instead of a wild predator.

“Dumbass critter,” Jack muttered.

Then he flung it.

Not gently. Not symbolically. He flung it off the ridge like a sack of potatoes.

The coyote yelped, then vanished.

Blaine stared, mouth open, soul gone. “I… I… I…”

“Yup. Yer good, son. How’s that leg?”

“Fine. Did you just kill a wolf with your bare hands?”

Jack dusted off his hands. “Ain’t no wolf, ’s a coyote. And ain’t dead. Just wet. And smarter now.”

Jackson came running up the path, breathless. “What the hell happened? I heard screamin’ like someone was gettin’ murdered. Blaine— Dad— what are you doing out here?”

Blaine pointed at Jack, still shaking. “He— he— he killed a wolf!”

Jack snorted. “Weren’t no wolf, dammit son, can’t ya listen? Damn coyote. And I didn’t kill nothin’. Just gave it a bath.” He jerked his chin toward the ridge.

Jackson stepped toward the edge and looked down. “Yup, ya sure did, Dad. I see ’im down there, shakin’ out his fur, reconsiderin’ his life choices. Good. Don’t like them loners near my ranch.”

“All good, kid. He can make friends with that loner hog I just chased away from my ranch. That dumbass ran straight off the edge, but on the wrong side, so that coyote’s eatin’ good tonight and we get peace from them damn predators.”

Jackson looked at Blaine. “Why are you out here? I told ya not to go here alone, especially not after dark!”

Jack answered before Blaine could. “He was feedin’ it.”

“I wasn’t feeding it!” Blaine protested.

Jack jabbed a finger at him. “You was out here eatin’ meat. Same damn thing, kid. What do ya use fer brains this season?”

Jackson sighed, rubbing his face. “Not much, Pa. My biggest problem with him is findin’ out every day that common sense ain’t that common. Lord have mercy… Blaine, how many times I gotta tell ya not to wander off alone?”

Blaine swallowed. “I am not a toddler and I was… upset. And I couldn’t sleep.”

“Upset? Oh Lord give me strength!”

Jack grunted. “What’s he got to be upset about?”

“Came on TV earlier that his best friend is datin’ his sister‑in‑law.”

“So what?”

“How would you like it if you find out about your best friend or family AFTER everyone else already knows?!” Blaine snapped.

“Why’s it matter? If ya weren’t so dumb to end up here in the first place, ya’d have known. Yer mad at the wrong people! Ya only got yerself to blame, son.”

“Yup, tell ’im, Pa. Maybe he’ll hear ya, ’cause he ain’t hearin’ me.”

“I’m goin’ back to bed now. Boy’s lucky I was out here tonight. Else he’d be coyote chow.”

Blaine whimpered. “I hate this place.”

Jackson smirked.

Jack started walking back toward the cabin. “Teach that idiot Bri stuck ya with not to eat outside, Jackson. Coyotes smell meat from a mile away. Teach him that too.”

“I think he learned that lesson now, Pa,” Jackson called back.

“I’m not an idiot!” Blaine shouted weakly.

Jack didn’t turn around. “Coulda fooled me.”

Jackson clapped Blaine on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get ya inside before ya get adopted by a cougar. And not the two‑legged kind.”

Blaine followed, still trembling, still traumatized, still muttering, “This place is not fit to live in. Nobody should live here. This is no civilization.”

Jackson chuckled. “City slicker.”

They got inside and Jackson opened and closed cabinets in the kitchen, then handed Blaine a glass of water.

He downed it, then coughed so hard Jackson patted his back.

“Hey, buddy, shhhh, yer gon’ wake up my women.”

Through wet eyes Blaine blinked at him. “What was that?” he croaked.

“Moonshine.”

“Oh fuck! Dude, you know I can’t have alcohol.”

“Ain’t nobody ever gotten addicted to it. Ya needed it. Trust me. It’ll help ya sleep. Now get back to bed and try to get over it all. It ain’t so bad. Yer best friend is a good man, ain’t he?”

“The best. I’d trust Channing with my life.”

“There ya go. And yer wife’s sister — she a bad person?”

“Charley? She’s practically a younger version of my Lauren.”

“Then what yer fussin’ about? Ya should be happy.”

Blaine thought about it, then looked at Jackson, who smirked.

“Ya know I’m right, but ya just can’t say it.”

Blaine smiled, nodding. “Yeah… I guess you are right. But why did Lauren not tell me? Or tell you so you could tell me?”

