“A Night With Betsy At The Rusty Spur”
Even in sleep, the heat of the Mississippi summer curled around Jackson, sticky and close, as if the air itself wanted to trap him inside his own dream.
He stood barefoot in a field, the grass cool and wet beneath his feet. He could smell the sweet, sharp tang of honeysuckle on the breeze.
And then he felt it.
The heat of another body.
Close.
Too close.
“Look at you,” came a voice, deep and rough and soft all at once, like velvet dragged across wood.
Jackson froze. His heart kicked up like a buckin’ colt in his chest. He didn’t have to turn. He knew that voice.
Blake Buckley.
That slow Southern drawl, rich and dangerous, poured into his ear like it belonged there.
“You waitin’ on me,” Blake whispered, so close that Jackson could feel the heat of his breath against his neck.
Jackson’s lips parted, but no words came. The dream stole his voice. Blake’s body pressed up behind him, solid, hot, the weight of him undeniable. Jackson could feel every inch: the hard plane of his chest, the line of his thigh fitting against his own, the rough scrape of denim brushing the backs of his legs. And that cock. That huge, thickened, bloated cock.
“You burnin’ up,” Blake murmured, and the tip of his nose skimmed Jackson’s jaw, sending a shiver clean down his spine. “I can feel it. Like you’re made of fire under all that smooth skin.”
Jackson’s breath hitched. He swayed, just a little, his head tipping back without meaning to, exposing the soft column of his throat.
Blake chuckled low, a sound that rumbled through Jackson’s bones. “You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me, do you?” His hand, rough and warm, ghosted over Jackson’s hip, fingers grazing, not grabbing, just teasing, like he wanted to see how much Jackson could take before he broke.
Jackson tried to speak. Tried to say, Stop, or maybe Don’t stop. But all that left his mouth was a soft, helpless sound that made Blake smile against his ear.
“Say somethin’, pretty boy,” Blake urged, his lips brushing Jackson’s earlobe. “Or I’m gonna think you want this as bad as I do.”
The world spun slow. The stars swirled above like they’d started dancing to some tune only Blake could play. Jackson felt the weight of Blake’s hand settle firm on his waist now, fingers splayed, thumb stroking lazy circles that set his skin to tingling. Their bodies lined up perfect, like two pieces of something carved to fit.
“Damn,” Blake whispered, voice thick and hungry. “You smell good.”
His lips, rough with the scrape of his beard, skimmed down the side of Jackson’s neck, slow as syrup. Every place they touched left a trail of fire, burning Jackson from the inside out. Jackson’s knees went soft. His head fell back against Blake’s shoulder, breath coming in shallow, needy little gasps.
“Don’t you worry,” Blake said, low and promise-heavy. “I got you. Ain’t nobody ever gonna see this side of you but me.”
His hand slid up, fingers curling just beneath Jackson’s ribs, holding him close, tight, like he was afraid Jackson might vanish if he let go. And in that moment, Jackson didn’t feel ashamed. Didn’t feel scared. He just felt wanted. Wanted in a way that made him ache down to his bones.
Blake’s lips brushed his ear again, breath warm, words thick with longing. “God, Jackson. My dick’s hankering for that tight little ass.”
Jackson gasped, turning, their mouths so close now, just the barest breath apart.
But just then, despite his best efforts, the dream began to slip, like sand through his fingers. The field blurred. The stars fell away.
Jackson stirred.
Then blinked, trying to shake the haze.
He rolled over, arm draped across his eyes, breath coming out in a long, uneven sigh. His right hand came down instinctively, sliding inside his undies before his eyes rolled back. “Fuck,” he muttered, pulling out his hands, fingers now coated in his own glistening precum.
A sharp knock broke the stillness.
“Jackson Bell, you best not be lyin’ there like a dead possum!” Daisy’s voice rang from the other side of the door, bright, bossy, and full of that unstoppable force that kept the whole house runnin’. “Time to get your hide outta bed!”
Jackson flinched, scrubbing his other hand down his face. “Comin’, Mama,” he called back, voice scratchy, like he’d been hollerin’ in his sleep.
“Don’t you comin’ Mama me. Sun’s been up. I done fed the chickens, swept the porch, and put on a pot of coffee while you’re up here wastin’ daylight!”
Jackson swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards. His head hung low, curls stickin’ to his forehead. His body felt heavy, like the weight of that dream hadn’t let go of him just yet. Or his white undies.
