Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
A sob ripped through Chase as he stumbled down the aisle and burst through the barn doors into the night's cool embrace. Hunter and Jewel had kneeled in the stall like the most morbid nativity scene, their bodies curved around the lifeless mare and the still-born foal.
Hunter's arm wrapped around Jewel's shoulders, a gesture of comfort that struck Chase like a physical blow as she closed the mare's eyes, tears pouring down her cheeks.
The smell had hit him with an overwhelming intensity. The mixture of copper, the earthy scent of hay, the unmistakable stench of blood, and the lingering presence of death sent him racing out of the barn. It was the smell of loss, of tragedy, of the fragility of life in the face of nature's unforgiving power.
His stomach heaved as the door banged closed behind him. Jewel's head resting on Hunter's shoulder became a blurred image in his mind that triggered something deep and painful inside him.
The ground rushed up as he fell on his hands and knees.
Tears mixed with the taste of vomit in Chase's mouth as he violently released his emotions. The cool embrace of the night air against his skin was a stark contrast to the heat radiating off of his body. Sweat dripped down his neck, his muscles tense and trembling.
The acrid taste of bile coated his tongue, his stomach muscles clenching in painful spasms. Hay chaff stuck to the sweat on his neck, clinging like the disastrous evening he couldn't shake.
Jewel's hand was warm against his back, steady and sure. She laid a cool, damp cloth onto his neck, tossing the hay to the side.
"Here," she said softly, her voice stripped of its usual sharp edges.
Chase wiped his mouth, unable to look at her. The cloth smelled of antiseptic and something herbal—lavender, maybe. His mind kept replaying the mare's last moments, her panicked eyes, the stillborn foal limp against the barn's wooden slats.
No shame penetrated his numbness. Just a hollowness that echoed through his bones.
When the dry heaves finally subsided, Jewel gripped his arms, helping him upright. Her movements were professional, practiced—the same way she'd handled countless injured animals, broken equipment, broken men. He couldn't read anything into her movements, not when she'd made her thoughts clear last weekend.
"Come on," she said, ducking under his arm. "I'll take you home."
Her truck's engine rumbled to life, a familiar mechanical heartbeat. Time passed in silence, the landscape blurring green and brown outside the windshield as the sun set. Chase stared straight ahead, feeling her occasional glance slide across his profile.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Chase's throat felt raw, words gathering like stones.
"Your job sucks sometimes," he finally muttered, his voice rough and ragged.
Jewel snorted—a bitter, sharp sound that was more pain than humor. Her knuckles tightened slightly on the steering wheel, veins rising against her tanned skin. "Yep," she said, each word clipped and precise. "But the good days usually outweigh the bad ones."
Her eyes never left the dirt road, but Chase caught the subtle tension in her jaw. Something darker lurked beneath her words.
"Today was the worst," she continued, her voice dropping as tears rolled down her cheek unheeded. "The most fucked up day in a while. Sometimes it's like that, though. Not just difficult, but soul-crushing because no amount of skill or compassion can change the outcome."
"Days when death wins, fierce and brutal," he murmured, staring out the window. "It was like that in the first prison I was in too."
She sucked in a breath, but didn't look at him. "Were you—in danger there?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," he whispered, closing his eyes against the memories. The truck's engine hummed, a steady counterpoint to their unspoken understanding.
"What happened?" she asked.
He tensed and shook his head. "About what you'd imagine, I suppose. New guy, runt of the pack, a teenager thrown in with the adults."
He watched her profile in the reflection of the window, seeing the thin line of her mouth, the way her shoulders carried unexpressed grief and dismay. They were both carrying weight right now—different pasts, different traumas, but equally heavy.
He didn't want to think about those days anymore. Thankfully, the truck rolled to a stop. Gravel crunched beneath tires, then silence.
Chase's hand was already on the door handle, ready to escape this day from hell and the memories that haunted him. "Thanks for the ride," he said, voice flat. "See you around."