“That a real question? Ya need me to recap tonight for ya? If ya always act like that, ya can’t blame people for not trustin’ ya with things.”

Blaine wanted to reply, but realized he was right.

“Can you stop being right all the time, please? It’s exhausting.”

“Can’t. Comes natural. Come on, Blaine. Let’s get ourselves back to bed. Busy day tomorrow.”

Balls to the Wall

^{[‘balls to the wall’ – an expression that describes a situation where someone is giving their all or going all out.]}

A week later, marking Blaine’s three‑month stay in Chestnut Ridge, everything was dead quiet after the overnight straight‑line wind event — the kind of quiet that only comes after a night of hell. Thunder had cracked so close it shook the rafters. Wind gusts over seventy miles an hour had ripped shingles off the barn roof. Rain had flooded half the pens. Everyone had been up all night fixing, hauling, patching, cursing.

By late morning, they were all running on fumes.

Blaine was dragging a rake behind him like it weighed a hundred pounds. His shirt was plastered to him with sweat. His hair was stuck to his forehead. His legs felt like wet noodles. He’d cleared out flooded stalls all morning, shoveled mud, hauled tools to everyone who screamed for one, and helped Jackson replace half the damn fence up front, after the ranchhands, Beau, Cody, and Jack had cut down and hauled away the tree that had fallen into it, missing the barn by a hair.

He was over it. Over ranch life. Over storms. Over everything.

Beau was inside the barn, picking up shingles that had blown in through the gaps the wind had torn into the roof, while Cody and two hands were up on the roof hammering new ones down after sealing it. He ducked into the last stall — the one with the young stallion Jackson had been debating selling intact.

The moment Beau stepped inside, the stallion pinned his ears.

Then he turned.

Then he cornered Beau.

“Easy, boy,” Beau murmured, hands up, trying to establish dominance.

The stallion didn’t care.

He lunged — fast, mean, all muscle.

Beau tried to step back, but the stallion snapped his hind end sideways and struck him with a glancing kick, catching Beau in the hip and sending him slamming into the wall. His head cracked against the wood with a sickening thud. He dropped to one knee, dazed, blinking hard, trying to get up —

But the stallion reared, hooves flashing dangerously close to Beau’s face. The force of the rearing movement and the stallion’s shoulder clipped Beau again, knocking him fully off balance. He toppled sideways, hitting the ground hard, half‑rolled, half‑crumpled, hands scrambling for purchase as he tried to orient himself.

Blaine saw it from across the barn aisle.

Everything inside him snapped into place.

“HEY!” Blaine shouted, sprinting toward the stall. “HEY! GET OFF HIM!”

He grabbed the stall door, shoved it open, and ran inside like a man who had forgotten he was terrified of horses.

The stallion swung his head toward Blaine, teeth bared, snapping at him.

Blaine grabbed the halter strap and yanked. “Dafuq you think you are, a snapping turtle?! MOVE! Get the fuck out of here you damn nag!”

The stallion didn’t move. He pulled back on the halter, thrashing, neighing, snorting angrily.

He shoved Blaine with his shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

Blaine shoved back.

The stallion pinned his ears and kicked — a warning shot that almost grazed Blaine’s thigh. The same one that had the broken femur.

That did it.

Blaine’s fear turned into fury.

“Oh HELL no! Your ass is toast now, fucker!” he shouted, and before Jackson could scream at him not to — Blaine hauled back and kicked the stallion straight in the ass. Hard.

The stallion squealed, spun around, clearly fuming from adrenaline, fear, and pent‑up testosterone after the night’s chaos, and charged Blaine.

“BLAINE! Get behind somethin’ big and steady — ya can’t outrun a damn horse,” Jackson roared, sprinting toward the stall.

But Blaine was already running — full sprint — out of the stall, the stallion hot on his heels.

Jackson intercepted like a linebacker, grabbing the stallion’s halter and yanking him sideways with the kind of strength only a lifetime rancher had. Cody jumped in, helping Jackson wrestle the stallion into another stall and slam the door shut. The horse was screaming and kicking, clearly angry.

Amy rushed in, boots skidding on the barn aisle. “Beau!”

Jackson and Amy dropped to their knees beside him. Beau was upright now, rubbing the back of his head, eyes unfocused.

Jackson’s voice came out in that low, gravel‑thick drawl he used when fear and authority mixed. “Son… talk to me.”