As he stretched, his eyes drifted toward the corner of the room.
Cash’s mattress, the old thin one they kept rolled up for nights when the world got too mean, was already folded, tucked back in the closet where it always lived.
Jackson frowned. Cash must’ve slipped out sometime in the night, quiet as a ghost. Not a sound. Not even a nudge to say goodbye. It left the room feelin’ hollow. Jackson ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, trying to clear the cobwebs of the dream and the worry now prickling at the edge of his mind. His fingers paused at his temple, thumb rubbing small, slow circles like he could soothe himself right outta this mood.
“Jackson!” Daisy hollered again, her voice closer now, probably halfway up the stairs. “I ain’t gonna holler all day. You better have your feet on the floor!”
“They’re on the floor!” he shot back, grabbing a pair of worn jeans from the chair by the bed.
“Well good,” Daisy called, her voice easing just a touch. “I got fresh biscuits comin’ out the oven and if you don’t get down here, your plate’s goin’ to the dog.”
Jackson smirked despite himself. “We ain’t got a dog, Mama.”
“I might get one just to spite you.”
Her footsteps faded, the clatter of them on the stairs giving way to the rattle of pots in the kitchen below. Jackson stood there a beat longer, jeans unbuttoned in his hands, staring at the spot where Cash’s mattress had been.
He dressed slow, still half-lost in thought, the smell of Daisy’s cookin’ creeping up through the floorboards. He grabbed his boots from beside the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, lacing them up tight.
He came down the stairs slow. The smell of breakfast, coffee strong enough to wake the dead, bacon crisping in the skillet, and fresh biscuits warming on the counter, wrapped around him like a quilt.
The kitchen was bathed in light, spilling through the gingham curtains Daisy had stitched up herself the winter before. The radio played low from the windowsill, some old George Strait tune. Daisy stood at the stove, barefoot as always, her hair up in a loose knot, apron dusted with flour. She glanced over her shoulder as Jackson stepped into the room, a knowing glint in her eye.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” she drawled, flipping a slice of bacon with a flick of the wrist. “I was ’bout to send a search party.”
Jackson tried to muster a grin, but it felt crooked. He dropped into his usual chair at the small round table, elbows braced on the worn wood. “Mornin’, Mama.”
“Mornin’, my foot. It’s damn near afternoon.” She slid a plate in front of him, biscuits split and buttered, bacon piled high, eggs soft and fluffy like clouds. Then she poured him a glass of orange juice, setting it down with a thud that said ‘eat before I fuss at you’.
Jackson stared at the plate a second, appetite caught somewhere between his stomach and the knot of thoughts twisting in his head.
Daisy sat across from him with her own coffee, one leg folded up under her like a girl half her age. She watched him over the rim of her cup. “You alright?” she asked, casual as can be, but her eyes, sharp as tacks, didn’t miss a thing.
Jackson shrugged, tearing a piece of biscuit in half. “Just didn’t sleep too good, I guess.”
“Mmm.” She sipped. “Storm in your head kept you up?”
His fingers stilled on the biscuit. He didn’t look up. “Somethin’ like that.”
They ate in the quiet for a spell, before Daisy set her cup down with a little clink. “So, you gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like a hound dog that lost its bone, or you plannin’ to stew on it till you boil over?”
Jackson smirked despite himself. “Ain’t nothin’, Mama.”
“Mmhmm,” she said, not believin’ him for a second. “Ain’t nothin’ always looks like somethin’ to me.”
He tore off another bit of biscuit, chewed slow, tryin’ to find his words. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You…you like Blake Buckley?”
Daisy’s brows went up, just a touch. “Well, that came outta left field.”
Jackson’s ears turned red, but he kept his gaze on his plate. “I mean…you seem to. The way y’all been talkin’ and carryin’ on at the rodeo and such.”
Daisy leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. Her eyes softened, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He’s a handsome man, no denyin’ that. Polite. Got that cowboy charm.” She paused, studying him. “Why you askin’, baby?”
“No reason.” Jackson’s voice came out too quick, too thin. He busied himself with his eggs, like they’d suddenly gotten real interesting. “Just wondered is all.”
Daisy tilted her head, not saying a word for a moment, letting the weight of the question settle between them. Then she leaned forward, her voice gentler. “You don’t gotta twist yourself into knots on my account, Jackson Bell. If you’re worried ’bout me and Blake, don’t be. I ain’t lost my mind. I know what kinda man he is, or ain’t.”
