Chapter 4 - Sarah
"Jackson," I say, his name feeling both foreign and achingly familiar on my lips. "You came."
He stands before me in a charcoal suit that fits him a bit too snugly across the shoulders, his dark hair combed neatly back, hat absent for once. He looks uncomfortable in the formal clothes, yet undeniably handsome—like a wild thing temporarily tamed.
"I said I would," he answers simply.
Mayor Henderson glances between us, his political instincts sensing the undercurrent. "Well, I should mingle. Wonderful event, Sarah. The town is behind you one hundred percent."
I barely register the mayor's departure, caught in Jackson's steady gaze. He looks at me like he's memorizing every detail, and I fight the urge to smooth my dress or touch my hair.
"Your brothers came too," I say, spotting them across the room.
Vincent's little girl twirls in her dress while his girlfriend laughs, and I'm struck by how much the family has changed in my absence. Grown. Evolved.
"They wouldn't miss it," Jackson says. "Neither would I."
The intensity in his voice sends a shiver through me that I hope isn't visible. I've imagined seeing him dressed up like this countless times over the years, usually in scenarios involving me in a white dress. Foolish dreams I thought I'd outgrown.
"The turnout is amazing," I say, gesturing to the crowded room. "We might actually hit our fundraising goal."
"That's great, Sarah. Really." His voice softens. "This place looks incredible. You look incredible."
I feel heat rise in my cheeks. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself, cowboy."
A small smile touches his lips. "Don't get used to it. The suit's about to split if I raise my arms."
The familiar humor breaks some of the tension between us, and I find myself laughing. "Some things never change."
"And some things do," he says, his expression turning serious again.
Before I can respond, Melissa appears at my elbow. "Sarah, sorry to interrupt, but we need you for the presentation in five minutes."
"Right. Thanks, Melissa." I turn back to Jackson. "I have to go explain the project and kick off the auction. Will you... will you still be here after?"
Something flashes in his eyes—determination, maybe. "I'm not going anywhere."
Words that mean more than they should.
The presentation goes smoothly. Standing on the small stage, I explain the vision for Equine Heart Center—the children and veterans we'll serve, the specialized equipment we need, the healing that happens between humans and horses. As I speak, my eyes keep finding Jackson in the crowd. He stands with his brothers, watching me with unwavering attention.
When I finish to enthusiastic applause, relief washes through me. The hard part is over. Mayor Henderson announces the silent auction is officially open, and the band begins to play a soft melody as people move toward the auction tables.
I step down from the stage, immediately surrounded by well-wishers and potential donors. I answer questions and accept congratulations, all while aware of Jackson moving around the perimeter of the room. He stops at every auction item, writing on bid sheets, his expression focused.
An hour later, as I finally extract myself from a conversation with Mrs. Abernathy about her grandson's autism diagnosis, Cole appears at my side.
"You're doing amazing," he says, handing me a glass of punch. "Half the town's fighting over those auction baskets."
"Thanks for your help with everything," I tell him, genuinely grateful. "I couldn't have pulled this off without you."
Cole's eyes drift over my shoulder, and his expression shifts. "He's been watching you all night, you know."
I don't have to ask who he means. "Has he?"
"Like a man who's dying of thirst watching the last drop of water." Cole's voice is gentle. "He told me he's never been surer of anything."
My heart stutters. "What does that mean?"
"I think you know." Cole squeezes my arm. "Just... be careful. Both of you."
As Cole walks away, I turn to find Jackson approaching, determination written in every line of his body. The crowd seems to part for him, or maybe it's just that I can't see anyone else.
"Dance with me," he says when he reaches me.
Not a question—a quiet statement of intent.
I should say no. Should keep my distance, protect my heart from this man who once chose his land over our love. But the band is playing a slow, sweet melody, and Jackson Covington is looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking for seven years.
"Okay," I whisper.
He takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor where a few other couples already sway. His palm is warm against my back as he draws me closer, maintaining just enough distance to be proper while still close enough that I can catch the scent of his aftershave.
"I should warn you," I say, looking up at him, "I've gotten better at dancing since the last time."
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "That barn dance where I stepped on your toes three times?"
"Four," I correct, surprised he remembers. "And then you blamed your boots."
"Those were new boots," he defends himself, but his eyes crinkle with humor. "Cost me a month's wages."
We move together with surprising ease, as if our bodies remember each other's rhythm despite the years between us. Around us, the community hall glows with string lights, conversations hum beneath the music, and occasionally someone laughs—but it all feels peripheral, background noise to the electricity passing between us.
"You've been busy at the auction tables," I observe, nodding toward where he'd been writing on bid sheets earlier.
