Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
JACKSON
The barn was quiet except for the rustle of hay and the low huff of llamas shifting in their stalls.
Jackson dragged the brush down Tinsel’s thick coat, straw folding underfoot, the familiar rhythm settling something in his chest. Out here, in the dim wash of a single bulb, he could almost believe he was okay.
Almost.
The llama flicked an ear, and Jackson murmured, “Easy, just a brush.”
Nights alone like this helped. Just him and the llamas and horses. No questions from his dad. No watchful eyes from his mom at dinner. Here, he could just work with the animals, accepted as he was.
He moved on to Daisy, placing a hand against her flank, fingers buried in coarse wool. Daisy had always been partial to Zoe. She’d follow her around the paddock like a dog, nosing at her hair until she laughed. Even the animals couldn’t resist her.
Jackson shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts from returning to the woman in his mind, but she was impossible to forget. He pictured her, lips parted, her body warm against his. He could’ve had her, right there on the table. The thought sent a shiver straight through him.
He’d nearly lost himself in her. Nearly let himself believe he could be the man she deserved.
Then came the crash in his memory, again. A door slamming. Gunfire ripping through the air. His buddy’s face, pale in the dirt. Jackson’s chest locked, his hand frozen on Daisy’s side. He blinked hard, but the images never left.
He forced the brush back into motion, but he was a bit too rough, earning a grunt from Daisy. “Sorry,” he muttered, easing his strokes. His throat burned.
Zoe didn’t know he often woke up choking on screams, sheets knotted around him like restraints. What kind of man broke like that, alone at two in the morning? Certainly not one who could give Zoe the steady life, the family, the safe home she deserved.
The brush slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor. He crouched to retrieve it, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to the corners of the barn. Always alert. Always braced for danger. Stupid. This was Maple Falls, not Kabul. But his body didn’t know the difference.
Daisy nudged him as he stood, and he managed a ghost of a smile and stroked her neck.
Behind him, a quiet whinny echoed from the last stall.
He turned.
“Hey, girl,” he murmured.
Fern, his black mare, poked her head over the stall gate, ears perked, eyes calm and steady. Jackson set the brush aside and crossed the barn.
Fern had been his first real investment after coming home, and they’d bonded right away.
She hadn’t flinched when he’d spooked at shadows or gone silent for days.
She didn’t ask questions when he stood in her stall in the middle of the night, needing the company of a living, breathing thing that didn’t expect words.
He rubbed her between the eyes, and she leaned into the touch, letting out a slow exhale through her nose.
“I know,” he said softly. “I messed it all up.”
That was his problem, right? He would always mess up. He could never be the man Zoe needed. The fact that he told her as much didn’t make it any better. Didn’t make him feel any better.
He finished his chores. The animals didn’t care about his demons. They needed fresh water, clean hay, and a reliable hand. That, at least, he could give them.
His phone buzzed. The vibration spiked through his nerves, and he fumbled it out, pulse already racing.
It was a message from his mom.
Dinner tomorrow? Bring Zoe.
He stared until the screen dimmed, then set the phone face-down on the feed barrel.
The lantern sputtered, throwing shadows long across the stalls. Jackson tugged his flannel tighter, instincts prickling. There was nothing there. Just the stillness of Maple Falls at nightfall. But his body didn’t believe it. His body never did.
At last, he sank onto a hay bale, brush dangling loose. Exhaustion seeped in heavy as stone. Zoe’s face rose in his mind, uninvited, with the way her lips parted when he kissed her, eyes bright with something that sparked a feeling deep inside him, something that was an awful lot like hope.
He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. She wanted more, wanted everything. He’d felt it. And God help him, he wanted it too.
But he couldn’t have it. Not when the nights broke him apart. Not when guilt still gutted him raw. Not when he couldn’t sit through a beer at her table without bolting like a coward.
The llamas shifted, hooves scraping the floor. Jackson forced himself to his feet, grabbed an empty bucket, and carried it to the feed room. Motion was safer than stillness. Work was easier than wanting.
Still, as he set the bucket down and leaned against the doorframe, he found himself staring out into the fields. The stars were relentless in their brilliance tonight—sharp points of light against the dark, like hope dared him to reach for it.
He’d almost claimed her tonight. Almost believed he could. And maybe that mattered.
Because for the first time in years, he allowed himself to think he might one day be ready. For her, for everything they could be together.
And he would fight his demons hard, for the chance to be the man she deserved.