Jackson finally looked up. “What do you mean?”
Daisy shrugged, stirring her coffee. “I mean, Blake Buckley’s a man who wears his troubles like a well-worn hat. Looks good on him, sure, but don’t make it any lighter. And I got enough weight on my shoulders raisin’ a son who’s worth more than all the cowboys in Mississippi put together.”
Jackson felt his chest tighten, that burn behind his eyes threatening to rise.
Daisy reached out and stilled his hands with hers, her fingers warm and sure. “It’s always been just the two of us, hasn’t it?” she said, softer now. “Me and you against the world since the day you were born. You and me buildin’ this little life best we could. And I know, Lord, baby, I know, you feel like maybe somebody’s wedging themselves into that.”
Jackson lifted his eyes to hers, blue and bright, but stormy underneath.
“I just… don’t want it to change nothin’,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “It’s always been good, between us.”
Daisy smiled, but it was the kind that carried a little sadness in it. “It has been good. The best part of my whole life has been you. And I reckon I’d be fine if it stayed that way till I’m old and gray and hollerin’ at the grandkids you don’t want to give me.”
That earned the ghost of a grin from Jackson.
“But…” she went on, squeezin’ his hand, “I’m still a woman, Jackson. Not just your Mama. I’m still a person who gets lonely sometimes. I laugh and I flirt, sure, I always been that way. You know I like makin’ folks smile, gettin’ ’em riled up a little.”
Jackson nodded. “You always been a handful.”
Daisy chuckled. “Takes one to know one.”
She sobered then, the weight of her words coming steady. “But it feels different with Blake. I don’t know what it is. When he’s around I feel like maybe I ain’t invisible. Like maybe I ain’t just the girl who got herself knocked up too young and made a life outta scrap wood and spit.”
Jackson swallowed hard, throat tight. He wanted to tell Daisy she wasn’t invisible to him. That she was the best there was. But the words stuck.
“I ain’t sayin’ I’m runnin’ off to marry the man,” Daisy continued. “But I miss havin’ somebody’s hand on my back when I’m tired. Miss havin’ somebody to look at me like I’m somethin’ more than a waitress, or a Mama, or a mess who barely keeps the lights on.”
Jackson stared down at their joined hands. His chest ached in a way he didn’t have a name for, not just from wanting what he couldn’t have, but from knowing his own desires would ultimately jeopardize Daisy’s chance at happiness.
And at that moment he knew.
He’d have to find a way to stand aside.
“You’re right. I just… don’t want nobody hurtin’ you,” he muttered, voice low.
Daisy smiled soft. “That’s my line, sweetheart.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Now eat that food before it gets cold. And stop worryin’ so much. You just feel what you feel, baby. That’s all God asks of us.”
Jackson tried to smile, but his heart was tangled in too many knots. He dug into his food and tried to drown out the memory of Blake’s voice in his ear, the weight of his hands touching his skin in his dream, and the fact that his undies were still soaked under his jeans.
He eventually pushed himself away from the table and stepped off the porch. The sun had climbed high enough to bake the yard, but the shade from the pecan trees dappled across the grass. He let out a long breath, slow and heavy, like maybe he could exhale the knot in his chest right along with it.
A dog barked once, sharp and quick, then fell quiet.
Jackson walked out across the yard. The field behind the house opened up wide and wild, the heads of it swayin’ easy in the breeze. The sky above was big and blue, dotted with lazy clouds that seemed to watch him like old friends with secrets they wouldn’t share. Jackson stopped at the fence line, one hand braced on the top rail, the wood warm and worn smooth from years of leaning and watching. His fingers drummed against it, restless.
The conversation with Daisy played back in his mind, every word heavy as a stone. The way she’d looked at him, soft, pleading, strong. The way she’d said it felt different with Blake. The way she’d said she missed feeling wanted.
He kicked at a clump of grass, jaw tight. “What the hell’s wrong with me,” he said, voice low, eyes on the horizon.
Jackson hated it.
Hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about Blake, the way he’d looked that night at the rodeo, all dust and sweat and easy strength. The way his voice had curled low when he talked, like he wasn’t just speaking, but pulling you in. Jackson dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling at it just enough to feel the sting.
He climbed over the fence, dropping down on the other side. The field spread before him, a place he’d always gone to think, to breathe, to be just Jackson Bell and nobody else.
