33. Jackson
Jackson
“ F uck, I’m freezing.”
The door shuts hard behind me, the wind howling through the cracks like it’s pissed off at the warmth inside. I stomp my boots on the mat, knocking loose a layer of snow and mud, then reach up to tug off my hat just in time for Mama to swat me on the arm.
“Boy, how many times do I have to tell you—watch your mouth around Wyatt!”
I wince, grinning sheepishly before leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Sorry, Mama. The cold moved in quicker this year.”
She gives me a pointed look, but the edges of her mouth soften. “Don’t go blaming the weather for your foul tongue. It’s cold every year, and you know it.”
“Yeah, but this front came in hard. We didn’t have time to ease into it,” I mutter as I shrug off my coat and hang it on the rack by the door. The smell of cinnamon and wood smoke hits me at the same time, grounding me.
“Did everything get done?” she asks, settling back onto the couch beside Wyatt, who’s hunched over a coloring book, crayon clenched in his little fist like it’s a paintbrush.
“Yeah,” I nod, flexing my fingers to get feeling back in them. “All set. Animals are fed, hay’s covered, heaters are working in the barns. We’re good for the winter.” I stretch, bones cracking and muscles stiff from hours of work.
“Good. That’s one less thing to worry about.” She says it like she’s been carrying the weight right along with me, and maybe she has. She always has.
“I’m gonna thaw out in the shower, then go grab Oz. Snow’s still comin’ down out there.”
“You don’t think she can drive in it?” Mama calls after me as I start up the stairs.
I laugh, dry and low. “She could. She’d damn well try just to make a point. But I’d rather not spend the night digging her out of a ditch just because she wanted to prove she could.”
Mama snorts something under her breath that I think might’ve been “stubborn recognizes stubborn,” but I let it slide.
I make it to the bathroom and crank the water hotter than it probably should be, before peeling off my wet, frozen layers. The steam hits first, then the burn. I stand under it until I can feel my spine again.
The last few weeks have been a fucking whirlwind.
We’ve been in full-on prep mode for winter—long days, early mornings, too many moving pieces.
Between keeping the ranch stocked, maintaining the fences, rotating feed, and running checks on every damn water line, I’ve barely had time to breathe.
And to top it all off, Jensen’s been walking around like a kicked dog.
He’s always been quiet, but this version of him is different.
Sharper. Angrier. Niamh got herself a boyfriend—a good one, from what I’ve heard.
He’s chiropractor, helps out at the Spur when Niamh is there late nights, even helps out at our town’s church during food drives.
The kind of guy you’d want your daughter to end up with.
And Jensen can’t stand him.
Won’t talk about it. Won’t talk at all, half the time.
Just throws himself into chores and picks fights with the horses like they’re the reason his heart is broken.
I tried to talk to him once—sat him down on the tailgate and asked, “You still care about her, don’t you?
” He just looked at me like I’d dug my fingers into an open wound. Said nothing. Just walked off.
So, yeah. He’s been… useless. Not that I blame him. I’ve been there. Hell, I might still be there.
Ozzy, though—she’s blooming. Slowly. Quietly. Like a flower coming up in frost, unsure if the ground is safe yet.
She got the job at the women’s clinic in town. Took a little while—paperwork, background checks, references. But last week she started officially. She comes home tired, sometimes drained, but there’s something in her now that wasn’t there before. Purpose. Routine. She likes helping people again.
She still does therapy twice a week—once alone, once with me.
I sit beside her and listen to her tell the truth in ways I don’t think she’s ever said aloud before.
I’ve learned more in those sessions than I ever asked for.
And some of it… some of it guts me. I keep my face still while she speaks, but later, when I’m alone in my truck or the barn or the shower, I let it wreck me.
There are things I can’t fix or take away. But I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try to carry the weight with her.
She’s been going to The Spur on Thursday nights for ladies’ night, and I’ve been staying home. Not because I want to, but because I know she needs space. Needs to feel normal again. Independent. Whole.
Mama’s taken to leaving little snacks in the kitchen for her to bring to work. I swear she likes Ozzy more than she likes her own kids. And Ozzy’s gotten herself a little flock of chickens. I built the coop for her last weekend. She painted it black and gold.
The thought makes me smile as I step out of the shower, towel off, and dress quickly. It’s still coming down hard out there. I’m not risking her on those roads—not when I’ve got four-wheel drive and a damn good excuse to hold her for the rest of the night.
