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21

Shiloh

The rain hasn’t stopped, but I barely feel it anymore. My clothes have long since soaked through. Through the curtain of water, I watch Jackson’s men leading the rescued cattle toward greener pastures, their shadows moving like ghosts in the storm. My muscles ache from the run, from fighting the frightened animals, from choosing to stay when every instinct screamed at me to keep going.

Jackson stands at the center of it all, shouting directions that the wind catches and scatters. Even drenched and mud-splattered, he moves with the same quiet authority I remember, the same strength that drew me in the first place. That still draws me, if I’m honest with myself. And I have to be honest now—I’ve run out of lies to tell myself about why I turned back.

I could blame the lightning that spooked the cattle, the crash of thunder that sent them breaking through the fence. Could tell myself I only helped because lives were at stake—animal and human both. But watching Jackson now, the way his shirt clings to his shoulders as he works, I know better. I chose this. Chose to stay, to help, to be here in this moment with him.

And I’ll have to choose to leave again.

The thought settles in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold despite my overheated skin. I push my dripping hair back from my face, aware of every ache, every place the rain strikes my exposed skin. The storm is dying now, but its aftermath will linger. In more ways than one.

“Shiloh.”

I don’t have to turn to know he’s approaching—his attention shifts to me like a physical touch. But I turn anyway, because I’ve never been a coward, and I won’t start now. Not even when looking at him hurts like pressing on a bruise.

Jackson stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the rain tracking down his face, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. Far enough that I can still pretend this is just about the cattle, about the storm, about anything but the current pulling us together even as I plan my escape.

“You’re shivering,” he says, and I realize he’s right. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me cold and trembling in its wake. His eyes haven’t left my face, searching for something I’m not sure I can give him. “Come inside. Please.”

It isn’t an order. That’s what breaks me—the gentleness in his voice, the choice he’s giving me even now. I nod, a quick jerk of my head, and follow him toward the barn. Each step feels like both surrender and defiance, my feet squelching in the mud as lightning flashes overhead.

Behind us, his men are still working, their voices carried away by the wind. But ahead, the doors to the house stand open where we left them, hours before, light spilling out into the rain like a beacon. Like an invitation.

Like a warning.

I cross the threshold knowing exactly what I’m walking into and knowing just as surely that I’ll walk away from it come morning. For now, though, I let the door close behind us, shutting out the storm and leaving us in a bubble of lamplight and shared breath, where the only thunder is the beating of my own heart.

Water drips from our clothes, forming puddles on the floor. Shadows dance across Jackson’s face as he kneels and searches a trunk in the mudroom, pulling out a blanket.

“Here.” He holds it out, not moving closer, letting me choose the distance between us.

My fingers brush his as I take it, and I fight the urge to snatch my hand back. Or to let it linger. Both feel equally dangerous. “Thanks,” I manage, wrapping the rough wool around my shoulders. It smells like him.

“You could have kept running.” His voice is quiet, barely audible over the rain drumming on the roof. “But you came back.”

“The cattle were in danger.” My voice is steady, certain. This, at least, is simple truth. “I couldn’t just let them drown.”

“Would have been my problem. Not yours.” He steps closer, and I force myself to hold my ground. “You could have kept going.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, almost angry. “I couldn’t. Not when I could help.” I meet his gaze directly, refusing to let him make this about us. “Those animals didn’t deserve to die just because I was running away from you.”

His expression shifts, respect and another emotion I don’t want to name crossing his features. “No, they didn’t.” He moves to adjust the blanket where it has slipped from my shoulder, his fingers careful not to touch my skin. “You always did have a stronger moral compass than me.”

“That’s not true.” The warmth of his nearness makes me too aware of how cold the rest of me is. “You would have done the same thing.”

“Maybe now.” The words hold weight, an acknowledgment of change that makes my chest tight. “A few years ago? I’m not so sure.”

Thunder crashes outside, closer than before, and I flinch. Not from the sound—I’ve never been afraid of storms—but from how it pushes me half a step closer to him. The blanket is heavy on my shoulders, his scent wrapped around me, and suddenly the room feels too small, too intimate.

“I should check on the horses,” I say, but don’t move. Can’t move, with him looking at me like that, like he can see right through my practical reasons to the turmoil underneath.

“They’re fine. The men will have secured them by now.” His hand falls away from the blanket, but he doesn’t step back. “You’re exhausted, Shiloh. Let someone else handle things for once.”