"Just supporting a good cause."
"Mmm. And which items caught your eye?"
His hand tightens slightly at my waist. "The trail ride package. The custom tack from Miller's Saddlery. The year of free vet services from Doc Walker."
I raise an eyebrow. "Those are the three most expensive items."
"Are they?" he asks innocently, but there's nothing innocent about the way he's looking at me.
"Jackson Covington," I say softly, "are you trying to single-handedly fund my therapy center?"
"Would that be so terrible?"
I study his face—the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper than I remember, the stubborn set of his jaw the same as always.
"Why?" I ask finally.
He doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because it matters to you. Because what you're building is important." His voice drops lower. "Because I should have supported your dreams seven years ago."
My heart thuds painfully against my ribs. "One fundraiser doesn't make up for that."
"I know." His gaze is steady, unwavering. "Consider it a first step."
The band transitions smoothly into another slow song, and we continue dancing without missing a beat.
"I thought about you," I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it. "In Seattle. More than I should have."
"I thought about you too. Every day."
"That doesn't change what happened."
"No," he agrees, "but maybe it changes what happens next."
I shake my head slightly, even as my body instinctively moves closer to his. "It's not that simple, Jackson."
"Why not?"
"Because I built a life without you," I say, the words coming out stronger than I expected. "Because I had to learn how to want things for myself, not just for us. Because you chose the ranch over me once, and I can't—"
"I was wrong," he cuts in, hands trembling. "I was afraid, Sarah. Afraid of change, afraid of failing, afraid of wanting something just for myself instead of for the family legacy." His hold on me tightens. "I've regretted it every day since."
Around us, other couples dance, oblivious to the earthquake happening between us. I see Cole watching from near the punch bowl. Vincent and his girlfriend sway nearby, her head resting on his shoulder, Lucy sandwiched between them in an impromptu family dance.
"What would be different now?" I ask, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I still have dreams, Jackson. Big ones. I'm still building something that's mine."
"I know." He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "And I'm not asking you to give that up. I'm asking for a chance to show you that I can be part of it—that I want to be part of it. I'm still the same man in many ways," he continues, voice low and earnest. "I still love the ranch, still feel responsible for my brothers, still hate crowds and small talk." A small, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. "But losing you taught me that some changes are worth making. Some risks are worth taking."
I swallow hard. "What are you saying, exactly?"
"I'm saying I want another chance, Sarah. A chance to do it right this time." His gaze is so intense it nearly takes my breath away. "I'm saying that if you asked me today to follow you anywhere—Seattle, New York, the damn moon—my answer would be different."
"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper, my voice catching. "I came back to stay."
"I know." His smile is gentle now. "Maybe that's fate giving us both a second chance."
The song ends, but we don't step apart. Around us, couples begin moving off the dance floor as the band announces a short break, but we remain, caught in our own world.
"I'm not saying yes," I tell him, needing him to understand. "Not to everything. Not yet."
"I'm not asking for everything," he replies. "Just coffee. After the auction is over."
I stare at him—this man who broke my heart, who I've never quite been able to forget. The stubborn cowboy who bid on expensive auction items and wore a too-tight suit and asked me to dance in front of the whole town.
"Coffee," I agree finally. "Just coffee."
The relief that crosses his face is almost comical. "I'll take it."
"Jackson?" I say as we finally step apart. "If this is going to work—if we're even going to try—I need to know you're all in. No holding back because you're scared of what might happen."
He takes my hand, his hard-working fingers wrapping around mine with gentle pressure. "Sarah Matthews, for seven years, I've been a man who made the biggest mistake of his life and knew it. I'm done being scared. I'm done holding back. I'm all in."
Around us, the fundraiser continues—people bidding on auctions, the band returning to their instruments, Little Lucy running between tables trailing ribbons from her dress.
But in this moment, all I can see is the sincerity in Jackson's eyes, the vulnerability that this proud, stubborn man rarely shows.
"I need to check on the auction," I say, reluctantly stepping back. "It closes in twenty minutes."
He nods, letting my hand slip from his. "I should probably make sure my brothers aren't embarrassing the family name."
A smile tugs at my lips. "Too late for that. I saw Ethan trying to flirt with both of Doc Walker's daughters at once."
Jackson groans. "Some things never change."
"Some things do," I echo his earlier words, holding his gaze for one more meaningful moment before turning away.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of activity. The final auction bids exceed all my expectations—I find Jackson's name on the winning bid sheets for all three of the items he mentioned, plus two more. Mayor Henderson makes a speech about community support. The band plays their final set while volunteers tally the donations.