His boots hit the ground, and the engine shut off. He paused, ready to slam the door, but confused on why she'd killed the truck. Something held him in that suspended moment, a flicker of some emotion that broke through his pain. The cab was charged with an electric tension he couldn't name as he looked at her.
Jewel didn't move, didn't look at him.
Her knuckles gripped the steering wheel so tightly they'd gone white, bloodless, and her other hand was frozen on the ignition. Beneath her carefully controlled surface was a woman who was hurting just as much as he. Her tongue darted out, quick and nervous, wetting her lower lip.
Chase watched the movement, caught between staying and going, between comfort and distance. His hand remained on the door, open and waiting.
Her voice cracked when she spoke, surprising even himself. "Can… can I stay here tonight? I'd really like to not face my dad right now, and you're—this is a safe space."
The words hung between them, vulnerable. Raw. A request that was more than just about a place to sleep—it was about sanctuary, about not having to be strong for just one night.
Had she almost admitted that he was her safe space? Hope flared, brief and brilliant before he stomped it out. This wasn't about him; it was about her not wanting to face her dad.
"He'll make you feel bad about losing the mare and foal?" His tone was knowing, protective. "It's not your fault, you know."
It wasn't a question, but a simple statement, a shield.
"I know," she said, closing her eyes and sighing in defeat. "I know, but I still feel like a failure. Can I?—"
"Yeah," he said softly, unable to deny this woman a thing. The single word was a lifeline, a promise to care for her forever, if she'd just take it. More than just permission to stay, it was an offering of understanding, acceptance, and something deeper.
He just wanted to wrap her into his arms, carry her inside, and hold her all night. Her shoulders were rounded, not with her normal strength but with the heaviness of failure. God, how he wanted to restore her joy, her confidence, her peace.
Her eyes, when they finally met his, were dark with pain and understanding. There was no pity about his past. Just pure, hard-earned empathy, shared pain, and the very human need to not be alone in the darkness.
He nodded and shut the door, striding up to the cabin. She followed him inside, a small bag in her hand that he ignored.
As he closed the front door of the cabin behind her, the energy between them shifted. She almost seemed to pause, as if she just wanted to be near him, but that couldn't possibly be it. There was no way she craved him the way he craved her.
The space between them filled with a kind of raw intimacy that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with shared pain. Two people who had seen too much, lost too much, and understood each other in a language deeper than words.
Two people who craved solace in the other's arms.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the idea. She'd said last weekend that she didn't want him. He wasn't good enough, not that she'd said it.
He glanced at the cabin as if through her eyes. It was sparse but functional. Boots by the door, a jacket draped over one of the two chairs around the small square table under the window, his laptop closed on the corner. Pale blue and green curtains were open, so he moved to shut them, dropping the blackout ones.
The couch sat in front of the fireplace, a low coffee table in front of it. On the other side of it sat his dresser and small closet beside the bed, with the door to the bathroom on the other side of it.
To the left of the door sat the small kitchen, just a refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, stove, and oven, and a few cabinets and drawers, all in one row.
It wasn't a permanent option, he knew that, yet for the first time in a year, he felt ready for more space. It was strange going from a jail cell to all this room in this one-room cabin. But he might be ready for more, finally.
He moved into the cabin, around her as she stood behind the couch and to the bathroom. He set a towel on the counter, then went back around the bed, pulling a t-shirt out of the dresser. He tossed it on the bed and waved.
"Shower's yours first. I'll whip up something to eat, if you're hungry."
She dropped her bag, her footsteps heavier than normal as she grabbed the t-shirt and closed the bathroom door behind her. When the water turned on, he sighed and ran his hand on the back of his neck as he strode to the fridge.
He winced as he opened it, almost bare. He'd been waiting to go to the store this week, had even missed his therapy appointment because he'd buried himself in his work to avoid thinking about Jewel.