Beau blinked slow, dazed. “I’m fine. Jus’ a bump.”

Cody ‘s voice cracked across the barn like a whip. “Can someone please deal with that damn stallion, or are all ya’ll waitin’ for him to kill himself in there?!”

Amy wrapped Beau up tight, fussin’ over him like he was seven instead of twenty‑seven, hands patting his face, checking his pupils, smoothing his hair back.

Jackson turned then — slow, deliberate — toward Blaine.

Blaine stood there panting, shaking, covered head‑to‑toe in dust, sweat, and horsehair. His chest rose and fell like he’d run a mile. But he was upright. He was steady. He was alive.

Jackson stepped in, grabbed Blaine by the shoulders, and pulled him into a hard, grateful hug — the kind a ranch man gave only when the fear had been real.

His voice dropped to a quiet rumble. “Thank ya… ya saved my boy.”

Blaine didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t make it about himself. He just nodded once, jaw tight. “I wasn’t gonna let him get hurt.”

They walked Beau inside the cabin. Cody fetched ice, muttering under his breath about “damn stallions and damn storms.” Amy fussed. Beau insisted he was fine. Blaine hovered awkwardly near the counter until Amy reached up, grabbed his face, and kissed his cheek.

Her voice was thick, soft, full of that warm Southern tremble. “You saved him.”

A few minutes later, Della Rae burst through the door — someone had called her — hair wild from the wind, eyes already wet. She rushed to Beau, cupping his face, kissing him, fussing over him with that slow, honey‑dripped drawl she had when she was scared.

Then she turned to Blaine, grabbed both his hands, and kissed him too.

“Thank ya,” she breathed, voice trembling. “Thank ya for savin’ my husband.”

Beau tried to argue — stubborn even with a dazed blink. “Pa, I could’ve handled—”

Jackson cut him off with a sharp point of his finger, his drawl deepening into that don’t‑test‑me tone. “Don’t. Git. Ya might well have a mild concussion, yer tired, been out here helpin’ all damn night, and ya just about met the good Lord in person. I ain’t no fool, and I ain’t gon’ let you be one. Go home with yer wife. Hug yer boy. And think about how I feel.”

Beau’s mouth shut. Della Rae nodded, already pulling him toward the door.

They left together — Beau leaning on her, still dazed but smiling — the kind of smile a man wore when he knew he’d been lucky.

Straight Talk

The cabin door thudded shut behind Della Rae and Beau, leaving the place suddenly quiet — the kind of quiet that settles after fear finally lets go of its grip.

Only Jackson, Amy, and Blaine remained.

Blaine exhaled, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Can I have some more of that moonshine?”

Jackson let out a low chuckle, that slow, gravel‑deep drawl rolling through it. “Hell yeah.”

Amy rose, grabbed the glasses, poured, and came back. They clinked, drank, and the burn settled warm in their chests.

Blaine leaned back, eyes closing, letting the warmth spread. “Ah… that’s the good stuff.”

Jackson tapped his glass against Blaine’s again, voice dropping into that proud, heavy rumble. “Yer a damn hero now, kid.”

Blaine rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen… I appreciate it, I’m really glad I could help, but it wasn’t such a big deal—”

Jackson cut him off with a slow shake of his head. “Yeah, it was.”

Amy stepped closer, her voice steady, clear — not Southern, but softened by years of ranch life. “Blaine, he’s right. Storms like last night throw everything off. Animals get unpredictable. That stallion shouldn’t have been in a stall, but we couldn’t risk turning him out with the others in that state. Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s on edge — including the horses. You really did save him.”

Blaine blinked, the weight of it finally sinking in.

Jackson stepped in, voice low, slow, and honest. “Without yer quick thinkin’ and helpin’, my boy could’ve been in real serious trouble. Horses are my life, but they can kill ya in a hundred ways. Ya damn well saved his life. Trust me when I say that — I ain’t one to exaggerate.”

Blaine swallowed hard.

Jackson’s voice softened even more, almost gentle. “I think yer ready to go home.”

Blaine froze, eyes wide.

Jackson nodded once, firm. “Yer done learnin’ to be a real man. Ya jus’ proved to me ya are one. That’s what yer wife and yer kids need. That man. The one I saw out there savin’ my boy.”

“You… are serious?” Blaine whispered. “I can go home?”

“Yeah,” Jackson drawled. “I’ll call yer wife right now if ya want. Ya can be home by tonight.”

