11. Jackson
Jackson
“ I really don’t want to go,” I mutter, tossing a ball for Bear, who takes off like his tail’s on fire.
Rocky, of course, is still milking his limp like an Oscar-worthy performance.
I can’t even blame him—every time he lifts that damn paw, Theo, Mama or Ozzy rushes over with treats and cooing voices like he’s some kind of wounded hero.
I glance up at Jensen, who’s perched on the fence working his jaw like it’s causing him physical pain just to spit out whatever he’s gonna say.
“Please?” he says, and hell, I bet that one hurt. The Rowe’s aren’t known for begging.
“Jen, we’re gearing up for the county fair.
The barns still need shoring, and half the crew’s chasing their tails trying to get the prize stock in shape.
It’s been a shitstorm of a month, and you want to waste a night at the bar?
Why are you so hellbent on going anyw—” Jensen’s cheeks turn a shade redder, and I squint at him.
“Ohhh. Shit. Niamh’s back, isn’t she?” He groans like I just read his diary out loud.
“Well, damn,” I snort, propping a boot on the fence. “Didn’t know we were throwing it all for your Irish sweetheart.”
“She’s not—” he tries but stops, obviously getting flustered. “You know it ain’t like that.”
“Oh trust me, I’m well aware of your creepy one-sided relationship with that girl.”
“Fuck you,” he spits. “Come on, Jackie, you promised you would.”
I wave him off, chuckling. “Take Carter. Or Theo. Hell, take Ozzy.”
His brows lift. “Carter and Theo are already going. but you know they are going to hunt for ass, so I’m going to be left…” He trails off. “Jackson, what in the fuck is Ozzy doing?”
I follow his gaze out past the tractor shed and toward the cow pasture.
And there she is. Our resident hellfire.
Screaming at cows. In heels…with neon fishnets.
And a shirt so tight and cropped I can see the dip between her breasts from across the damn field.
I notice some of my ranch hands enjoying her attire as well.
“Get those fuckers out of here and I’ll go,” I mutter to my brother while staring in bewilderment at Ozzy.
She throws her tattooed hands up and turns to face one particularly vocal cow. “Have you ever not been fed, Greta?!” Greta moos, and apparently Ozzy takes this as fighting words. She gasps and points a dramatic finger. “That is a bold-faced lie, GRETA. And you know it!”
Jensen and I both stand there slack-jawed. “She’s finally snapped,” he whispers. “The manure’s eaten through her last brain cell.”
“Get those guys looking at cow shit or they’ll be finding a new job,” I grunt while walking toward her when she sinks—literally—into the mud, her heel impaling the earth. Then she falls, ass-first, into a shower of chicken feed. Chickens flock to her like she’s their goddamn messiah.
It’s too much. I lose it.
“Tink,” I chuckle, trying hard not to grin as she sits there, glaring up at the universe, covered in cracked corn and bird shit. “What are you doing?”
“It’s your parents’ anniversary,” she grits out, brushing seed off her thighs. “Your mom wanted the day with Morris, so I told her I’d handle the chores. And then Greta, that oversized tub of hormonal beef, decided to scream in my ear.”
“You’re yelling at cows.”
“I’m negotiating,” she deadpans. “Badly—Ow!” She screams as one of the hens pecks her arm.
“Alright,” I breathe as I hold my hand out for her to grab. “Let me help you outta there.” She swats it away like I’m trying to snatch her soul.
Instead, she unbuckles her heels, stands barefoot in the mud, and stomps over to a hay bale, looking more murderous than flustered. “I am perfectly capable of feeding the–”
She is suddenly interrupted, as Greta makes her way to the fence and lets out the loudest moo in Ozzy’s ear. “You are going to be a great fucking cheeseburger, Greta!” she screams while trying to brush the feed off her.
“Tink,” I say again, softer this time, kneeling to grab her shoes.
She’s shaking. Not from anger—something else.
I can see it in the way her arms wrap around herself.
In the way her gaze flicks too fast. “Baby, take a breath. What’s going on?
Don’t worry about the chores. I’ll have one of the guys do it. ”
“It doesn’t matter,” she insists, her breath hitching as she hops onto the hay bale. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“No.” Her voice hardens and she stands, brushing the back of her thighs. “You have no reason to care about this.” She chuckles, though I can tell it’s an unamused sound.
“That’s not fair,” I protest, stepping in her path. “I want to care. You just don’t wanna let me.”