And here she was.
He needed to feed her. His eyes refocused on the contents inside, then opened the freezer to reveal some freezer meals. He pulled out two and popped the cold cardboard onto the counter. The microwave hummed, a mechanical soundtrack that soothed the rawness of the day.
When Jewel emerged from the bathroom, something caught in his throat. Her hair was damp, curling at the edges. His shirt hung loose on her frame, a territory marker of intimacy neither of them would name.
"Wasn't sure if you were hungry," he said, gesturing to the pot pies. "I don't have a lot of options, as I missed my grocery run this week, but you're welcome to whatever I have."
Her eyes—usually sharp, professional—were softer now, vulnerable. She walked toward the table, each step deliberate. Her long, toned legs drew his gaze, and something primal stirred inside him.
Chase sat, stabbing his fork into the steaming pot pie. The crust broke with a satisfying crack. He barely tasted it, mechanical motions of survival.
"Are you worried about your mom?" Jewel asked. Her voice was low, careful not to push.
His throat tightened. A physical reaction to an emotion he couldn't quite process. He nodded, unable to speak. The food turned to ash in his mouth. Each swallow was an effort, like pushing through thick mud.
Her eyes tracked his movement. Professional. Compassionate. But there was something else underneath—a shared understanding of pain, of loss.
He finished eating, the plate half-full. His body felt heavy, weighted with the day's trauma.
She took her first careful bite, and Chase stood, his voice rough and graveled. "I'm going to take a shower now."
The words hung between them—a statement, a retreat, a moment of vulnerability barely contained.
The shower's hot water hit his skin, steaming away the day's grime. Blood. Hay. Vomit. Each splash brought a memory: his mother's pale face in the ambulance, the lifeless mare and foal, Jewel and Hunter's hands clasped together as emergency lights flashed.
Tears came suddenly, violently.
His knees buckled, and he sank to the shower floor. Harsh, gut-wrenching sobs tore through him. The sound echoed off ceramic tiles, a raw, primal expression of grief. He hugged his knees, trying to make himself smaller, to contain the overwhelming pain.
Failure wrapped around him like the water, suffocating, relentless. The horse. The foal. His mother. All lost. All beyond his ability to save.
The shower door opened.
Jewel's presence filled the small space before her arms wrapped around him. Her touch was familiar, but she'd comforted Hunter this way too, when they'd kneeled by Clio's body. He couldn't read anything into it, couldn't parse meaning. Could only feel.
She didn't speak but simply held him. Her body warm against his, her breath matching the rhythm of his broken sobs, they cried together, releasing their shared pain and loss until the water turned cold.
When the tears subsided, something shifted. Vulnerability gave way to something lighter. He hiccupped, and she giggled. He growled, "It's not funny."
But the last syllable ended with another hiccup, which sent her into a laughing fit.
He elbowed her, and she rocked back away from the cold water that splashed on them, her eyes twinkling as she wiggled her eyebrows.
"Looks like the cold water's doing wonders for your monster," Jewel teased, a hint of her usual sharpness returning. "Pretty sure it's shrunk to the size of a worm."
Chase barked a raw, unexpected laugh. "Around you? I could go polar plunging and still get a hard-on."
She sucked in a breath and her nipples pebbled in the cool air, the cold water splashing on the shower floor in front of them.
"Chase…" her voice faded, and he pushed a little more.
"I told you you'd win a wet t-shirt contest. Exhibit A—you right now? Total winner."
Her eyes softened, and he leaned forward, desperately needing another kiss. Instead, she jumped up and shut off the water, her arm muscles flexing. She stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel he'd set aside, tossing it to him.
Before he could stand, she looked over her shoulder, her eyes smoking with hidden emotion. Then she peeled the wet shirt over her head and tossed it into the hamper with a soft plop. His mouth went dry, and he was no longer shivering from the cold water. His temperature spiked, his heart racing.
