Chapter 46
Chapter forty-six
Jasper
She’s curled into my pillow like she belongs there.
Red hair spilled across the cotton, cheek pressed into the plush pillow, lashes resting softly against her skin. There’s a faint crease between her brows. Like even in sleep, some part of her is bracing for the world to ask too much of her again.
She’s beautiful.
I’ve shared beds with women before. Moments of fleeting comfort. Distractions that burn hot and disappear just as fast.
This isn’t that.
This feels like something settling. Like something is choosing me back.
I don’t remember inviting her into my bed last night.
Not really. She just… ended up here. She chose to be here.
After everything she told us about Kat, about her parents, after hearing the way her voice stayed steady even when her hands shook, I’d felt it then.
The restlessness. The buzzing ache under my skin like when I didn’t know what to do with all the fight raging inside of me.
And somehow… she knew. When it was time to turn in, she hadn’t asked.
She just took my hand, pressed a kiss to Beau’s mouth, then Lawson’s and Lincoln’s, and whispered goodnight before leading me up the stairs and toward my room.
No one argued.
No one pouted.
They just let her lead me.
Like they understood that all of us loving the same woman means knowing when to step back and letting one of us step forward.
Fuck.
Love.
That word… that one single word, causes the ache in my chest to bloom into something warmer. Heavier. Unavoidable.
I don’t move right away. I lie there and let myself take her in. The steady rise and fall of her breathing. The way her fingers are curled around the edge of the comforter. The way her pillowy-pink lips are parted ever so slightly.
The way this one woman suddenly looks like my… forever.
It’s a dangerous word. One I’ve never trusted.
Too much has been done to me. Too much has been taken from me. Even at the hands of those who have “loved” me.
And yet, with her… it keeps whispering anyway.
Joe’s voice drifts through my head, uninvited and relentless, the way it always has when she’s right about something.
She’s not a prize you compete over. She’s a person who gets to choose that life. Every. Day.
I swallow hard.
I want this. Her. Them. Mornings that start like this and nights that end without anyone saying goodbye. I want to choose her every day and not feel like I’m waiting for the ground to drop out from under me.
And with my best friends at my side… with her… It’s a little easier to not be so afraid.
Carefully, I brush my knuckles along her cheek. “Hey,” I murmur, barely louder than a breath.
She stirs, nose scrunching first, then a soft, sleepy sound leaves her throat. It’s a simple noise, but one that punches straight through me. Her eyes blink open, slowly, and then they find me.
The way her face changes when she spots me, like she’s relieved to see me, is something I want woven into every dream.
“Morning,” she whispers, voice rough with sleep.
I lean in before I can overthink it and kiss her gently.
No rush. No hunger. Just warmth and intention and the quiet promise of me being here.
She hums against my mouth, one hand sliding up to curl around the back of my neck.
When I pull away, she follows for a second before flopping back against the mattress.
I grin before swinging my legs out of bed.
“Hey,” she whines, dragging the word out in a way that’s half protest, half smile. “Where are you going so early?”
I grab my jeans off the pile of clothes I set out before we crawled into bed last night, tugging them on. “Gotta get moving.”
Her eyes narrow. “Any particular reason the horses need to be fed before the sun is barely up today?”
I glance back at her, at the way she’s propped up on her elbows, wild hair, my sheets tangled around her waist, red marks on her chest from my stubble. The sight makes me want to rethink tradition and crawl back under the covers.
“Got some other plans for the day.”
She groans, flopping back onto the pillow. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Exactly.” I pull on a thermal shirt, followed by a thick flannel, then my wool socks. “Which is why we’re going for a ride.” A grin spreads across my face, slow and wide, as she lifts her head back up. “Christmas Eve tradition when the weather’s decent enough.”
Her lips curve despite herself. “A ride, huh?”
I wiggle my brows. “You wanna go for a ride, Red?”
She laughs, bright and real, and it feels like something sacred—like a song I want etched into my soul—before she nods and pushes herself upright. “You’re ridiculous.”
“True.” But she’s already swinging her legs out of bed and reaching her hands in the air on a stretch.
This—this—is the thing I didn’t know I was missing.
Not just her body. Not just the way she called out my name in the dead of night.
Not just the way she looks in the morning light.
But the way she just fits. And she does it without even trying.
Smiling and fully dressed, I head for the door, but she reaches out and hooks her fingers into my belt loop, stopping me. “Jas?” she says quietly.