I grab my keys, glance at the mirror once before heading down.
Time to bring my girl home.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, jaw clenched tight as the clock on the dash ticks louder than it should. She should’ve been off fifteen minutes ago.
I told myself I wouldn’t hover tonight. That she deserved to walk out of work without finding me pacing by the entrance like some overbearing boyfriend. But the sky’s already bruising with another storm, and the snow’s starting to fall in thick, wet clumps on the windshield. My gut twists.
Something’s wrong.
I turn the truck off and step out just in time to see the back door of the clinic slam open so hard it rattles on its hinges.
My boots crunch through snow as I zero in on what I’m seeing—Leah Kenton, stumbling backward down the icy steps, hands catching herself against the railing to keep from face-planting in the snow.
Behind her, James Kenton—her sorry excuse of a husband—comes barreling out of the building like a wild dog. He’s red-faced, yelling, spitting, and I’m halfway across the lot before I even realize I’ve moved.
My heart stutters when I see her.
Ozzy.
She’s standing in the hallway just inside the door, frozen in place. Her face is pale, eyes wide, her mouth moving but no sound coming out. She’s not afraid. She’s somewhere else entirely.
And that’s when the bastard turns.
He grabs her.
He puts his fucking hand on her—twists his fat fingers into the collar of her scrubs like he has the right to touch her at all, and something inside me snaps so violently it might never come back together again.
I don’t yell, I give him no warning.
I grab the son of a bitch by the back of his hoodie and rip him off her, slamming him against the doorframe so hard the siding cracks. His head snaps back with a grunt of surprise before I drag him down the steps like he weighs nothing.
He lands in the snow with a thud, the breath punched out of him.
I’m already on him.
Fist in his collar, knee in his ribs, I haul him up by the front of his sweatshirt until our faces are inches apart. His eyes are wide now. Panicked. Like he’s just remembered I’ve beaten men into hospital beds for far less than laying a finger on her.
“I knew you were a fuck-up, Kenton,” I hiss, voice low and shaking, “but putting your hands on your wife and then touching my girl? Boy, if you got a death wish, I will fucking grant it.”
He starts to sputter something—excuses, maybe—but I cock my fist back and drive it into his cheek with a sickening crack that echoes off the clinic wall.
He grunts and hits the snow again, one hand flying up to try and catch the blood already spilling from his nose. I rear back for another, but a voice cuts through the red haze in my brain.
“Enough!” Denise’s voice rings out sharp and furious. She storms forward, arms crossed and not an ounce of fear in her stride. “Rowe, take Ozzy home. Ozzy, you’re off tomorrow. Leah, come inside with me and wait for the cops.”
I look up at the sound of a whimper and freeze.
Ozzy’s crouched at the top of the steps, arms wrapped over her head like she’s waiting for a blow that hasn’t come yet.
My stomach turns inside out.
Fuck. Fuck.
I move slow, hands raised, my breath tight in my chest like I’ve been kicked there. “H-Hey, baby,” I say gently, crouching down beside her. “It’s me.”
She flinches when I place a hand on her back, and it kills me. “Don’t touch me!” she cries, her voice raw and cracked, and I swear to God, I see red again. Not at her. Never at her. But at the fucker still groaning in the snow.
I step on his hand on my way down, deliberate and cruel.
He yelps. Good.
Ozzy’s shaking so hard I can feel it from a foot away.
I don’t try to touch her again—I just hover, close enough to guide her but not so close she feels cornered.
I talk low, steady, murmuring nonsense as I guide her down the steps.
She stumbles once, and I move faster than I mean to, catching her elbow—but I let go the second her breath hitches.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. Just… shuts down.
When we reach the truck, I open her door, but she veers left toward her own car.
“B-Baby,” I call softly, stepping around her before she can reach the handle. “You can’t drive. The roads are iced over and the storm’s already starting.”
She stares past me like I’m not there.
“Tink?” I ask again.
She blinks, and something in her eyes flickers—like the lights coming back on in an abandoned house.
“Right. Snow.” Her voice is distant. Dull.
I open the truck door for her, but even the sound makes her flinch. She gets in, slow and stiff, clutching her hands in her lap like she doesn’t know what else to do with them.
I round the front of the truck, knuckles still raw and aching, and slide in beside her. The silence between us is suffocating.
She stares out the window, hand pressed to her throat like she’s holding herself together.