Her eyes blaze. “Why? Why do you want to care? Because I help your dad? That makes me your little project?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, throwing up my hands. “No. Because I can fucking tell something’s wrong with you, and I don’t know… maybe I don’t want to ignore that!”
Two seconds. That’s all it takes for her to crack. Her whole face crumples—like the weight she’s been carrying finally slips. But it’s gone just as fast. Her spine goes rigid. Her nude lips curl into a scowl that could melt steel.
“Fuck you, Rowe,” she snaps. “There is nothing wrong with me.”
My stomach drops.
“You want to talk about someone having issues, Superman?” She keeps going.
“Your dad is dying, Jackson. DYING. And you can’t even walk into the room without flinching.
Don’t come after my darkness when you’re drowning on your own.
” She storms off. Just like that. And halfway through the field, she steps into something—probably cow shit. Good. She deserves it.
Still… I can’t stop staring after her. I should be mad. I am mad.
But I’m also haunted. Because somewhere in that mess of rage and pain and glittery fishnets… she’s right.
And that terrifies me.
I stand outside their door, hat in hand, pulse pounding like I’m about to deliver a goddamn eulogy instead of just talk to my father. My knuckles tap lightly, and I instantly hear Mama’s soft voice on the other side.
“Come in.”
The room smells like eucalyptus and lavender—probably Ozzy’s doing. I step in, and two sets of eyes find me—one lined and tired, the other expectant and kind.
“Mama. Pops.” I clear my throat, shifting from boot to boot like I’m thirteen again, about to confess to breaking the back fence. “I, uh… Mama, I know it’s y’all’s anniversary and all, but… do you mind if I have a minute with Pops?”
Mama doesn’t even let me finish. She’s already rising from the armchair, smoothing her cardigan, eyes shining a little more than usual. “Take all the time you need,” she says, brushing her hand over my shoulder as she passes, and then she’s gone.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Thick with the weight of every day I didn’t come up here. Every time I looked at this door and turned away.
Pops lays back against the pillow, looking like someone pressed the life out of him and forgot to let go. Still, his voice comes out gruff and sharp—just like always.
“Well,” he mutters, shifting weakly. “Which one of you ran her off?”
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me, boy,” he says with a huff. “This room could be on fire, and you wouldn’t walk through that door unless you had something serious to say. And judging by the way your face looks like a kicked dog, I’m guessing one of you boys pushed girlie too far.”
I wince. He’s not wrong.
“Ozzy hasn’t left,” I mutter. “Not yet, anyway.”
Pops tilts his head slightly and gestures toward the chair by the bed. “Well, good. Sit. You better make damn sure she doesn’t. She's a good girl. Be kind to her. Respect her, all of you boys.”
I snort lightly at his words as I lower myself into the chair, elbows on my knees, hat hanging from my fingers. “She’s a complicated girl to be kind to sometimes.”
Pops nods his head slowly. “She’s had a difficult past. You make sure she’s taken care of, Jackson.
” Pops corrects, slow but firm. “She’s not complicated, there’s a difference.
Complicated is someone who makes shit harder than it needs to be.
Ozzy? She’s doing her damned best to just keep breathing.
” The truth of that slices through me, and I find myself nodding, unable to meet his eyes.
“You make sure she’s taken care of, Jackson,” he repeats, voice rasping. “Not just while I’m here. After, too.”
“She’s tough,” I express weakly, trying to justify the distance I’ve kept. “She doesn’t let anyone in. And she’s mouthy.”
Pops gives a short, strained laugh. “Yeah, she’s got bite. That’s why I like her. Reminds me of your mother.” He sobers again, hid tone dipping low. “But she’s also been through hell. And I mean the kind that doesn’t just leave bruises.”
My chest tightens. “What has she been through?”
Pops shakes his head, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s trying to summon patience. “Not my nightmare to tell, son. Listen, I ain’t got long left, and when I’m gone, she ain’t gonna have anywhere to go. She stays here until she’s ready to go, understood?”
“Pops–”
“Jackson.” His voice grows stern again. “She stays. I want you and the boys to go on out to Derek’s old house and start fixing it up for her. She was ready to die with me in that storm. This is her home. Are we understood, boy?”
I look at him, really look at him. His skin’s papery, his frame half what it used to be. This is my hero. And he’s asking me for something with what little time he has left. I nod my head. “Yes, sir.” After a moment of silence, I quietly add, “I want to help her. But I don’t know how.”
“You listen. You wait. You don’t push, and when she gives you something—anything—you hold it like it’s breakable. Because it is.”
He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they narrow in suspicion. “You got a thing for her?”