Page 11

Eleven

Jackson

“Sorry I unloaded on you.”

I look up to meet her eyes. They’re still a little red-rimmed from her epic crying bout. I was starting to get worried when the tears just kept coming and coming, as if she’d saved those all up for years.

Who knows, maybe she had?

“Don’t be,” I reassure her, turning back to the creek to watch my nymph bob on the water. “I appreciate you sharing with me.”

I didn’t think going out for dinner was a good idea after Stephanie’s tears finally dried, so I decided to try and catch dinner. I’m hoping if I can pull a good-sized trout out of the creek, I could cook it on JD’s charcoal grill on the deck. I noticed Stephanie must’ve done a grocery run recently because there is plenty of stuff in the fridge I can use to make us a decent meal.

I reel in my line and lift the rod over my shoulder before I start casting it back out in smooth strokes.

“Is that a fish?” she asks when the nymph on the end of my line disappears as soon as it hits the water.

The slight tug on the line is confirmation, and I quickly jerk the tip of my rod up to set the hook.

“Feels like it.”

The trout I reel in makes for a good distraction from the heavier subject of her meltdown. I get it, I’ve been there.

“That’s probably enough for the both of us,” she comments, picking up the landing net.

When I get the fish close to shore, she quickly dips the net in the water and scoops it up. Then she grabs a firm hold of the trout’s jaw, lifts it up, and deftly frees the small hook from its mouth.

Another thing I can add to the list of things I like about Stephanie, she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.

“Mom died when I was young, so I grew up in a house ruled by testosterone,” she explains when she catches my appreciative glance. “Fishing was a regular activity. Summer or winter,” she adds with a grimace.

“Ice fishing?”

“Yes, Lake Michigan is good for perch and walleye. Sometimes lake trout.”

She carries the fish to the deck and I follow with the fishing gear, dumping it by the back door.

“Got any experience cleaning them?” I ask.

She throws me a sassy look as she hands me the fish. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t admit to it. The job’s all yours, but I’ll gladly help by chopping vegetables for a salad.”

“Sounds fair.”

Half an hour later, the trout is ready for the grill. Skin on, with the head and tail still attached, but the body cavity is stuffed with thinly sliced shallots, sliced lemon, a few twigs of fresh rosemary and thyme, and generous seasonings. I bound it with twine and drizzled the skin with olive oil. It sizzles when it hits the hot grill.

“That smells good already,” Stephanie volunteers when she steps outside with a beer for me and a glass of ice tea for herself. “Where did you learn how to cook? Your mom?”

I try not to laugh. Ma’s cooking skills are basic at best, which is why she happily leaves it to others.

“Lucy taught me. Bo’s wife?” I clarify when she doesn’t seem to recognize the name. “Lucy manages the horse rescue. She’s worked for Ma for over twenty years. She’s family and we all shared a house before I went off to join the Army and Ma moved in with Jonas. Lucy did most of the cooking and she’s an amazing chef, better even than Ama—JD’s mother—which is saying a lot.”

I take a sip of my beer and check on the fish before closing the lid on the grill.

“Interesting,” she muses. “So I grew up in a male-dominated environment, and you in a household of women.”

“Hmm. I’m thinking it benefited us both. You’re tough as nails and a force to be reckoned with, but still all woman. As for me, I picked up a few cooking skills and learned to put down the toilet seat, but I can guarantee you I’m all man.”

She smiles at that as she sits down in one of the lounge chairs.

“I can see you’re not lacking in confidence either,” she observes teasingly, but I detect a wistful edge to her voice.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I admit, leaning a hip against the deck railing.

In the spirit of getting to know each other—she’s been open with me, although I have yet to find out who this Ben is to her—it’s only fair I give her the same courtesy.

“Don’t get me wrong, I may have been a cocky bastard at one point, but all that self-assured bluster disappeared when I lost my leg. I wasn’t in a good place for quite some time,” I confess. “And even now, I’m still a work in progress.”

“Of course; losing a leg is a life-altering experience.”

“So is taking another person’s life, however justified,” I counter, shooting her a pointed look.

“I guess,” she concedes, shrugging her shoulders.

It’s quiet while I check on the fish and flip it over, but then Stephanie breaks the silence.

“You know, I consider myself a decent judge of character for the most part, but I think I may have missed the boat with you.”

“How so?”