He paused — then that familiar smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Or… ya can stay one more day and help me castrate that damn stallion. I was gon’ try sell him intact — fetches more money — but that bastard’s been nothin’ but bad news and is lucky I ain’t turnin’ him into meat for the winter.”

Blaine stared at him.

Jackson raised a brow. “So. What’s it gon’ be, Blaine Cameron?”

Blaine squared his shoulders, straightened his spine, lifted his chin like he was about to walk into a bar fight.

“You know what? Screw it. Let’s do it. Let’s castrate the bastard. I am here for it.”

Jackson blinked — then grinned big, that wide Kershaw grin that meant he was damn proud.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, drawl thick. “Look at ya. Ames, ya hearin’ that?”

Amy laughed, covering her mouth. Her voice stayed clean, city‑born but warmed by the ranch. “Lauren is never going to believe this.”

Blaine smirked. “Oh, she will. ’Cause I will tell everyone who doesn’t run away fast enough that I fucking cut the balls off something that tried to hurt a friend…”

Jackson slung his arm around Blaine’s shoulders. “Alright then. We’re doin’ it today. That bastard’s still riled up, and so are we — perfect time to take his balls.”

Amy blinked. “Today?”

Jackson nodded. “Ain’t no time like the present. And tomorrow mornin’, Lauren can come pick him up. Call her, Amy, so she can plan for her husband to be home — a new man, a real man.”

Amy stepped out onto the porch, phone already in hand. Her voice was brisk, efficient — pure San Myshuno under the ranch dust. “I’m calling Lauren right now — she’ll be here bright and early.”

Jackson waved. “Good. She’ll pick up a real man.”

Blaine puffed his chest. “Damn right she will.”

They sat for a moment, letting the moonshine burn settle warm in their chests. Blaine’s hands were still shaking from the stallion incident, adrenaline still humming under his skin.

Cody stepped into the cabin, dust on his shirt, hair wind‑tossed. “Roof’s sealed. Pens are drainin’. Stallion’s still raisin’ hell. Y’all good in here?”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. New plan.”

Cody raised a brow. “Oh?”

Jackson jerked his chin toward Blaine. “We’re takin’ that bastard’s balls today. Blaine’s gon’ help — fer real this time.”

Cody blinked once. Then shot Blaine a look — half amusement, half Lord have mercy — and turned on his heel. “I’ll get it prepped.”

Not long after Cody left, Savannah slipped in, wiping her hands on a towel. Twenty years old, sharp‑eyed, already halfway through her vet program.

“Cody said you’re castratin’ today?” she asked, peeking toward her father.

Jackson nodded. “Yep.”

Savannah frowned. “Dad… the vet’s gonna take at least three hours to get here. And that’s if he ain’t already out on a call.”

Jackson waved her off. “Don’t need ’im. We got you.”

Savannah blinked, incredulous. “Me? Alone?”

Jackson stepped closer, voice steady, slow, sure. “I’ll assist ya. And yes, ya can. Don’t need no damn vet for that — I seen ya do it.”

Savannah swallowed, then nodded — nervous, but determined. “Alright. I’ll get the kit ready.”

She left to gather supplies.

Blaine stared after her. “She’s only twenty years old. Still a damn kid.”

Jackson shrugged. “Old enough. Smart enough. Seen me do it a dozen times. She’s ready. I ran this damn ranch by myself at eighteen. Folks out here mature fast.”

Blaine rubbed his face. “Good grief. You were alone too at eighteen? With all this?”

Jackson’s drawl deepened. “Yup. My daddy moved to Henfordshire for a woman he’d made a baby with, left me alone with all this right here…”

Jackson poured them both another round, slid the glass toward Blaine. “Drink.”

Blaine hesitated.

Jackson raised a brow. “Trust me — ya’ll gon’ wish ya had if ya don’t.”

He downed his own glass in one go.

Blaine followed suit, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as the burn bloomed warm inside him.

They sat in silence, listening to distant hammering, the occasional angry stallion scream echoing from the barn.

Twenty minutes later, Cody returned. “Pen’s ready. Ropes set. Hands standin’ by. Savannah’s got the kit laid out.”

Jackson stood, rolling his shoulders like a man about to do a job he’d done a hundred times. He grabbed his hat from the hook, settled it on his head, and jerked his chin toward the door.