The kindness in his voice is worse than any demand could have been. I can fight orders, can resist force. But this gentle concern, this understanding—it threatens to undo me completely.

I should step away. Should remind myself why I’d been running in the first place. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly, exhaustion making my bones heavy. The blanket slips again, and this time when he reaches to fix it, my hand catches his wrist.

“Stop being so careful with me.” My voice is rough, matching the calluses on my fingers where they press against his pulse. “I won’t break.”

“I know.” His other hand comes up to brush wet hair from my face, and this time he doesn’t shy away from touching me. “You’re the strongest person I know. That’s why?—”

I kiss him. Not because of any romantic notion about storms or destiny, but because I choose to. Because if this is ending—and it is, it has to—I want one moment where I don’t hold back.

Jackson goes still for a heartbeat, then groans, deep in his chest. His hands slide into my hair as he kisses me back, but he lets me control it, lets me set the pace. Even now, he’s giving me the choice.

I press closer, rain-soaked clothes cold between us. Thunder rolls overhead, but I barely hear it over the rushing in my ears. Over the sound of our breathing as the kiss deepens, turning hungry.

“Shiloh.” He breaks away just enough to speak against my mouth, my name half question, half prayer. “We don’t have to?—”

“I know.” My fingers tighten on his wrist, anchoring us both. “I want to.”

His eyes darken with desire, but there’s something else there, too—hope, raw and painful for me to see. Because I know what he’s thinking—maybe this means I’ll stay, maybe this time will be different. I can’t bring myself to correct him, to take that light from his eyes. Not yet.

“Let’s get you warm and dry,” he says, his thumb brushing my cheek.

The walk to his study is both too long and too short. I feel a strange catch in my throat at the domesticity of it—this could have been any evening, coming in from the rain together, if things were different. If I were different.

Jackson’s study is dark until he lights the fire, the flames catching quickly on the dry wood. I’ve always loved this room, with its worn leather chairs and shelves of books he actually reads, not just for show. The warmth slowly reaches me as I stand there dripping on his rug, watching him move around the familiar space.

“I want this,” I say quietly as he turns back to me, the words true even if they aren’t complete. “I want you.”

On my terms, I add silently. While I still can.

He moves toward me, slow but sure, like approaching a wild thing that might startle. The firelight catches the water droplets in his hair, turning them to gold. When he reaches for the edge of the blanket still draped around my shoulders, I catch his hand.

“Let me,” I say, and something in my voice makes him go still.

I let the blanket fall, then start on the buttons of his shirt with deliberate fingers. The wet fabric clings, but I work it free, letting my hands learn him again—the strength in his shoulders, the scars I remember and the new ones I don’t. His breath hitches when I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath my touch.

Jackson keeps his hands at his sides, letting me explore, though I can feel the tension in him. Only when I step back to pull my own shirt over my head does he move, catching my cold hands in his warm ones.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, rubbing heat back into my fingers.

“Not from the cold.” I free one hand to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath my touch. When I press up to kiss him, he meets me halfway, but lets me control it, lets me take what I need.

We undress each other slowly, the fire warming our rain-chilled skin. When I press him back into his leather chair, straddling his lap, his hands settle on my hips—supporting, not guiding. Giving me the control I need, even as hope and desire darken his eyes.

“Shiloh,” he breathes against my neck, and I close my eyes against the weight of everything he isn’t saying. Everything I can’t say back.

I set our rhythm, slow and deep, each movement deliberate. His hands tighten on my hips, but he lets me lead, watching me with an intensity that should make me want to look away. Instead, I hold his gaze, memorizing the way the firelight plays across his features, the way his breath catches when I move just so.

“Let me see you,” he whispers, and for once, I do. Let down every wall, every defense, giving him this one honest moment before I have to leave. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and I turn into the touch, letting myself feel everything I’ve been running from.

When release takes me, it’s like breaking apart and coming home all at once. I feel him follow, feel his arms wrap around me, holding me close as we both tremble. For a moment, I let myself rest against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, feeling the gentle stroke of his fingers along my spine.

The fire crackles, sending shadows dancing across the walls of his study. His study, in his ranch house, on his land. All the things I can’t be part of, no matter how right this feels. No matter how much I wish—but wishes aren’t for women like me.

I know what’s coming with the dawn. For now though, just for these few precious hours, I let myself sleep in his arms.