“You always struck me as a man of few words—a bit of a grouch, if I’m honest—but I was wrong.”

That gets a chuckle from me.

“You’re not wrong, I’m actually surprising myself, but I think the difference is you. I’m finding you’re easy to talk to.”

She’s trying to hide her smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I close the lid on the grill and approach her, leaning over her chair. I hook a finger under her chin and tilt her face up.

“Good. You should.”

Next, I close the distance and press a kiss to her mouth. Then another one as I watch her eyes flutter shut when I slip my tongue between her lips for a deeper taste.

Her soft sigh is oil to my fire, so I retreat before I take this kiss places I don’t want to rush into.

“You are much too tempting,” I confess, brushing the pad of my thumb over her plump bottom lip. “I didn’t think I wanted to get involved, but you broke through my resolve.”

The way the late afternoon sun catches her face makes her eyes appear lit from within as she looks up at me.

“I didn’t do anything.”

I gently shake my head.

“You exist, that’s enough.”

* * *

Stephanie

Dinner was delicious.

Jackson has serious cooking skills, and better yet, he enjoys using them. I’m not necessarily a slouch in the kitchen, but it’s nice not to have to be the one responsible for putting dinner on the table.

Since he did the bulk of the cooking, I claimed the task of cleaning up, He left to run home to pick up his dog. I’m not sure what it means that he’s bringing him back here, but he pointed out the dog needed some attention since he’d been cooped up since this morning. It appears Jackson wasn’t ready to call it a night yet.

After I put the clean dishes away, I take care of the overflowing trash bin in the kitchen. There’s a large metal bin partway down the driveway where I was instructed to store garbage. It has one of those bear-proof locking mechanisms, and I was told it’s emptied every few weeks.

I shove my feet in my Crocs, grab the trash bag and the can of bear spray Janey suggested is a better defense against wildlife than a gun whenever I wander outside in the dark, and head out the front door.

It’s a beautiful night. Mild, I’d guess in the mid-sixties, which is surprising this early in spring. I didn’t bother putting on a jacket and I’m quite comfortable. The sky is clear and dotted with so many stars. You don’t see skies like this in the city, where light pollution washes out their glow.

I fill my lungs with fresh air, feeling the batteries I drained with my crying bout earlier slowly recharge. Now that the weather is better, I should do more of this; going out for walks, seeking out nature, instead of looking at it from inside four walls. Maybe I should take Janey up on her offer of taking me on a trail ride. I don’t have a ton of experience, and it’s been a while since I’ve been on a horse, but I’m pretty sure I can still remember where everything goes. As long as the horse is well-behaved, I should be okay.

Or maybe, if she’s busy, Jackson could take me.

My feet crunch on the gravel as I let my mind conjure up images of the two of us on a blanket under the trees, a picnic basket within reach, and two horses patiently waiting in the shade. Distracted by the nice fantasy—one I’m happy to let play out in my mind as I make my way to the green bin—it takes me a moment to register the snap of a branch.

I stop and angle my head to the right from where I thought the sound came. There’s a single light post by the garbage bin which makes it even more difficult to make out anything hidden in the dark shadows of the woods bordering the path. I should’ve grabbed a flashlight.

Dropping the garbage bag by my feet, I aim the bear spray at the trees, while reaching in my jeans pocket for my phone—which has a light—only to find it empty.

Shit . I left it plugged into the charger on the kitchen counter.

I’m startled by a sudden rustle, the sound of something substantially bigger than a bird or a squirrel moving through the trees. The next moment, a beam of light bounces off the tree trunks as a vehicle winds its way up the driveway, scaring off whatever animal was out there.

I quickly toss the trash bag in the bin, just as Jackson’s pickup pulls up.

“Everything okay?” he asks when he rolls down his window.

His dog, Ash, climbs over him to stick his head out. He whines for attention, so I reach out to scratch his head.

“Just taking out the trash.”

“Are you eager to get back inside, or can I interest you in a walk? This guy needs a chance to run for a bit.”

“I’d love a walk. I was just thinking about that, it’s a beautiful night out.”

“Sure is. There’s a nice trail along the creek on the other side. Let me just get rid of the truck.”

I nod. “Meet you at the house.” I probably should grab a sweater or something anyway, I can feel the temperature dropping.