He walked, slow at first, then faster, letting the wind hit his face, letting the sun beat down on his back, letting the world remind him that it was bigger than any man or any heartache. But the thing was, Blake had already gotten under his skin. Into his blood. Into the quiet places Jackson had tried his whole life to keep clean and untouched.
And now he’d promised himself he’d step aside. That he’d bury this burning want so deep it’d never see the light of day. Jackson stopped in the middle of the field, chest heaving like he’d been running. He looked up at the sky, fists clenched at his sides. The clouds drifted lazy, uncaring, while the world turned steady beneath him.
And there, with the grass high around him and the wind tugging at his shirt, Jackson Bell made himself a vow.
If it had to hurt, so be it.
If it meant Daisy’s heart could be full again, he’d bear it.
He’d smile. He’d nod. He’d shake Blake Buckley’s hand and make nice. And he’d lock this want up tight where it couldn’t do harm.
He stared out across the field, letting the sun blind him for a moment, letting the ache settle into something solid. Something he could carry. And when he turned back toward the house, boots kicking up dust with every step, Jackson walked like someone trying to convince himself he hadn’t just given up a piece of his soul.
The screen door eventually banged open again.
Daisy stood at the counter, shelling peas into a big metal bowl, her hip cocked to one side, apron wrinkled and dusted with flour from the pie crust she’d rolled out earlier. The radio played a Patsy Cline number now, mournful and pretty, and her foot tapped to the rhythm without her even thinking about it.
“Well, look at you,” she said without turning, her voice a blend of affection and mischief. “You leavin’ your brain out there in that field, or just your good sense?”
Jackson wiped a hand across his face, shoving his hair back, trying to look composed though he felt like his heart was still running clean out of his chest. “Just needed some air. That’s all.”
Daisy finally turned, dropping a handful of peas into the bowl with a clatter, and leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, I’m glad you got your air, baby, ’cause I got plans tonight, and I’m thinkin’ you oughta come along.”
Jackson froze in the doorway, suspicious already. “What kinda plans?”
She smirked, eyes gleaming. “The usual. Me, Marla, Becky-Lynn, maybe Loretta if she ain’t workin’ late at the Dollar Saver. We’re headin’ over to The Rusty Spur tonight. Gonna get a little music, a little whiskey, maybe a two-step or two if my hips’ll allow it.”
Jackson groaned. The Rusty Spur was the only bar for miles that didn’t look like it belonged in a horror picture or hadn’t been condemned. It was where the whole town ended up sooner or later: old ranchers nursing beers, young bucks showing off in boots too new to be earned, and everybody in between.
And Blake.
Blake would be there.
Definitely.
“I ain’t much in the mood for a crowd tonight,” Jackson said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Daisy raised a brow. “That so?” He nodded, hoping she’d drop it. But Daisy Bell didn’t drop things. Not when she’d made up her mind. “You know who’s gonna be there?” she said, smiling like a cat that’d caught itself a fat mouse. “Blake Buckley. Marla said he’s been helpin’ gettin’ that old stage in shape.”
Jackson’s stomach flipped over on itself. He swallowed hard, staring at the floorboards like they might open up and swallow him if he looked just right.
“And you want me there why exactly?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
Daisy uncrossed her arms, stepped forward, and rested her hand on his cheek, thumb stroking a spot she’d soothed a thousand times before, back when his heartaches had been skinned knees and schoolyard squabbles.
“Because I like havin’ my boy where I can see him,” she said, soft but firm. “Because it’s Saturday night, and you been sulkin’ more than a cat left out in the rain. And because it’d mean somethin’ to me if you tried.”
Jackson closed his eyes a second, breathing her in, the lavender of her skin, the faint trace of ham and pie, the smell of home. “God, you’re real good at twistin’ my arm, Mama.”
Daisy grinned. “It ain’t twistin’ if you’re already halfway convinced.”
Jackson chuckled low, though his heart still beat too fast, still caught between wanting to go and wanting to run in the other direction.
“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll come. But if Becky-Lynn tries to set me up with one of her cousins again, I’m hitchin’ a ride outta there with the first drunk fool who’ll have me.”
Daisy laughed, full and bright. “You got yourself a deal. Now go wash up and put on somethin’ clean. We ain’t tryin’ to look like we been wrestlin’ hogs all day.”
