Epilogue Jackson
The ranch hands are drinking beer and cracking jokes around a low-burning campfire, and the kids are running amok, as they tend to do.
Dusk settles over us and the skyline bruises purple along the edges.
A cool breeze blows through the treetops, and Beryl has a Bluetooth speaker precariously placed on the tailgate of a pickup—classic country melodies back easy conversation.
After a long, hot summer, the cattle came back from their grazing lands for the winter, and one thing I’ve learned quickly about this family and ranch is that any big moment—be it branding, a big cattle sale, a great hay season, or taking the herd to and from grazing land—calls for a party.
My entire body aches in the best way, and I don’t even care that I was merely helping operate gates as the guys sorted cattle, which is arguably significantly easier than being one of the ranch hands who just spent days gathering the herd up and driving them home.
But I don’t care. I was doing something. For the first time since my accident, I feel useful here. And it’s quieting the lingering, albeit irrational, fear that my brothers will get tired of financially supporting us while I do fuck all to pull my weight.
I stretch my arms above my head, then let my hands fall lazily. I cradle the spot on my skull where my hair is mostly grown back in—though it’s quite a bit shorter than the rest—and run my thumb over the raised scar.
Maybe I’ll never train another horse, but I didn’t lose the ability to learn new skills. And I’ve got thirty-some years of manual labor ingrained in every fiber of my muscles. I’ll figure out a place for myself.
Today was a good day. No sense ruining it with thoughts about a past I don’t remember or a future I’m still trying to sort out. So I step away from the fire to check on the kids, squinting to make out where they’re playing next to the tree line. Seems they’re building a fort.
“Hey, handsome.” Kate’s voice sneaks up behind me.
She slips into my arms, the warmth of her back pressing on my chest. For a while, she rests in my arms in a comfortable silence, watching our kids play as the sun sets. When a song she likes comes on, our steady embrace becomes a gentle sway.
She twirls herself out of my arms as if we’re on the dance floor of some country bar.
Arms outstretched, fingers barely hanging on, a smile crinkling her eyes.
Somewhere in the rubble of broken memories in my brain, there’s a fragile flicker.
I pull her back into me, wrapping my arms tight around her and nosing her hair to inhale the smell of everything good in the world.
Couldn’t tell you the name of the song or who sings it, but when I shut my eyes, it’s like I’m scuffing my boots across dusty wood planks. Spinning my bride around on the empty dance floor of a dive bar.
“This was our wedding song,” I murmur into her hair with profound certainty.
Kate spins out, then in again so we’re face-to-face. “We didn’t have a wedding song. We didn’t even have a reception.”
For half a second, doubt washes over me. But…but no. My brain hasn’t made up a single memory yet, and the feel of her tucked into my arms, her dress swishing around our legs, is too visceral to be imaginary.
I clear my throat, and though my voice shakes, I try to muster up some confidence in my memory. “We went to a bar after we got married and danced to this song.”
Kate stills, ears perked to pick up the song amid the dinnertime chatter.
Her eyes flutter shut, and a smile blows across her face.
“Oh my God, you’re right. I forgot about that…
. I wanted to dance, and you tried to argue it because nobody else was on the floor, but I insisted you owed your wife a proper first dance. ”
The curated stories I was told after the accident painted Old Jackson as the perfect husband and father.
And while I don’t think I was bad, by any means, I’m pretty damn happy with the version of myself I’m discovering now.
Because if Kate wanted to dance anywhere, anytime, I wouldn’t argue it.
I’d spin her around this patch of grass all damn night, not paying any mind to the audience we have or the music playing in the background.
“I think I owe you more than a proper first dance.” I cup her chin in my hand, pulling her into a kiss. I linger above her lips, breathing her in as my insides swoop and soar. “Marry me again, Kate. You deserve a fancy wedding with dancing, cocktails, guests, and whatever else weddings entail.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t want a fancy wedding. We eloped because we wanted to promise each other forever—all that mattered was me and you, not the guests and cocktails.”
We sway for another breath, another heartbeat, and then I press a kiss to her temple and say, “Okay…We’ll skip the fancy party, but I still want to give you the most important part of a wedding.”
She pulls back to look up at me, her brow lifted, curious and amused. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Vows,” I say, the word catching a little in my throat. “Ones I remember.”