I turn back.
“Thank you. For… just… thank you.”
I don’t ask what she means. I just bend and press my forehead to hers. “Anytime, Abbie Girl,” I say.
And I mean it in every way that matters.
Dezzy lifts her head the second she hears my boots, ears flicking forward, excited to see me. Rubbing a hand down her neck, I feel the solid warmth beneath her winter coat. “Mornin’, pretty girl,” I murmur, grabbing the curry comb.
The rhythm of it calms me. Long strokes over her shoulder and down her back.
I check her legs, one by one, brushing away dried mud, my hands moving on muscle memory.
Saddle pad first—straightened and smoothed.
Saddle next, settled gently into place, before running the cinch through my fingers, snugging it up slow so she doesn’t fuss.
Across the aisle, Lawson’s already halfway through tacking up his horse, Atlas, methodical as ever.
A broad-chested dapple gray mare, and as steady as the man swinging the saddle onto her back.
Lincoln’s in the stall next to him, working his horse, Ranger, a big chestnut gelding with an intelligent eye and just enough attitude to put him in his place when he needs it.
Beau comes in last with Duke, all easy smiles and loose movements, talking to the horse like they’re the oldest of friends.
Linc, having finished with Ranger, goes to open Griffin’s stall to get a start on him. But the second the gate swings open, Griffin snaps.
It’s quick. A warning nip more than anything, but Lincoln jerks back with a muttered curse just as Abigail steps into the barn.
She laughs immediately, bright and unbothered. “Griff,” she scolds lightly. “Don’t be rude.”
Lincoln glares at the American Paint, rubbing his forearm. “Crazy fucking horse,” he mutters.
Abigail just walks right up to Griffin, like he didn’t almost take a chunk out of Lincoln’s arm, and presses her forehead to his neck, arms sliding around him, cheek against his mane.
Griffin sighs.
I mean, he actually fucking sighs.
Duke flicks an ear, and Beau squints. “I just don’t get it.”
Abigail grins without looking back. “He knows who’s superior around here.”
Lawson chuckles, tightening Atlas’s cinch as he sends Abigail a wink. “Hard to argue with that.”
I watch the way she moves. So easy and confident. I watch how she checks Griffin’s tack like she’s done this a thousand times, and how he stands still as a rock just for her. A stubborn horse choosing trust like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
We all walk out of the barn together, the cold biting just enough to make everything feel sharp and alive.
Mounting is smooth—boots in stirrups, leather creaking, our breaths puffing white.
Abigail swings up onto Griffin like she’s been doing it her entire life, settling into the saddle with an ease that still floors me every time.
“Hey, Red,” I call as we start out. “Proud of you.”
She glances back, grin wide and unguarded, hair already coming loose beneath her hat. “Thanks, cowboy.”
The ride stretches open in front of us—fields blanketed in pale frost, the sky washed clean and bright. Abigail and Beau drift out ahead, laughing about something I can’t hear, Duke tossing his head like he’s in on the joke.
Lawson, Lincoln, and I fall into line together without even meaning to. I watch her for a long moment before I ask it. “You guys feel it too, don’t you?”
Lincoln exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
Lawson’s gaze never leaves her. “Have been for a while now.”
“We’re really doing this, then?” Linc asks, voice quieter now.
Lawson nods once. Sure and certain. “Yeah. I think we’re really doing this.”
There’s a beat, then Lincoln snorts. “What’s Mom and Dad going to think? Christ, they don’t even know she’s still here.”
I laugh, pointing at him. “They’ll just be happy you came out of your office and that this one”—I jerk my chin at Lawson—“has stopped scowling at everybody.”
Lawson finally looks away from Abbie long enough to scoff. “I do not scowl.”
“You scowl,” Linc and I say in unison.
Beau glances back at us. “You guys done with your little meeting or what?”
Lawson’s mouth curves. “Why? Feelin’ like getting your ass handed to you?”
Beau scoffs. “You fucking wish, old man.”
Lawson’s grip on Atlas’ reins tightens. “First one back to the barn is cleaning the stalls.”
And then he’s gone.
Duke surges forward, powerful and eager. Lincoln curses and kicks Ranger into a gallop. I wait a beat and watch Abigail take off on Griffin. Leaning forward, Dez explodes beneath me as we tear after them. A deep laugh tumbles from my chest, and just before I pass Abigail, I hear her laugh too.
God, I want this.
I want it forever.