Jackson nodded, stepping back toward the stairs, boots thumping on the worn wood. He paused at the bottom step, looking back at her one more time. “Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?”
His voice softened. “Nothin’,” he said, smiling and climbing the stairs, heart heavy with secrets he’d promised himself to keep.
*
By the time the sun dipped low behind the pines, Willow Creek was already on the move.
Folks came outta their houses in boots and jeans still dusted from chores, or Sunday-best shirts pressed just enough to fool the eye in the low light. The gravel parking lot of The Rusty Spur filled up slow but sure. Pickup trucks lined up neat as fence posts, with the occasional beat-up sedan squeezed between, engines ticking quiet as they cooled.
The Rusty Spur wasn’t much to look at from the outside, just a long, low building with weathered wood siding, a neon sign flickering over the door like it was trying to decide whether it wanted to stay lit. But inside, it was the heart of Willow Creek.
You could feel it the second you stepped through the door, the thrum of country music spilling from the battered jukebox in the corner, the smell of beer and fried food and old wood. For locals, walking inside was like pulling on an old coat that still fit just right.
The floor was scuffed, but swept clean. The bar ran the length of one wall, polished to a soft shine, lined with stools that had seen better days but held up just fine. Behind it, bottles gleamed under string lights strung haphazardly across the shelves, and a pair of bartenders worked with the easy rhythm of folks who’d been doing it long enough to know the regulars’ drinks by heart.
There was a row of pinball machines against one wall, one themed for rodeos, another for a busted-up old superhero whose name nobody remembered no more. Their lights blinked lazy, calling to the kids who always begged quarters off their parents. Next to them, a dart machine stood crooked, the screen scratched but working enough to keep score for the same three men who played every Saturday night and fought over who was cheating.
Tables dotted the main floor, most of them mismatched, some with names carved into them, hearts and initials from sweethearts long grown or long gone. Folks clustered there now, pitchers of beer sweating, cards being dealt, dominoes clicking loud against wood.
And at the center of it all, under a big old set of longhorns mounted above the main stage, sat the pride and joy of The Rusty Spur, a mechanical bull named Betsy. Betsy had thrown more cowboys than any real bull in the county, and tonight she waited patient, her leather worn smooth from the grip of a thousand foolish hands, the control panel manned by an old fella named Pete who swore he could tell just by looking at a man how long he’d last in the saddle.
Above the bar hung signs that folks had given as gifts over the years: No crying at the bar, take it outside. If you can’t dance, at least buy a round. And of course, What happens at The Spur stays at The Spur, ‘less Loretta sees it.
The place was alive tonight.
Marla and Becky-Lynn had claimed their usual table near the dance floor, already giggling over a pitcher of sweet tea spiked with something stronger. Old man Perkins was at the end of the bar, nursing a single beer like it was gold. Couples two-stepped to a song playing from the jukebox, boots tapping in time, spurs jingling just soft enough to be music themselves.
And into this, Daisy Bell walked in with her boy at her side, her hair brushed out and loose, jeans snug at the hip, blouse tied just at the waist. Jackson followed, clean-shaven, his blonde hair still damp at the nape of his neck, boots scuffed but shined where it counted. His face was calm, but his eyes, those blue eyes of his, scanned the room.
“Y’all start without me?” Daisy called, hands on her hips, grinning wide.
Marla, plump and rosy-cheeked, fanned herself with a paper napkin. “We was gettin’ worried you got lost on the way, honey.”
“Lost? I own this joint,” Daisy shot back, looking over as Jackson trailed behind, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, but sticking close, like always.
Becky-Lynn, in her usual too-tight jeans and a tank top that read Bless Your Heart, winked at Jackson. “Now that’s what I call a good-lookin’ boy. You sure he’s single, Daisy?”
Jackson groaned low. “Becky-Lynn, don’t start.”
“Ain’t started nothin’,” she said sweet as pie. “Just appreciatin’ what the Lord done made.”
Daisy rolled her eyes and tugged Jackson down into the empty chair beside her. “Leave my boy be. He’s had enough of women throwin’ themselves at him to last a lifetime.”
Before Becky-Lynn could fire back, the door swung wide again and in walked Carla Dalton, looking more at ease than she had in years. Her dark hair was pinned up neat, and her blouse was bright and clean, a sign of how far she’d come since those hard years when Vernon kept her world small.
