Chapter 5 - Jackson
Seven years, and Sarah Matthews still affects me like no other woman ever has—the slight dimple in her left cheek when she smiles, the way her eyes catch the light. Most beautiful woman I've ever seen, then and now.
"We should go in," she says softly, her hand still in mine. "Before the coffee becomes breakfast."
I nod, reluctantly letting go to step out of the truck. The night air is cool against my face as I round the hood to open her door—an old habit she used to tease me about. But tonight she accepts the gesture with a small smile.
The gravel crunches beneath our feet as we walk toward the farmhouse. Lights from the porch cast a warm glow across the weathered boards. It's strange seeing the old Miller place transformed—flowers planted where weeds once grew, fresh paint brightening the worn siding.
"The place looks good," I say, hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her again. "You've done a lot in a month."
"Wait till you see inside. I've been sleeping surrounded by paint cans and drop cloths."
As we walk, a question that's been gnawing at me all night finally works its way out. "So, were there...I mean, did you have...in Seattle..."
I stumble over the words, feeling like an awkward teenager instead of a forty-four-year-old man. Sarah glances sideways at me, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Are you asking if I dated in Seattle, Jackson Covington?"
I clear my throat. "Just curious."
"Mmm," she hums, not buying it for a second. "I don't recall you being the jealous type."
"I'm not jealous," I grunt. "Just...curious."
She laughs, the sound warming me more than any coffee could. "Yes, I dated. Not many, but a few. There was one—David. A pediatric surgeon at the hospital. We were together almost a year."
Something cold settles in my stomach. A year is serious. A year is meeting families and planning futures.
"He was kind," she continues as we climb the porch steps. "Smart. Loved his work with kids.."
"Sounds perfect," I manage to say, working to keep my voice neutral.
Sarah stops at the front door, keys in hand, and turns to face me fully. The porch light illuminates her features as she looks at me.
"He was a good man," she says quietly. "But he wasn't you."
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to pull her into my arms right there on the porch.
"What happened?" I ask instead.
She unlocks the door, pushing it open before answering. "We were talking about moving in together. Had even looked at some houses." She steps inside, flipping on lights as she goes. "Then one night we were watching some documentary about Cowboys, and I started crying. Couldn't stop. That's when I knew."
I follow her inside, taking in the half-painted walls, the boxes still stacked in corners, the furniture draped with protective cloths. Renovation chaos, but I can see the vision taking shape—warm and welcoming, just like her.
"Knew what?" I ask, shutting the door behind me.
Sarah moves into the kitchen, filling a kettle with water. "That I was still in love with a stubborn cowboy back in Cedar Falls."
I stand frozen in the kitchen doorway, staring at her back as she moves efficiently between cabinets, gathering mugs and coffee.
"You never said anything," I finally manage. "All those years. Cole never mentioned..."
She turns, leaning against the counter while the kettle heats.
"What was I supposed to say, Jackson? 'Hey, I know you chose your ranch over me, but I still love you'?" She shakes her head. "I have my pride."
"And I have my regrets," I say, stepping closer. "Too many to count."
The kettle begins to whistle, and Sarah turns to switch it off. I watch her hands—capable, steady—as she pours water over coffee grounds in a French press.
"I told you earlier that I dated someone after you left," I say, taking the mug she offers me. "What I didn't say was how much it scared me."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "What do you mean?"
I cradle the warm mug between my palms, searching for words. "I spent my whole life knowing exactly who I was—oldest Covington son, ranch manager, my brothers' keeper. Then you came along and suddenly I wanted to be something else too. Your partner. Maybe someday your husband." I take a deep breath. "When that relationship ended after you left, I realized that losing someone you truly love changes you. Makes you question everything you thought you knew."
Sarah's eyes never leave my face, her expression soft in the kitchen's warm light. "And what did you learn from all that questioning?"
I set my untouched coffee on the counter and take a step closer to her.
"That some chances only come once in a lifetime," I say, voice rough with emotion. "And I'm damn lucky if I've been given a second one."
Sarah sets her mug down beside mine, her fingers tracing the rim absently. In the soft kitchen light, I can see the vulnerability in her eyes—a look I've seen before, seven years ago, when she asked me to follow her to Seattle.
"I'm scared, Jackson," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "I spent years building walls around the part of me that loved you. Learning to stand on my own. Finding strength I didn't know I had."
I nod, not daring to move closer though everything in me wants to. "You should be proud of that strength."