“Baby…” I try, voice barely above a whisper, “how about when we get home, I draw you a bath? Get you something warm to drink, maybe make you something good to eat. You don’t have to do anything. Just breathe. I’ll take care of everything.”
She doesn’t answer.
But her fingers tighten around her throat like she’s scared it might split open if she lets go.
And me? I grip the wheel tighter than I need to.
Because I swear—if I ever see James Kenton again, if I even hear his name near hers, I’m gonna bury him so deep in the snow, spring won’t bring him back.
The snow’s coming down harder now; fat flakes hammering the windshield like the sky’s got something to prove. I pull into the drive, headlights casting long shadows across the front of her cottage, and put the truck in park. My hands are still tight around the wheel when she speaks.
“I don’t want you here.”
My heart stutters. I turn to look at her, sure I misheard. But she’s staring straight ahead, voice hollow. Like she’s already gone somewhere else.
“W-what? Ozzy—baby, I’m sorry?—”
“I’m not mad at you,” she says, cutting me off. Her voice isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Too soft. It guts me worse than if she’d screamed. “But I don’t know how to handle this... not with a man close to me. So please. I don’t want you in there.”
I blink at her, stunned. Her hands are trembling in her lap, fingers gripping each other like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“What am I supposed to do?” My voice breaks. I can hear it—the panic. “I can’t just leave you in there like this. You’re not okay, and I—I need to know you’re safe.”
She doesn’t answer. Just opens the door and climbs out into the snow like she didn’t hear me at all. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t even hesitate before shutting the door behind her.
And then she’s gone.
A beat passes. Then another. The truck feels too small. Too quiet.
“Fuck!” I roar, slamming my fist into the steering wheel hard enough to set the horn off for a second.
My hands shake. My vision blurs. I drag both hands through my hair, gripping the roots and tugging like I can pull some kind of answer out of the pain.
I can’t leave her. I won’t . But I also can’t break her trust.
A man? All of this time, all of this effort and Kenton knocked me back to “a man.”
I grab my phone with fingers still clumsy from cold and rage and hit Theo’s name. She picks up on the third ring.
“What?” she groans.
“You at the house?”
“Yeah, I didn’t leave before the?—”
“I need you to go to Ozzy,” I cut her off. “Now. Please. She won’t let me in.”
Her voice sharpens. “What happened?”
“Kenton. He grabbed her.” I swallow hard. “I handled it, but she’s… she’s not okay. Won’t let me near her. Said she doesn’t know how to handle this with a man close.” My voice fractures. “I don’t wanna leave her alone.”
There’s no hesitation from Theo. “I’ll take the four-wheeler.”
The line goes dead. I drop the phone onto the console and stare at the front door. It’s dark behind the windows. No movement. No lights. Just the glow of the porch light catching flakes as they swirl in the wind.
I should be in there. I should be the one holding her through this, not stuck out here with nothing but my fucking guilt and the taste of blood still in my mouth from punching that bastard.
Theo pulls up five minutes later, bundled in a coat, hair whipping in the wind. I watch her knock, and when the door cracks open, my breath catches. Ozzy hesitates—just for a second—before letting her in.
Relief knocks the wind out of me. But it’s short-lived.
Theo’s only gone a few minutes before she’s back in the truck, stamping snow off her boots and slamming the door shut behind her.
“She okay?” I ask, voice gravel-thick.
“She’s not hurt,” Theo says, brushing snow off her lap. “But she’s… not good.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Then let me back there.”
She fixes me with a look. “No. Jackson—you need to go.”
I shake my head. “No. No, I can’t leave her?—”
“She asked you to leave,” Theo says, gently but firm. “And I know it’s killing you, but you have to respect that.”
My throat burns. I press the heel of my hand to my chest like I can keep the ache in check, but it’s too much.
“She’s in pain,” I whisper. “And I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Theo reaches over and grips my shoulder. “That woman adores you. But she’s in survival mode right now. You showing up like a knight in shining armor isn’t what she needs tonight. What she needs is to feel safe—on her terms, in her home. Let her have that. I’ll text you if anything changes.”
I nod, the motion slow and bitter. My chest feels hollow as she climbs back out and walks toward the cottage, disappearing behind that same door Ozzy closed on me.
And I just sit.
Alone.
Engine off.
Listening to the storm rage while the one in my heart tears me apart from the inside out.