Cassidy flanked her, eyes wide with excitement at being part of the grown-up fun for once, and behind them came Cash, swaggering like he owned the place, but shooting Jackson a grin that was all brotherly mischief.
“Well, I’ll be,” Daisy said, standing to hug Carla tight. “Look at you, girl. You glowin’ like a sunrise.”
Carla laughed, soft and genuine. “Don’t you start, Daisy. I’m just happy to be anywhere Vernon ain’t.”
That got a round of nods and murmured amens from the table. Folks in Willow Creek had long memories, and they all remembered the day Vernon got hauled off in cuffs, shouting like a fool, after the sheriff finally caught him drunk and swinging on a neighbor. Two years now, and Carla had bloomed like a wildflower freed from the shade.
“Come sit,” Daisy said, patting the chair beside her. “We’re celebratin’. No reason in particular, just feels like a good night for it.”
Marla topped off glasses all around, and Becky-Lynn flagged down a waitress for another pitcher. The group settled in, voices rising and falling in easy waves.
Cash dropped into a chair beside Jackson, leaning close. “You look like a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. What’s got you so twitchy?”
Jackson shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
Cash grinned. “That cowboy’s here, ain’t he?”
Cassidy, ever the spark in the room, piped up, “Y’all gonna ride Betsy tonight or what? I bet I could outlast both of ya.”
“Cass, the last time you tried, you got flung halfway across the floor and near broke Marla’s nose,” Cash reminded her, snickering.
“That ain’t how I remember it,” Cassidy sniffed. “I was graceful as a swan.”
“A drunk swan maybe,” Becky-Lynn said, and everyone roared.
In strode Tiffani Jean, a vision of Southern sass with hair piled high and a halter top that left little to the imagination. She had that walk, hips swinging, head high, eyes sharp.
Behind her came Weston. Shorter, stockier, his face rounder, cheeks a bit flushed from the heat or the nerves or both. His pants hugged him in all the wrong places, his T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. He wasn’t what folks in Willow Creek would call pretty, not like Jackson, with his sun-bleached hair and easy grace, but Weston had a kind of pride that shone brighter than looks anyhow. The kind that made him stand tall, even when the world tried to knock him down.
Jackson spotted them first and grinned. “Well, if it ain’t Tiffani Jean herself, draggin’ her favorite sidekick behind her.”
Tiffani let out a laugh that turned heads two tables over. “Hush, Jackson Bell. You just mad I look better than you tonight.”
“You always look better than him,” Cash added, smirking.
But the smile faded quick as his sharp eyes caught the dark smudge under Weston’s left eye. A bruise, blooming ugly against his pale skin, and a small slice on his cheek, like someone’s knuckle had caught him good. Jackson’s grin vanished too, replaced by a tightness around his mouth.
Weston tried to play it off, his usual swagger not dimmed in the least. “Y’all starin’ at me like I walked in here naked.”
“What the hell happened to your face?” Cash said, stepping forward, voice low but loaded. He tilted Weston’s chin up gently with two fingers, inspecting the damage like he might be able to fix it just by staring hard enough.
“Nothin’,” Weston said, pulling back with a quick laugh. “Y’all act like you ain’t seen a fella trip over his own feet before.”
Jackson folded his arms. “You expectin’ me to believe you tripped and your face landed on somebody’s fist?”
Weston shrugged. “It ain’t a big deal. Just a little scrap is all.”
“Who?” Cash pressed, jaw tight now, his temper simmering just beneath the surface. “Who the fuck put their hands on you?”
“Drop it, Cash,” Weston said, looking around, uneasy now with the attention. “A boy I been seein’. Got carried away is all. Nothin’ that ain’t happened before. I’m fine.”
“That ain’t fine,” Jackson said, voice tight. “You can’t let somebody treat you like that.”
“I don’t let nobody do nothin’,” Weston shot back, a flicker of that fire in his eyes. “I can handle myself.”
Cash shook his head, fists clenching at his sides. “Point him out. I ain’t lettin’ nobody in here think they can touch you and walk away smilin’.”
Weston smiled, but it was tired. “Lord, y’all are like two old hens cluckin’. I didn’t come here for a damn rescue mission. I came to drink a beer, maybe dance a little, and forget about it. So how ’bout you do the same?”
Cash opened his mouth, but Jackson touched his arm, shakin’ his head. “Alright,” Jackson said quietly.
Weston’s smile warmed a little. “Thank you.”