"I am," she says. "But that's what scares me. Last time, I was willing to compromise everything for us. I asked you to come with me, but I would have stayed if you'd asked me to." Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the emotion in them. "I'm not that woman anymore. I can't be."
"I wouldn't want you to be," I tell her honestly. "I fell in love with Sarah Matthews seven years ago, but I think I might like the woman standing in front of me now even more."
A small smile touches her lips. "Even if she's more stubborn? Less willing to bend?"
"Especially then," I say. "You deserve someone who meets you halfway, Sarah. Not someone asking you to give up parts of yourself."
She takes a shaky breath. "And what about you? The ranch has always been your world. Your brothers, your responsibilities."
I think about the Covington land, about the weight of legacy I've carried since my father placed it on my shoulders when I was barely twenty. About my brothers, all finding their own ways now, building their own lives.
"The ranch will always be part of me," I acknowledge. "But it's not all of me. Not anymore." I risk a small step closer. "Seven years is a long time to think about what really matters."
Sarah's eyes never leave mine, searching for something. Truth, maybe. Or proof that my words aren't just pretty promises that'll evaporate in the morning light.
"I can't do halfway again," she whispers. "If we try this—if we really try—I need all of you, Jackson. The good, the bad, the scared parts you don't show anyone else."
"All of me," I agree, my voice rough with emotion. "No holding back."
She studies me for another long moment, then slowly reaches out, her fingertips brushing against my hand.
"Coffee first," she says with a small, tremulous smile. "Then we'll see."
I turn my hand, gently capturing her fingers with mine. Not pulling her closer, just connecting. "I can live with that."
"Good." She squeezes my hand once before reaching for her mug again. "Because I make excellent coffee."
I laugh softly, some of the tension easing from the room. "I seem to recall you burned it every time at the ranch."
"Seven years," she reminds me with a mock glare. "I've learned a few things."
We move to her living room, navigating around paint cans and boxes. A sofa freed from its drop cloth offers the only proper seating. We sit closer than necessary, the coffee warming our hands.
"What was Seattle like?" I ask, genuinely curious about the life she built without me.
Sarah's eyes light up as she talks about the city—the constant rain that eventually felt like home, the way the mountains met the water, the vibrancy of her hospital program. She describes children finding confidence on horseback, wounded veterans reconnecting with themselves.
"It was beautiful," she says. "Different from Cedar Falls, but beautiful in its own way."
I nod, trying to imagine it, but finding myself distracted by the way her lips move as she speaks. They're just as I remember—full and expressive, curving gently at the corners when she's holding back a smile. I remember how soft they felt against mine, how perfectly we fit together.
Seven years is a long time to forget the taste of someone, but some memories never fade. I wonder if she tastes the same—like sunshine and possibility and everything I was too afraid to reach for.
"You're not listening," she accuses gently, breaking into my thoughts.
"I am," I protest. "Seattle. Rain. Mountains."
She raises an eyebrow. "Then why are you staring at my mouth?"
Caught. I set my coffee mug on a nearby box and shift slightly toward her.
"Because I was thinking about how soft your lips always were," I admit, my voice low. "And wondering if they still are."
Her breath catches, eyes widening slightly.
"Jackson..."
"Put your mug down, Sarah."
She hesitates only a moment before setting her coffee aside, her eyes never leaving mine. "Why?"
I move closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and light that suits her perfectly.
"Because I'm about to kiss you," I tell her honestly. "And I'm hoping to God I'm not making a mistake."
Her lips part slightly, and I see the pulse flutter at her throat. But she doesn't move away.
"Are you?" she whispers.
"Making a mistake?" I ask, reaching up to gently touch her cheek. "I don't think so. But I've been wrong before."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "About Seattle rain and mountains?"
"About thinking I could live without this," I murmur, and then I close the final distance between us.
The first brush of my lips against hers is gentle, questioning. A moment suspended in time as we both remember what was and consider what could be. Then Sarah sighs, a soft sound of surrender, and kisses me back.
It feels like coming home. Like finding something precious I thought I'd lost forever. Her lips are just as soft as I remembered, but there's a new confidence in the way she kisses me back—not tentative like before, but sure. Knowing exactly what she wants.
My hand slides into her hair, careful not to disturb the elegant updo too much. Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me closer until I can feel the warmth of her body against mine.
When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I rest my forehead against hers.
"Well," she whispers, her eyes still closed. "Some things definitely haven't changed."