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17

Shiloh

The lightning strikes like god’s own fury, the crack of thunder instantaneous and deafening. For one frozen moment, I see everything in stark relief—the barn’s weathered wood, the storm-tossed trees, Jackson’s face as he turns toward the sound. Then darkness crashes back, but something’s wrong. The air carries a new scent beneath the rain—smoke.

In the week since the gala, Jackson and I have achieved an uneasy peace. The fierce thunderstorm feels like a portent of misery to come, as if one wrong step could ruin everything.

“Fire!” Miguel’s voice carries over the wind. Already, lights are coming on in the ranch hands’ quarters, boots hitting their wooden porch as they respond to the alarm.

The barn. My heart stops as another flash of lightning illuminates orange flames already licking at the roof. Inside, thirty horses worth millions stamp and whinny, their panic a counterpoint to the thunder.

I’m running before conscious thought, my boots sliding in the mud. Jackson catches my arm. “Wait?—”

“There’s no time!” I wrench free, already calculating which horses will need to come out first. The Friesian’s stall is closest to the flames, and he’s the most likely to fight. “Get the hands moving. We need the fire equipment and every lead rope we’ve got.”

For once, Jackson doesn’t argue. His voice carries over the storm as he starts barking orders, organizing the response while I sprint for the barn doors.

Smoke fills my lungs as I throw them open. The Friesian’s screams cut through the chaos—pure terror from a horse who’s already known too much fear. Other horses kick at their stalls, adding to the chaos.

“Easy, boy.” I force calm into my voice when I approach him, even as flames crackle overhead. “We’re getting out of here.”

The massive black stallion rears as I open his stall, hooves flailing near my face. I can do this. I can keep him calm, get him out of here. I have to. My hands stay steady on the lead rope as I guide him toward the door, using my body to block his view of the flames.

Jackson appears beside me, his presence solid and sure. Together, we guide the panicked stallion into the rain. But as we turn back toward the barn, the Friesian spooks at a crash of thunder. His shoulder slams me into a post as he bolts into the fenced paddock.

“Shiloh!” Jackson’s hands steady me, but I’m already pushing away.

“I’m fine. The others?—”

We work seamlessly as the ranch hands arrive with firefighting equipment. Horse after horse emerges into the storm, some fighting, some following. My voice stays steady, even as smoke burns my throat. These animals know me. Trust me. Even in their panic, they respond to my calm commands.

A support beam crashes down behind us as we lead the last mare out. The fire has eaten through part of the roof, but the crew is containing it. The rain helps, drowning embers before they can spread.

“Status!” Jackson’s voice carries over the chaos.

“Damage is mostly contained to the northeast corner.” Miguel appears through the smoke, his face streaked with soot. “Structure’s sound enough, but we’ll need?—”

A scream of pure equine agony cuts him off. The Friesian. I spin toward the sound, already running. The stallion has tangled himself in damaged fencing I didn’t notice in my hurry to get him out of the stables, his panic making him fight harder with every movement. Blood streams from his shoulder where he’s cut it.

“Easy, boy.” I approach slowly. “Let me help you.”

His eyes roll white, nostrils flaring as he scents his own blood. Something shifts in his posture, a subtle tell I’ve seen too many times with traumatized horses. Before I can react, he rears, two thousand pounds of panic and pain launching toward me. His hooves slash the air inches from my head.

“Shiloh!” Jackson’s roar cuts through the storm as he lunges for me, but I’m already moving.

The Friesian’s teeth snap inches from my shoulder as I roll through the mud. Every lesson I’ve ever learned about dangerous horses kicks in as I regain my feet, maintaining eye contact, keeping my voice steady despite my thundering heart.

“That’s enough.” I pitch my voice low, commanding. The stallion’s ears flick toward me, recognition warring with terror. “You know me, big guy. You know my voice.”

Jackson’s body radiates tension beside me, ready to intervene, but he holds position, allowing me to handle the terrified horse.

