9. Jack
Jack
Never Say Never by Cole Swindell and Lainey Wilson
I t’s summer, sticky and golden, and Cami's standing in front of me, all attitude and sunburned shoulders, her tank top soaked with sweat from riding horses.
We’re sixteen and stupid with tension.
“You ever kissed anyone?” I ask, leaning against the trunk like I’m cooler than I feel. I’ve got sweat dripping down my back, and I can’t look at her for too long or I’ll combust.
She grins. “Have you ?”
“Plenty,” I lie.
She raises a brow. “Right. All those Bridger Falls girls lining up for Jack Jessop.”
I grin. “Girls love a cowboy with grit.”
She steps closer, dust kicking up between us. Her braid is messy, and I swear I’m about to die right here at the base of this tree .
“I dare you to kiss me,” I say.
Her eyes flash with surprise at the challenge. “What do I get if I do?”
“I’ll stop running my mouth.” I swallow. “Maybe.”
She looks at me like I’m a wild horse she’s already figured out. “You’re all talk.”
But then before I know it, she grabs the collar of my T-shirt, yanks me down, and kisses me.
It’s fast and clumsy, and I forget how to breathe.
And when she pulls back, she smirks. “Guess you’re not the only one with grit.”
She walks away like she didn’t just change my whole damn life.
I wake up before the sun even thinks about rising.
Body sore, my mind is a mess. I had nightmares again.
Sometimes they stay gone, sometimes they’re pretty bad.
I’ve just come to terms that this is what I have to live with now: struggling to sleep after my time in the military.
And last night I couldn’t stop thinking about Cami.
The only thing that seems to clear my mind are my rides with her.
And she would never go on a ride with me today.
Not after last night. She’d probably shoot me and bury me in the pasture somewhere where no one would find me.
I can’t get the look that she gave me out of my mind.
It gutted me. She thinks I hate her and that this is a game. It couldn’t be further from the truth.
The lodge is quiet because nobody is up at this insane hour. The coffee machine wheezes like it’s already over this day, and I’m halfway considering crawling back into bed.
But the second my boots hit the dirt outside, the memory of her mouth on mine at sixteen, wild, unstoppable, burns hotter than the July sun.
Damn it, Cami.
I throw myself into work. Fence needs mending. Water lines need checking. Tucker’s supposed to be on mineral check this week, but he’s been busy with extra wrangler tasks since we’re short-handed right now.
I’m mid-shovel, sweat dripping, when Weston strolls into the barn.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“Thanks. I’ll work on that.”
He gives me a look. “You need sleep.”
I continue to shovel, ignoring him.
He leans against the stall, crossing his arms. “You hear about that old Wilder saddle?”
My shovel stills. “What saddle?”
“Her granddad’s. The one he always used. Saw it in town for sale. Maggie said something to Mack, and Mack said something to Jenna, and Jenna told me.”
I wipe my arm across my face. “You get it?”
“Nope. Figured you’d want to.”
My heart trips. “Where is it?”
“Tack shop on Main Street. Still open ‘til six.”
I nod, already reaching for my hat.
Weston squints at me. “You gonna tell her?”
“I did.”
Weston whistles through his teeth. “How did that go over?”
“She’s Wilder mad,” I mutter. “Which means she’s mad forever and also not talking to me.” And beneath that mad lies a whole bunch of hurt. And that’s what cuts into me.
He snorts. “God, you’re in deep.”
“Shut up,” I grumble .
“Well, you’ve already pissed her off buying her ranch. Better just add a saddle to it,” he chuckles.
He’s not wrong, but I don’t want her to be pissed at me. I just want her. Period.
The shop is quiet, and the bell above the door jingles low and slow when I push inside. The place smells like leather and liniment and is full of old stories.
There’s one old guy behind the counter, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all day, which judging by the pace here, he probably does.
“Help you?” he asks, not looking up.
“I’m here for a saddle,” I say, adjusting my hat. “One that came in on consignment a while ago. From the Wilder estate.”
That gets his attention.
“Ah,” he says, setting his catalog down. “That fancy old one with the tooled leather and the silver horn?”
I nod. “That’s the one.”
“She’s a beauty.” He tilts his head. “You a collector?”
“No,” I say. “It belonged to someone I care about.”
He squints, studies me like he’s trying to figure me out. I must pass his inspection, because he jerks a thumb toward the front window. “It’s still here.”
The saddle sits on a low rack in the front window on top of a faded Pendleton blanket. The second I see it, something twists in my chest. The leather’s aged, cracked in places, scuffed along the cantle, but it’s still beautiful. Still solid. Still his .
Still hers. It belongs to her. Not here.
I walk up slow and run my hand over the seat, fingers tracing the tooled pattern, worn smooth in the center from years of riding. My throat tightens at the memories .
I remember being twelve, maybe thirteen, standing in the Wilder barn while Cami’s granddad, Buck Wilder, taught me how to oil a saddle properly. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, you listened.
“You treat your tools right, they’ll never let you down,” he’d said, passing me a rag and an old tin of oil. “Same goes for women and horses. Show up. Be consistent. Be kind.”
He didn’t mean it to be profound, but I carried that line around like armor. Especially when I’d go home and find my old man three drinks in, barking orders and breaking things. I realized early on who had the wisdom and who didn’t.
Buck Wilder never yelled. He never raised a hand. Just worked hard, laughed soft, and always made sure I got a piece of pie after supper if I was hanging around.
The first time my dad saw me hanging out at the Wilder Ranch, he nearly lost it. Called me names. Said I didn’t need to be playing around on someone else’s land like a damn charity case.
But Buck had just patted my shoulder and said, “The boy is welcome here anytime, Jessop.”
That didn’t go well. But I never forgot it.
“You want it or not?” the man asks, cutting into my memory.
I nod. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”
He rattles off a price. It’s too high, and he knows it. I know it, too. But I don’t care. I count out the bills and hand over the cash. He writes up a receipt.
When I lift the saddle, it’s heavier than I remember. Or maybe I’m heavier with everything it carries. My fingers curl around the horn, and I swear I can still feel the ghosts of childhood rides and slow, sleepy trail rides at sunrise.
My sunrise rides didn’t start with Cami. They started with her granddad. He was so damn special to me and meant so much. He believed in me and saw something that no one else saw. I still don’t know what, but I know I’ll work my ass off to live up to the man he thought I could be.
I walk it out to the truck, trying not to get too damn emotional about a piece of leather, but it’s not just a saddle.
It’s the saddle of a man who treated me good and reminded me that there was still good in the world.
It’s the first time he let me ride with her, a few years after my mom died. I was twelve and broken and trying not to show it. He had just called me over and said, “Come on. You can go.”
I set it gently in the bed of the truck, laying an old wool blanket underneath it so it doesn’t slide. My hands linger on the horn as I let out a slow breath.