Ash runs ahead as we set out on the trail, excitedly sniffing at random clumps of grass or tree trunks, proudly lifting his leg as he marks every spot.

“He just learned how to do that,” Jackson fills me in. “For the longest time he squatted like a girl, but he finally figured out how to pee standing up.”

I chuckle. “You sound like a proud dad.”

“Guess I am.”

He grins back and reaches for my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. It’s done so casually, it takes me a moment to realize we’re walking hand in hand, something I haven’t done in many years.

High school, in fact, if I remember correctly. Walking to the bus stop with Brian Simeon in our sophomore year. Public or even private displays of affection were nonexistent in my family. At least, not after my mother passed away.

The simple act of holding my hand in the dark of night, with no one to witness the gesture but the dog, somehow feels more significant. It also gives me a sense of safety, and any jitters of my earlier near-encounter remaining promptly disappear.

We walk without talking, giving my senses a chance to tune in to things I might otherwise have missed. Like the soft gurgle of the creek, the rustle of leaves at the slightest puff of wind, and the scent of damp earth and pine sap. I can feel the slight abrasion of the calluses on Jackson’s hand, and the fresh air entering my lungs with every breath.

I guess this is what they mean when I hear some people talk about being in the moment . I never understood the meaning of that statement. My focus has always been ahead, calculating a next move, a farther step. Stillness of any kind has always made me restless, eager for a purpose or a direction.

But in this moment I am simply content; my mind is quiet and my feet move of their own accord.

I’m more relaxed than I have been in I don’t know how long by the time we find our way back at the trailer.

“Is it too cold for you to sit outside?” Jackson asks. “I can make a fire.”

“No, not too cold, It’s beautiful out. Can I get you a drink? Beer, hot chocolate?”

I picked up some cocoa and mini marshmallows for rocky road brownies I was thinking of baking, but they’ll work for hot chocolate as well.

“Sure, I’ll have a hot chocolate.”

He pulls me toward him for a peck on the lips before he lets go of my hand and rounds the house to the back, while I go in through the front door.

Ten minutes later, I walk out onto the deck with two mugs in one hand and a blanket in the other. A fire is roaring in the pit at the edge of the deck, and Jackson is stretched out on one of the loungers, staring into the flames.

“Give me those.” He reaches for the cups and sets them on the deck beside his chair. “Come sit with me,” he then adds when I’m about to pull up the second lounger.

He pats the space between his legs and I barely even hesitate, sitting down between them and letting myself lean back when his arms circle around me. Then he takes the blanket and spreads it over us. Next he hands me my cup and I take a sip, feeling a slight sting of nostalgia when the rich flavor hits my taste buds.

“It’s good,” he confirms, drinking his own.

After we’ve set down our mugs, he pulls the blanket up under my chin and tucks his arms underneath.

“Comfortable?’ he asks, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Yes.”

So comfortable, in fact, I could easily fall asleep like this.

But then one of his hands slides up my belly, lightly cupping my breast. The feeling of need spreads through my body like a warm liquid. Suddenly I want his hands and other parts all over me.

“Still okay?” he whispers by my ear.

I twist my head so I can look at him. “Very much so.”

My eyes catch on his strong lips and I reach up, catching him behind the neck and pulling him down to me. The instant I kiss him, his hand claims my breast, and I moan softly into his mouth. When, moments later, his other hand slips into the front of my jeans and between my legs, I’m already wet.

Somehow, I’m not surprised to find out Jackson is selfless in his focus. My orgasm comes embarrassingly easy—probably from a prolonged period of no action—but any attempt I make to reciprocate is foiled.

“Just relax,” he mumbles, his arms tightening around me.

By the time the fire has burned out, I’m half asleep, wrapped up in a warm cocoon under the blanket, and limp as a noodle. I don’t even have the strength to protest when he helps me inside, walks me to my bedroom door, and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“Get some sleep.”

The dog brushes past my legs and jumps on my bed, getting comfortable on my pillows.

“He’s already settled in,” I point out. “You could stay if you wanted.”

He brushes a strand of hair off my forehead.

“Tempting. Unfortunately, I bumped into Jonas when I went to pick up Ash, and we’ve been asked to join a search for a missing couple of teenagers near Eureka. He wants to head out at daybreak.”

He glances over my shoulder at the bed, where his dog is already asleep.

“But if you wouldn’t mind looking after Ash for me?”