Chase watched, unable to look away. Her body was lean and muscled from her work, not a soft city girl, but someone who knew physical labor. Her wild blond curls bounced as she moved to grab a fresh towel from above the toilet.
She started drying her hair first—always practical, always efficient. Water droplets traced lines down her back, following the curve of her muscles, muscles that etched themselves into his brain. This was one memory he wanted to keep forever. The way her ass curved, accentuating her hips.
"Well," she said, her voice slicing through his thoughts. "Are you going to just sit there? I need another shirt."
Her tone was pure Jewel—part command, part invitation, completely unapologetic. It sent a shiver of awareness down his spine, and he stood. Suddenly aware of his body, he lifted the towel slowly and dried his own head first.
His dick, hard, unhidden, aching with need, drew her gaze like a moth to flame. Her lips parted, her tongue darting out in an unconscious gesture that sent electricity down his spine.
She smirked even as desire settled in her gaze as she backed out of the bathroom, a towel held to her chest and covering little. "I see the monster is back."
Her retreat felt like a challenge, and he followed, the terrycloth towel riding low on his hips as he tied it in place. She stopped at the side of the bed, and he prowled around her, his nostrils flaring at the scent of woman that clung to her.
Fuck, he wanted her. His muscles were still tense from the day's trauma, and his whole body ached, but something else pulsed beneath, exposed by the raw emotions—the burning desire that had flared between them for so long, now complicated by their shared grief.
At the dresser, he moved with deliberate slowness. His fingers traced the worn wood grain, searching for a soft shirt, something that might comfort her. He grabbed a pair of boxers for himself.
But nothing about that moment felt simple.
He turned, towel still wrapped, and saw her watching. Emotions flickered across her face—vulnerability, want, something deeper than pure physical attraction. Friendship, shared pain, and unspoken tension crystallized in this moment.
The shirt landed softly on the bed's rumpled surface, a flag of challenge.
Her towel—white, slightly damp—remained clutched to her chest, her knuckles white. The only sound in the room was their ragged breaths. Trembling almost imperceptibly, something shifted in her eyes as she stared at him with a daring vulnerability.
Then the towel dropped to the floor, leaving her completely bare as she moved onto the bed like a goddess settling on her throne. She laid back on the pillows, completed exposed, and waited for him to make a move.
He was too paralyzed by raw, animal need and the sight of her left him speechless. With her hourglass figure, she was lusher than she'd been fifteen years ago. Her curves belied her muscles; if she was a goddess, she was a warrior one, strong and resilient.
She blushed as her breasts heaved, her breaths shallow. Round and full, his mouth watered for a taste. Despite her actions, she had not given consent or invited him to join her.
Her hands rose to graze along her side and up to circle her nipples. His mouth went dry, and it was his turn to lick his lips.
He groaned, raking a hand down his face. "God, what the fuck are you doing to me, my Jewel?"
She smirked at him, but it didn't hide the flash of vulnerability within. "I thought that was obvious. I'm seducing you."
He gripped the towel at his waist tightly, needing something to hold on to that wasn't his dick or her body. "Why?" he rasped out.
She sat up, her breasts swaying as her gaze drew serious. "I—I want something good to come out of this day from hell. Will… will you make me feel good?"
He groaned, his eyes burning with desire. Her nipples were ripe berries waiting to be plucked and feasted on. The pale, short hair that hid her sweet pussy made his fingers itch to touch and explore.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded harshly. "I won't let this be like last time, a mistake that leaves you running in the night."
She bit her lip and glanced away, plucking at the comforter. "I want you to love me," she said softly.
His chest burned at her words. I already do echoed in his mind.
Her eyes flew to his in panic as she corrected, " Make love to me. Fuck me, make me feel anything but this empty failure."
He swallowed hard and pushed down his gut response. He couldn't love her; it was too soon and too dangerous. Instead, he dropped his towel and stepped forward.