Slowly, the massive animal settles, his head dropping in submission as recognition and trust win over panic. Only then do I feel Jackson’s hand wrap around my arm, his grip almost painful.

“Don’t you ever—” He cuts himself off, tension radiating off him, visible in the flashes of lightning as the storm pours down over us, adding to the hands’ efforts to put out the fire.

“I’m okay.” I cover his hand with mine, letting him feel my steady pulse. “But he needs us now. Both of us.”

Together, we approach the injured stallion. This time when I reach for him, he stays still, letting me lead him to safety. Jackson’s hands never stray far from me as we work, that protective instinct I once resented now feeling like shelter in the storm.

Hours blur together as we work to settle the horses in the undamaged part of the barn. The Friesian’s wound needs monitoring. It’s deep enough to worry me, but not life-threatening if we prevent infection. Other horses sport minor cuts and scrapes, their eyes still rolling at every sound.

The Friesian’s soft nickering draws me back to his stall for the dozenth time. The bandage holds clean, but his eyes still roll at every crack of thunder. Miguel’s crew continues their fire watch, their quiet movements a comfort to the nervous horses.

“He’s stable.” Despite the note of command in Jackson’s voice, his hand on my lower back is gentle, betraying his concern. “You need rest.”

“I’m not leaving him.” My voice comes out raw from smoke, but firm.

Instead of arguing, Jackson gestures toward the hay loft ladder. His face reveals nothing, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands—the only sign of how the night’s events have affected him. When I hesitate, his mouth tightens fractionally.

“You can hear them better from up there.” Professional. Practical. Liar. But his fingers brush my hip as I climb past him, the touch possessive and reassuring at the same time.

The hay loft smells of summer grass and wood smoke, fresh bales stacked against the undamaged walls. Through gaps in the old boards, I can see the storm still raging, but up here it feels almost peaceful. Safe.

Jackson spreads a horse blanket over the hay without comment. When I start to peel off my wet clothes, a sharp intake of breath is the only sign that he’s affected. But his hands are steady as he wraps another blanket around my shoulders, his body radiating heat as he pulls me against his chest.

Below, the Friesian whickers softly. My body moves to check on him by instinct, but Jackson’s arms tighten fractionally. Not restraining. Anchoring.

“Let Miguel handle it.” His voice stays neutral, but his fingers trace where bruises are already forming on my arms. Each touch is precisely controlled, at odds with the tension I feel running through him.

“I need—” But I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Need to check the horses. Need to stay in control. Need to prove I’m not shaken by how close I came to death under those deadly hooves.

Jackson’s hand slides into my hair, not gripping, just holding. For once, he doesn’t demand my submission. Doesn’t try to force my surrender. Just offers his strength, letting me choose whether to take it.

“I know what you need.” The words rumble through his chest where I’m pressed against him. His other hand traces swirls on my hip, each touch carefully measured. “Let me give it to you.”

I should argue. Should maintain a careful distance. But I’m so tired of fighting—the storm, the fire, my attraction to a man who treats people’s lives like chess pieces.

What terrifies me most isn’t his control—it’s how badly I want to surrender to it. How right it feels to lean into his strength after standing alone for so long.

During the fire, he’d moved with the same calm, confident authority I use with dangerous horses. Issuing commands that saved lives and property without hesitation. His men responded instantly, trusting his leadership the way I trust my instincts with troubled animals.

I’d watched him lead his crew through the crisis, and god help me, it had affected me in ways I didn’t want to admit. The same ruthless control that made me fight him before now makes me feel protected. Safe in a way I haven’t felt since before Daddy started gambling.

“I hate you,” I whisper, even as I burrow deeper into his warmth.

His chest rumbles with dark amusement. “No you don’t. That’s what scares you.”

He’s right, damn him. But as his heat seeps into my bones and his hands trace soothing patterns on my arms, I let myself pretend this is real. That the tenderness in his touch isn’t just another way to control me. That the trust he’d shown in my judgment during the crisis will last once dawn breaks.