Through it all, I do my best to follow Jackson as he moves through the room. He speaks with his brothers, helps Vincent gather up a sleepy Lucy, and shakes hands with the mayor again. Occasionally our eyes meet across the crowded space, and each time, that same electric current runs through me.
Finally, as the last guests begin to leave, Melissa approaches with the final tally.
"Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and fifty-two dollars," she announces, her eyes wide. "Sarah, we did it! We blew past the goal!"
I feel tears prick my eyes as I hug her. "Thank you. For everything."
"Don't thank me," she says, pulling back with a knowing smile. "Almost a third of it came from one very determined cowboy."
I glance over to where Jackson stands talking with Cole near the door, his jacket now slung over one shoulder, tie loosened. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up, and even from across the room, I can feel the weight of his attention.
"Go," Melissa nudges me. "We can handle the cleanup."
I hesitate. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. We have plenty of volunteers." She gives me a gentle push. "Go get your man." She adds and I shake my head with a smile.
As I cross the room toward him, I'm struck by how right this feels—walking toward Jackson Covington at the end of a long night, both of us a little tired and a little rumpled around the edges. This is the real stuff, not the polished beginning of the evening with fancy clothes and careful words.
Cole sees me coming and makes himself scarce with a mumbled excuse.
"Ready for that coffee?" Jackson asks when I reach him.
I nod. "Let me just grab my purse."
"I'll pull the truck around front."
Outside, the night wraps around us like a familiar blanket. Stars fill the sky above Cedar Falls, more brilliant than anything I saw in Seattle. Jackson's truck idles at the curb, the same reliable vehicle he's had for years.
"Where to?" he asks as I slide into the passenger seat.
"Madeline’s diner's the only place open this late," I say. "But I have coffee at my place. And it's probably better coffee."
He glances at me, clearly weighing my invitation. "Your place it is."
We drive in comfortable silence through the sleeping town. I roll down my window, letting the cool night air play with wisps of hair that have escaped my updo. The scent of pine and grass fills the cab.
"Thank you," I say as we turn onto the road leading to the Miller property. "For your generosity tonight. It means a lot to the center."
"It means a lot to you," he corrects gently. "That's enough for me."
I study his profile in the dim light from the dashboard. The strong line of his jaw, the slight crook in his nose from when he broke it in high school, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.
To my surprise, Jackson clears his throat, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"I, uh—I dated someone too. About three years after you left."
This catches me off guard. In all Cole's updates over the years, he never mentioned Jackson seeing anyone seriously.
"She was a horse trainer from Bozeman," he continues, his voice low. "Smart. Independent. Everyone thought she was perfect for me."
"What happened?" I ask, trying to ignore the unexpected jealousy curling in my stomach.
Jackson's hands flex on the steering wheel. "Six months in, she wanted to meet my family. I brought her to Sunday dinner." He shakes his head slightly. "Vincent made your cornbread recipe."
"The jalapeno one?"
"Yeah." A soft smile touches his lips. "I couldn't finish my food. Just sat there remembering how you'd laugh when the spice was too much for me." His voice roughens. "Broke things off the next day."
I stare at him, stunned by this uncharacteristic openness. Jackson Covington has never been one to volunteer his feelings, especially not the vulnerable ones.
"Cole said I was an idiot," he adds with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Said I needed to move on. But how do you move on when every damn sunset reminds you of someone's smile?"
"Jackson..." I whisper, completely unprepared for the raw honesty in his words.
"I'm not good at this, Sarah," he says, finally glancing at me. "Talking about feelings. Putting myself out there. But I figure after seven years of regrets, maybe it's time to try something different."
The truck pulls into the driveway of the Miller place, gravel crunching beneath the tires. He turns off the engine but makes no move to get out.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He turns in his seat to face me, his expression more open than I've ever seen it.
"I'm saying that I've missed you every day for seven years. I'm saying that no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, there's a Sarah-shaped hole in my life that nothing else can fill."
I blink rapidly, fighting unexpected tears. This is a side of Jackson I've rarely witnessed—the gruff, stoic cowboy laying his heart bare without reservation.
"I don't expect anything," he adds quickly. "I know I hurt you. I know trust has to be earned back. But I'm willing to put in the work, Sarah. However long it takes."
I reach across the space between us, placing my hand over his. "You know, for a man of few words, you certainly found the right ones tonight."
His fingers turn, entwining with mine. "Been practicing them for about seven years."
"Coffee is a good start," I whisper, squeezing his hand. "I've waited a long time to see this side of you, Jackson Covington."
In the silver moonlight filtering through the windshield, his honest smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.