“Come on,” he drawled. “That’s right — we’ll teach that stallion a lesson he won’t ever forget ’bout messin’ with the wrong folks. Let’s git to it. Come on, Blaine. If ya can do this… ya can do anythin’ ya want.”

“Someone better be taking pictures or vids of that shit, I swear to God. That will be my first post all over my socials once I am back in civilization, captioned something like ‘PSA: guess what bitchez, I am back, highkey badder than ever and lowkey redneck with legit hands-on experience in cutting off balls, killing shit, building shit, branding, and all that … fuck around and find out!’ and I will tag every media outlet, tabloid, ex-friend, promoter and whomever else ever screwed with me. And Channing. I will so tag his ass in that shit, so he knows what’s coming for him.”

Jackson snorted under his breath as they stepped into the heat, shaking his head with a half‑amused, half‑exasperated smirk. “Lord have mercy… I guess that’s what he gets fer callin’ you friend.”

Blaine scoffed, flicking a hand through his hair like he was brushing off the entire situation. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, “but he also knows if his life is ever in danger, I would save him. After kicking his ass six ways to Sunday for not rolling up here to tell me he’s dating my sister‑in‑law.”

Jackson shot him a sideways look, brows raised. “Blaine, had he tried that, I would’ve sent him away.” He tapped his belt buckle for emphasis. “The rule was no visitors unless I allow ’em, and I would’ve never allowed that. Redirect yer anger at me. I ain’t worried.”

Blaine threw both hands up, exasperated. “Okay, fine — then he should’ve called you or Amy, so you could tell me.”

Jackson snorted again, this time louder, waving him off. “Nope. Ain’t yer damn secretary. I wouldn’t have told ya a damn thing,” He pointed at Blaine’s chest. “Let that nonsense go. It don’t matter. Jus’ be glad yer friend found a decent woman and not a female version of you. Ya already scream like a damn girl.”

Blaine stopped walking long enough to glare at him, then jabbed a finger at his own throat. “I do not. I just have a large vocal range, because I am a singer, remember?”

Jackson gave him a slow, wicked grin. “That what ya do up on that stage? Scream like a girl?”

Blaine flipped him off without breaking stride. “Fuck you, cowboy.”

Jackson barked a laugh, tipping his hat back with one finger. “Nah thanks, don’t need to. I can make ya scream like a girl without forgettin’ I got good taste.”

Blaine choked on a laugh, shoved Jackson’s shoulder, and Jackson shoved him right back. They both burst out laughing — loud, stupid, relieved — the kind of laughter men fall into when adrenaline and moonshine are still humming under their skin.

And together, they headed toward the pen, the tools, and the pissed‑off stallion waiting for them.

Balls Done Gone

The stallion was in a makeshift pen — heavy panels locked tight, ropes ready, two ranchhands standing by. He was still furious, still snorting, still pawing at the dirt.

Savannah had the sedative drawn up. “Dad?”

“Do it,” Jackson said.

She stepped in carefully, injected the sedative into the stallion’s neck. The horse fought it at first, tossing his head, but within minutes his movements slowed, legs bracing, breath heavy.

His eyelids drooped — heavy, slow, half‑mast — and he swayed once, catching himself with a goofy, drug‑drunk expression.

Jackson nudged Blaine with his elbow. “Ya see that?”

Blaine glanced over. “Yeah. He looks hammered.”

Jackson smirked. “That’s what you used to look like. Back when ya were shootin’ up, snortin’ shit, takin’ whatever ya could get yer hands on and puttin’ it in yer bloodstream.”

Blaine closed his eyes, exhaled, smirked, then flipped Jackson off. “I hate to repeat myself but… fuck you, cowboy.”

Jackson pointed at the stallion again — the droopy eyelids, the slack jaw, the slow sway. “File that image away. Next time ya feel tempted to put somethin’ in yer veins or up yer nose, remember that right there. ’Cause that’s what yer wife sees. That’s what she was lookin’ at. If you were her, would you want that? Respect that? Take that to bed? Be honest with yerself.”

Blaine swallowed, nodded once. “Alright, alright. Point taken.” He tapped his temple. “Memory uploaded. For future reference — though I’ll never need it.”

Jackson grunted, satisfied. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Savannah checked his eyes, his breathing, then nodded. “He’s under enough. I’m gonna numb the area.”

The ranchhands and Cody nodded, then settled the horse to the ground and pinned him down, without much of a fight now.