She doesn’t say anything, just searches my face with that quiet, unwavering strength that’s carried the entire family through the last seven months.
“I might not remember every version of us…but I know this one. The one where you stayed, even though I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving.
You stayed when I didn’t know your name…
didn’t know my own kids.” I pause, pangs of old guilt pressing sharp behind my ribs.
“I love you, Kit. I promise I’m not going anywhere.
Not now, not ever. I want to stay happily married to you forever. ”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she clutches the front of my shirt, so clearly searching for words. And Kate pulls me in for a kiss unlike any that have come before or will come after. That’s all the promise I need.
When she pulls back, she’s flushed and teary and radiant. I don’t need memories to know or love this woman. My heart was always going to remember her.
“I stayed—and I’ll always stay—because it’s always been you. You’re my person.”
The gentle rocking of our bodies dancing on the grass, the air filled with campfire smoke and laughter, is interrupted by Rhett crashing into my legs. My knees nearly buckle.
“What on Earth?” I grab him by the shoulders to stop him from toppling over backward.
“Dessie’s being mean,” he immediately tattles. “She’s not letting me play with her.”
Looking toward the tree line, I see Odessa storming toward us. She has that no-nonsense look Kate gets when she’s focused on something.
“I’m building a fort with Jonas, and Rhett keeps wrecking it.”
I look down at the preschooler, who beams back at me. “I’m playing Spider-Man.”
“He’s trying to climb the walls, and they keep falling over,” Odessa protests.
“Okay, okay, okay.” I scratch my head, trying to make sense of all of this. “Um…can we hug it out?”
Odessa’s face twists with utter disgust. “No.”
Damn, you’d think I’d suggested we make s’mores with cow patties instead of chocolate.
One hand still on Rhett’s shoulder, I snare Odessa’s wrist with the other and keep her from running away. In one fell swoop, I crouch down and yank both of them into my chest, shifting my weight on my heels so we don’t all fall over.
They smell like dirt and, for some unknown reason, a bit like wet dog. Odessa has leaves in her wild hair, and Rhett has a smear of something red—hopefully not blood—across his forehead. And none of that stops me from planting kisses on their heads.
“I can’t breathe,” Rhett wheezes, very clearly still able to breathe, given how hard he’s laughing.
“You’re squishing me,” Odessa whines.
“I’m squishing your attitude,” I reply.
Somewhere behind us, Kate laughs, honey-sweet. I hold my kids tight, until the wiggling struggle to escape stops and their groans turn to giggles. The tension between them is broken then.
When I let them go, it’s reluctantly.
“Rhett, let’s keep the Spider-Man game off Odessa’s walls, okay? Go climb a fence or tree or somethin’ instead.”
He turns and eyes up a particularly good climbing tree. “Okay, Daddy.”
As they take off toward the trees again, Kate slides back into my arms like she never left, her head pressing against my chest. The pure joy in her eyes is unmistakable. “You’re a pretty great daddy, you know?”
“You think?”
“The best.” She balls my shirt up in her fist and cranes her neck to kiss me softly, pumping sunshine into my veins. “I think we’ll keep you.”
“I’m the luckiest man alive for that.”
I look down at her, then out at my kids.
My family. This ranch. And even without memory of the way things used to be, it feels like my life is exactly as it should be.
There are no rough edges between then and now.
Old and new are smudged by the soft brush of my wife’s fingers on my torso, and I kiss her coconut-scented hair, because she deserves to be kissed as many times as I can fit into a day.
Somewhere in the distance, Beryl yells something to the group about dinner being ready. My stomach growls in response.
“Let’s go eat. You must be starving after working so hard all day.” She tugs me toward the fire.
Once Beryl’s filled two bowls with steaming chili for us, and I’ve stuffed my pockets with Kate’s cheesy buns, I follow my wife to a pair of camping chairs with a perfect view of the crackling embers and my family gathered all around.
Directly across from me, Denny huffs through a too-hot bite while simultaneously loading a spoon to shovel more into his mouth. Behind him, Blair’s walking in slow circles, bouncing the fussy baby to get her to fall asleep.
“You good, bud?” Colt slaps Denny on the back mid–coughing fit.
Once he gets the molten-lava bite down, Denny blinks over at Colt with glassy eyes. He tries to talk without the use of his tongue, before giving up and gesturing something at Blair.