6. Jackson
Jackson
T he walls of the storm cellar groan as another wave of wind slams against the house above us, shaking the wooden beams like they’re twigs. Dust falls from the rafters, dancing in the flickering light of the emergency lanterns.
I pace, soaked and fuming, every muscle in my body strung tight like barbed wire.
“As soon as this storm is over,” I snarl, turning toward the others, “if she ain’t dead, I’m gonna kill her.” My fists clench at my sides as I whip around to glare at Jensen. “And I swear to God, I’m kicking your ass when we get out of here.”
He flinches, his leg bouncing with nerves where he sits beside Carter and Mom. “What the hell was I supposed to do, Jackie?” he snaps, voice tight with anxiety. “Break the damn door down? Drag her out over my shoulder?”
“Yes!” I shout, pointing at him like the answer is obvious. “That is exactly what you should’ve done! She obviously has a screw loose, staying up there like some kind of martyr while a tornado’s on its way in!”
The lights flicker again, and the distant thud of debris slamming against the exterior shakes more dust loose from the ceiling.
“She was supposed to be safe,” I mutter, pacing again, jaw locked, chest tight. “She’s supposed to be in here.”
“Enough,” Mama snaps suddenly, her voice sharper than I’ve heard in months.
I stop mid-step and look at her. She’s staring at me, her eyes wet and furious as her chin trembles.
“In the last week, that girl has done more for this family than most people do in a lifetime.” Her voice cracks.
“She made your dying father laugh, Jackson. She’s the only person Leroy will let near him.
She saved you. She saved your dogs. And now…
” Her shoulders shake, and her hands clench together in her lap as a tear slips down her cheek.
“Now she’s choosing to sit through a storm like this just so he doesn’t have to die alone. ”
A sick, bitter guilt twists in my gut, but I don’t move.
Carter and Jensen both move to her side, wrapping Mama up, shielding her from the flickering lantern light and the noise outside that only keeps getting worse.
“I should be up there,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the howl of the storm. “Not her. He’s my husband.”
And that right there? That undoes me.
Because she’s right. She should be with him. But she’s not.
Ozzy is.
That stubborn, infuriating, reckless woman who I cannot stop thinking about—even now—sitting up there in a fucking death trap, alone with a man who refuses to be moved, and probably trying to crack jokes while the sky tears itself apart.
Another crash above us sends everyone ducking reflexively.
It sounds like part of the barn just ripped loose.
The storm howls like a freight train overhead, angry and hungry, and all I can do is sit down on the bench, bury my face in my hands, and try not to think about her.
Try not to think about what happens if the house gives out.
Try not to imagine finding the aftermath.
Try not to imagine her body?—
I suck in a sharp breath, pressing my palms harder against my face.
Ozzy.
Goddamn it, Ozzy. You better be alive when I get back up there. Because if you’re not—I don’t know what the hell I’ll do.
“We’re in the clear,” Carter mutters, staring down at his phone as the shriek of the wind finally dies off into a dull howl. The kind that comes after a tornado’s passed. Like the storm has left, but it's still watching.
Jensen climbs the cellar steps and shoves the hatch open, letting in a rush of damp, heavy air that smells like wet earth, busted trees and survival. I follow right behind him, Carter steadying Mama as we all make our way out of the darkness.
I blink at the world above, still wrapped in a hazy blue gloom. The storm didn’t take the house—not completely. It’s battered, bruised, but it’s standing. That’s more than most can say after a tornado. And it means one thing: Ozzy and Pops are okay.
I should feel relieved. I should feel nothing but relief. Instead, there's a strange knot twisting tighter in my chest with every step toward the porch.
It’s not rational. I know she’s fine. The house is here. No flames. No rubble. No sirens. But it’s like my body won’t listen to reason until I see her with my own two eyes. Until I can look her in the face and confirm she didn’t get blown halfway to Kansas.
Why does it matter this much?
Mama climbs the stairs ahead of me, a little slower now that the adrenaline's fading. I hover just behind her, and when she reaches the bedroom door, I stiffen.
It's locked. She pauses, glancing back at me. Her brows furrow, just a bit. She knows.
Goddamn it, don’t read into this.
Then Ozzy's voice calls from the other side. Bright. Effortless. “Hold on!”
The door clicks open, and she stands there, smiling. No—not smiling.
Beaming.
“Hell of a night, am I right?” She’s in what looks like Pop’s socks, her damp hair piled on her head, wearing one of those oversized zip-up hoodies that hide half her body and somehow still show too much.
Her eyes are glowing like the storm didn’t just happen.
Like she didn’t almost die, and she’s looking right at me.