She drew up lidocaine, stepped in again, and injected it carefully into the scrotal tissue. The stallion flicked his tail once, then settled.

“Good,” Jackson said. “That’ll keep him comfortable.”

Savannah laid out the tools — scalpel, clamps, antiseptic, sutures. Cody and the ranchhands steadied the horse, holding him firm. Jackson slapped a pair of gloves into Blaine’s chest, then snapped his own on with a sharp pop that made Blaine flinch.

“Alright,” Jackson said. “Let’s git started.”

He jerked his chin at Blaine. “Ya helpin’. Don’t worry — we’ll do the hard parts. Don’t ya go faintin’ on me.”

Blaine nodded, slipping on the gloves, throat tight as he stared at the horse’s man‑parts, knowing some of that would soon be gone. Shit was getting real now. VERY real. He almost felt physical pain in his own crotch area.

Savannah cleaned the area, hands steady, movements practiced. Jackson guided her, proud and calm, like he’d done this a thousand times.

“Alright,” Jackson said. “Savannah, you start.”

Savannah made the initial incision — a small, precise cut into the scrotal skin — just enough to exteriorize the first testicle. Jackson held the clamp. Cody steadied the horse’s hindquarters. Blaine swayed lightly, swallowing hard a few times.

“Good,” Jackson murmured, wiping off the blood. “Now clamp it… there ya go.”

Savannah worked carefully, focused, breathing slow.

Jackson glanced at Blaine, who was several shades paler than before. “Alright. Time for the final cut.”

Savannah handed Blaine the scalpel.

His hand shook.

“Easy,” Jackson murmured. “Quick. Clean.”

Blaine swallowed hard, stepped in, and made the cut, suppressing his gag reflexes hard.

The first testicle dropped into his palm — heavy, warm, real.

His stomach lurched.

Savannah held out a metal bucket. “In here.”

Blaine tossed it in so fast he nearly dropped the scalpel.

The ranchhands erupted.

Jackson didn’t give him time to recover. “Other side,” he said, already shifting position. “Ain’t done yet.”

Blaine’s eyes widened. “There’s… another?”

“Two,” Jackson said dryly. “Same as you What were ya ‘xpectin’? ‘Course two.”

Savannah made the second incision, exteriorizing the other testicle. Blaine made a noise somewhere between a choke and a whimper.

“Come on,” Jackson said, nudging him. “Ya lived through the first one.”

Savannah passed him the scalpel again.

His hand trembled worse this time.

“Quick,” Jackson reminded him. “Clean.”

Blaine stepped in, made the second cut — eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched.

The second testicle dropped into his hand.

He gagged audibly.

Savannah held out the bucket again. “Toss it in.”

Blaine threw it in like it was radioactive.

The ranchhands cheered louder.

“YEE‑HAW!”

“HELL YEAH, BLAINE!”

“BALL‑BUSTIN’ CITY BOY DID IT!”

“HOW ABOUT THAT NOW?! I”LL BE DAMNED THE BOY REALLY DID IT!”

Savannah finished the stitching, Jackson watching her with a proud father’s eye. “Good work, darlin’. Real good. Ya’ll be such a great vet, a blessin’ this town been needin’ for longer than ya been alive.”

She smiled, flushed with accomplishment.

Cody and the ranchhands released the gelded horse, who staggered a little, then walked off — calmer, safer, no longer a danger to anyone.

Jackson hauled Blaine upright by the arm.

“Ya did it, son.”

Blaine blinked, still pale, still shaking, still processing the fact that he had just held a horse’s testicles.

Jackson clapped him on the back. “Yer a real man now. A real ball‑bustin’, stand‑up man who saved another man’s life. Remember all that next time someone tries to mess with yer head to get ya in the sort of trouble ya been in. Ask yerself if any of that is worth it. And then ask yerself if ya think they could survive all you survived out here and then think about how serious ya wanna take their ramblin’.”

Blaine exhaled, nodded — shaky, proud, exhausted, overwhelmed.

He had done it.

Not alone.
Not perfectly.
Not without gagging.

But he had done it.

Tomorrow morning, Lauren would arrive.
Tomorrow morning, he would go home.
To his wife, his kids, his life, his home, civilization as he knew it.

Tomorrow morning, he’d return home not as the fainting goat who arrived… but as the man who kicked a stallion, saved a friend, held a scalpel just like Lauren did, and helped take the balls off a horse for its and everyone else’s sake.