Chapter 15 Jack #2
I sat on an overturned feed crate and let it wash through me. Didn't fight it. I just had to sit in it. Let the body do its math. Let the adrenaline metabolize and the cortisol drain and the animal part of my brain accept that it was over.
Sully pressed into my side, his head heavy on my knee. He knew this. He'd seen Brad go through it—had been trained to ground a man in exactly this way, body contact and warmth and the unspoken promise that someone was there.
"Good boy," I murmured, my voice uneven. My hands found his ears. Held on.
I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for the tremors to fade. Long enough for Owen Blackwood to find me.
He came around the corner of the equipment barn without hurry, two beers in hand. He didn't ask if I was okay. Didn't comment on finding me here. He just held out a bottle.
"Thought you could use this."
I took it. "Thank you, sir."
"Owen." He settled onto a hay bale nearby. "I think we're past 'sir' after today."
He cracked his own beer and took a long pull, eyes on the horizon. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"Hell of a day," Owen said finally.
"Yes, sir." I caught myself. "Owen."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Wyatt's been talking about it all afternoon. Still trying to work out how you made that first shot."
"Training. Instinct. Bit of luck."
"Wasn't luck." Owen's voice was quiet but certain. "I've been shooting guns my whole life, and I've never seen anyone make a shot like that." He turned to look at me then. "I've seen men with training freeze when it matters. You didn't freeze. You moved like you've done it before."
I met his eyes. "I have."
Owen nodded slowly. He wasn't the type to pry into a man's service record.
"Rangers," he said. Not a question—Wyatt must’ve told him.
"Yes. Four years. Two deployments. Honorable discharge." I gave him the basics because he deserved them. "I left the service about four years ago. Been working ranches since."
"Why ranches?"
I took a pull of the beer. Let the question sit for a moment.
"Because the land doesn't ask you about the things you've done. It just needs you to show up and do the work."
Owen was quiet with that for a while.
"Well," he said finally. "Thank you for your service. I mean that." He took a drink. "And I'm glad you found your way here."
The silence stretched again. Comfortable. I could feel the conversation shifting, and I wasn't going to rush it. Owen Blackwood had something else to say. He'd get there in his own time.
"My daughter," he said. "You and her.” Not quite a question. More like a statement waiting for confirmation.
I met his eyes directly. There was no point in denying it. I respected Owen—and Maggie—too much to hide it. "Yes."
Owen's expression didn't change—no anger, no surprise. Just that quiet assessment I'd come to recognize as pure Blackwood.
"How long?"
"Few weeks. Since before I started here, if we're being honest."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "Wild Creek?"
I nodded.
"Huh." He took another drink, processing. Then—and I swear I didn't imagine it—the faintest flicker of amusement. "That explains the look on her face at the rodeo when she saw you standing in the arena."
I almost smiled. "She handled it well."
"Maggie handles everything well. That's not the same as being okay."
Owen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, beer dangling between his hands.
"She know you're telling me this?"
"No. And I'm not asking your permission. I'm just not going to lie to you when you ask a direct question."
Something shifted in his expression—respect, maybe. "Fair enough."
"What happened today changed things," I said, choosing my words carefully.
"I can't pretend I'm just another ranch hand anymore.
Not after that. But I want you to know—I'm not going to push her.
I'm not going to undermine her authority or make her feel like she owes me something because of what happened in that creek bed.
" I paused. "Maggie sets the pace. She always has.
I'm just making it clear I'm not going anywhere. "
Owen studied me for a long moment. "You know what my daughter needs?" he asked.
"I think so.” Hoped so.
"Tell me."
"She needs someone who doesn't treat her strength like a problem to solve.
Who doesn't ask her to be less so he can feel like more.
" The words came from somewhere honest, somewhere I hadn't planned to open.
"She needs someone who sees all of it—the control, the fire, the way she carries this family on her back—and wants her because of it, not in spite of it. "
Owen was quiet for a long time.
Then the corner of his mouth tugged up—not quite a smile, but close.
"My daughter is a strong cup of coffee, Jack." He shook his head, something between pride and sympathy in his expression. "I love her more than my own life, but I'm not going to pretend she's easy."
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "No, sir. She is not."
Owen chuckled—a real one, low and warm, the sound of a man who'd been married to Louisa Blackwood for forty years and knew exactly what he was talking about.
"Good luck. You're going to need it."
He finished his beer and stood, slowly. The humor faded, and what replaced it was something quieter. Serious.
"Don't hurt her, Jack. She's tougher than all four of her brothers combined, but she's been hurt before, and I won't watch it happen again." His voice was even, almost conversational, which made the weight of it land harder. "Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
Owen nodded once.
"Finish your beer, son. Then come up to the house—Lou's making enough food to feed the county, and you look like you haven't eaten since dawn."
He walked away. Slow, unhurried, a man who'd said his piece and was satisfied with what he'd heard.
Sully's tail thumped against the dirt.
I sat there in the fading light, beer going warm in my hand, and let myself feel the full weight of what had just happened. Not the hogs. Not the shots. Not even the girl.
Owen Blackwood had looked me in the eye and decided I was worth the conversation. Had listened to me talk about his daughter and hadn't reached for his rifle. Had called me "son" and invited me to dinner.
In four years of drifting, nobody had done that.
"Well, Sul." I scratched behind his ears. "Guess we're staying for supper."
His tail thumped twice. Agreement.
I finished my beer, cleaned my rifle, and walked toward the lights of the main house with my dog at my heels and my hands finally still.