I feel the exact moment his focus shifts. His breathing changes, and his hand in my hair tightens just enough to remind me who holds me. The air between us thickens with possibility. If I pull away now, he’ll let me go. I trust my instincts with him the same as when I’m working with any other dangerous creature.

I don’t pull away.

His other hand slides up my arm, leaving fire in its wake. “You fought like hell today. So goddamn brave, little hellcat.”

I close my eyes and sink into the praise, into the warmth of his body against mine. Just for tonight, I tell myself. Because of the storm, the fear, the adrenaline that’s deserted me, leaving me trembling and exhausted in his arms.

Lies .

I want this—want him —even when there’s no crisis to blame, no excuse to hide behind.

Thunder crashes again, and I jump. Jackson’s arms tighten, one hand sliding to rest possessively on my stomach. The touch is proprietary rather than sexual, but heat floods me anyway. Through the gaps in the floorboards, I hear the horses settling, their earlier panic gentling under Miguel’s watchful care.

“Sleep.” His commands usually maks me want to rebel, but now, they just makes me feel safe. “I’ve got you.”

That’s the problem. He does have me—body, soul, and soon, my family’s legacy. I should be terrified. Instead, as the storm rages outside and Jackson’s heart beats steadily against my back, I feel something dangerously close to peace. His clothes still carry the scent of smoke and rain, making me remember how he’d moved with me during the crisis, reinforcing and supporting me—trusting me.

I’m almost asleep when his fingers start combing through my hair, the gentle touch at odds with everything I know about Jackson Hawkins. This man who breaks spirits for sport, who collects ranches like trophies, who demanded my submission as payment for my father’s debts—his hands shouldn’t be capable of such tenderness.

“Did you kill Victoria Reeves?” I ask, refusing to open my eyes.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No pretense. “She diverted water from three ranches during the worst drought in decades. Killed livestock. Made families sick. The Pritchett boy died from drinking contaminated water because she wanted to force a sale.” His voice carries that edge that reminds me what kind of man holds me in the aftermath of the fire. “I gave her three chances to make it right. She laughed. Said it was just business.”

“So you killed her.”

“I showed her exactly what her choices had cost. Drove her out to Miller’s Ridge where they buried that boy. Put a bullet in her head, then sent her car into the canyon.” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his unflinching gaze. “They ruled it suicide, despite the angle of the bullet hole. Funny how evidence disappears when the right people understand the need for justice.”

“That’s cold-blooded murder.”

“That’s justice.” His hand curves around my throat, gentle but implacable. “I protect what’s mine. The land. My people. You.” His thumb traces my pulse. “And god help anyone who threatens what I protect.”

I don’t know what to say to him, how to respond, except that right now, in his arms, I felt the weight of his protection like a comforting blanket.

“I don’t know how to trust without surrendering everything,” I whisper against his chest. “Just like you don’t know how to protect without controlling.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers still combing through my hair. Below us, a horse stamps nervously but settles at Miguel’s low murmur. “You did good today,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the storm. His fingers catch on my smokey, tangled hair. “Your father would be proud.”

Something breaks in my chest at the unexpected praise, at the mention of my father without the usual sharp edge of debt and obligation between us. A single tear escapes before I can stop it, falling onto his arm where it’s wrapped around me.

His hand stills in my hair. For a moment, I think he’ll use this vulnerability against me, turn it into another power play. Instead, he simply pulls me closer, offering silent comfort as the storm rages outside. The heat of his body and the familiar scent of the hay loft wrap around me like a cocoon, making it harder to remember why I shouldn’t trust this feeling.

“Rest,” he murmurs, and for once the command in his voice is softened by something that sounds dangerously like tenderness. “Everything else can wait until morning.”

As I drift off, I wonder if he means the fire damage, the injured horse, or this shifting thing between us that feels less like submission and more like partnership with every passing hour. As sleep claims me, I find myself surrendering to something far more dangerous than desire—trust.