I snort. It’s the only response I can give without doing something fucking stupid. I pivot without a word and walk away down the hall.
She’s fine. That’s all I needed to see.
Not because I care, obviously. Not in the way that would be a problem. Just… I needed to know she didn’t get herself killed being the most goddamn reckless woman I’ve ever met.
With that weight lifted, I make a beeline for my room. My leg aches like hell, my ribs are bruised, and my brain feels like it’s made of static. All I want is a scalding-hot shower and sleep that doesn’t involve yelling at goats or cutting dogs out of chicken wire.
I’m halfway through unbuttoning my jeans when I hear her shout, “Hey!”
I close my eyes, already groaning internally. Goddamn it.
Ozzy jogs up behind me, her feet padding lightly on the hardwood, and I rest my forehead on the doorframe like I’m trying to disappear into it.
“Tink, I’m tired, I’m hurt, and I just want a shower.”
“You can’t get those stitches wet for forty-eight hours,” she replies casually. “Hang on, I’ll grab a waterproof bandage.” Before I can argue, she’s gone.
Of course she is.
I walk into my room and let my jeans drop. The bandage on my thigh is soaked, stained, and tight around the injury. I tug at it with a wince and glance toward the door just in time for it to swing open.
Ozzy walks in like she owns the place, holding a bandage in one hand. I hold out mine expectantly. She doesn’t give me the bandage. Instead, she drops to her knees in front of me and peels away the old bandage without a word.
“I’m capable of?—”
“Just shut up.” The growl in her voice catches me off guard. The way her hand slides up my thigh—firm, efficient, businesslike—shouldn’t feel like anything. It should feel clinical.
It doesn’t.
I stare down at the top of her head, her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks as she smooths the bandage with slow, practiced fingers.
Her touch is cold. Gentle. Too gentle. She’s gotta get up.
I need her up and the fuck away before she sees something neither of us are going to be able to move past.
When she stands, she winces, rolling her shoulder with a grimace.
“You alright?” I ask thickly before I can stop myself.
“Yeah,” she says lightly, brushing it off with a laugh. “The hail beat me up a little.” Something about the way she says it—how she shrugs off pain like it’s nothing—stings. She’s tougher than anyone gives her credit for. Tougher than I give her credit for.
She turns to go.
“Hey, Ozzy.” She pauses, looking back at me, eyes expectant. And I blank. What was I going to say? Don’t scare me like that again? Don’t be so goddamn brave? Don’t put yourself at risk like you’re disposable?
Instead, I choke on it all and mutter, “Thanks. For everything.”
She gives me a small, genuine smile—the kind that actually reaches her eyes. The kind that makes my throat tighten.
“Of course. Good night, Jackson.”
I open my mouth to say it back, but she’s already turning away.
Then she stops, her hand on the knob.
For a second, her face shifts, like the smile betrayed her somehow. Like she’s mad at herself for showing softness. And then the door clicks shut behind her.
I stare at the wood door for a long time.
What the hell was that?
I scrub my hands down my face and shuffle to the bathroom, exhaustion heavy in every step.
I tell myself I’m just relieved the house is still standing. That the animals are safe, the damage isn’t worse.
That Ozzy is fine.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with her eyes, or the sound of her voice, or the way she just kneeled in front of me like that without flinching.
And I sure as hell don’t think about the way her smile felt like a weight lifting off my chest. Or how quickly she took it back.
Because I can’t afford to want her.
Not like that.
So, I turn the water on hot, step into the steam, and pretend like I don’t give a damn.
Even though I do—I really, really do.
“Fucking Christ, Rowe, get your shit together.” I growl out as the hot water hits my tense muscles. I can’t afford to catch feelings. Ozzy is trouble, complicated, infuriating, and most importantly—temporary.
I don’t do any of those things, but temporary? Yeah, that’s my deal breaker. I don’t have time for anything that isn’t steady and consistent. I have a family and a ranch counting on me and I ain’t about to fuck that up for a nice body and pretty smile.
Though, as I think this, my hand still finds its way to my hard cock.
“Fuck,” I growl out while rolling my head back under the water. I move my hand up and down my length while trying to think of anything besides Ozzy. Anyone besides her.
I can’t, though. All I can see is her tattooed thighs, her pierced tits pressing against that thin fabric and her fucking mouth…
I release a guttural, “Fuck!” while bracing my freehand against the shower wall as I explode on my hand, the wall and tub. I steady my breathing as I roll my head back to hit the water again.
Never again. I will never think of Ozzy Davenport and touch myself again. It’s been a high stress day, emotions are…well, the point is, I’ll allow myself this one. But never will I come to thoughts of her again.