Tiffani Jean slid back into the scene, looping an arm around Weston’s shoulders. “Y’all done interrogatin’ him? Can we go have some fun now?”
Jackson managed a grin. “Let’s. Before Cash decides to throw somebody through a wall.”
Cash snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The group turned back toward their table, but the undercurrent was there. Because in Willow Creek, you looked after your own. And woe to the fool who thought otherwise.
Daisy and her crew, Marla, Becky-Lynn, and Carla, had settled in like queens at court, holding down their table near the jukebox, heads leaning in close as they swapped gossip.
Meanwhile, Jackson, Cash, Weston, Cassidy, and Tiffani Jean made their way toward the bar. Jackson stayed a step behind, his eyes darting through the haze of cigarette smoke and neon glow, searching, though he tried to act like he wasn’t. But Blake Buckley was nowhere to be seen. No frame propped up at the bar. No wide grin flashing from beneath that damned hat. No deep voice cutting through the noise.
Jackson swallowed hard, jaw tight. He’d braced himself all night for that collision, for the weight of those eyes on him again. And now? Now that Blake wasn’t there, it left him feeling empty, like he’d opened a door expecting a storm and found nothing but stillness.
Cash nudged him with an elbow. “Lookin’ for your boyfriend?” he teased, voice low, just for Jackson to hear.
Jackson shot him a glare. “Shut up.”
Cash smirked but let it lie.
They reached the bar and squeezed in between two older fellas nursing longnecks. The bartender, a woman named Jo with arms like tree trunks and a braid hanging down her back, gave them a nod.
“What’ll it be, boys?”
“Two beers, a Coke, and whatever sweet poison Tiffani’s after tonight,” Cash said, grinning.
Tiffani Jean smacked him playfully. “Don’t you sass me, Cash Dalton.”
Jo went to pour, and the group leaned in close, shouting over the din. Weston was already scanning the room, relaxing now that he was with his people, letting his shoulders drop.
And that’s when it happened.
From across the room, like a hurricane in heels, Callie Rae descended. “Jackson Bell! Well, I swear, I was wonderin’ when I’d lay eyes on you tonight!”
Jackson barely had time to turn before Callie was on him, hands clapping his arm, eyes wide and shiny under too much mascara. Her dress pink and snug in all the wrong ways, clung like it was afraid to let go.
“Hey, Callie,” Jackson said, trying for polite, though his smile was tighter than a jar lid. “How you doin’?”
“Oh, better now,” she purred, leaning closer than was decent. “I been lookin’ all over for you. Didn’t see you at church last Sunday. Mama said maybe you was sick. I told her no, I bet he was off helpin’ orphans or somethin’ noble like that.”
Cash choked on his beer, and Weston snorted into his Coke.
Jackson shifted back just a hair, trying not to look like he was fleeing. “Just been busy, is all.”
Callie Rae batted her lashes. “Well, I sure hope you ain’t too busy to save me a dance tonight. You know I been practicin’ my two-step just for you.”
Tiffani Jean, never one to miss a beat, leaned against the bar and grinned. “Lord, girl, let the poor boy breathe. You makin’ him blush.”
“I ain’t blushin’,” Jackson muttered, though the tips of his ears sure betrayed him.
Cash leaned in, grinning ear to ear. “Aw, let him have his fun, Tiffani. Callie Rae’s just tryin’ to make an honest man of him.”
“Y’all are impossible,” Jackson said, glancing down at the bar like maybe he could will his beer to appear faster.
Callie Rae giggled, not taking the hint. “You’re too sweet, Jackson. That’s what I like about you. Always so polite. Unlike some other boys round here.” She shot a pointed look at Cash, who only raised his beer in salute.
Jo finally set down their drinks, and Jackson grabbed his, taking a long pull, grateful for something to do with his hands.
“Well,” he said, setting it down, “maybe I’ll see you out there later, Callie. Right now we’re just catchin’ up.”
Callie pouted prettily, though her eyes gleamed like she’d already won. “You better not forget, Jackson Bell. I’m holdin’ you to it.”
She flounced off, leaving the scent of cheap perfume in her wake.
As soon as she was outta earshot, Cash burst out laughing. “God almighty, you attract more trouble than a coonhound at a chicken coop.”
“Shut da’fuck up, Cash.”
Tiffani Jean wiped at her eyes, cackling. “Bless her heart. She ain’t got a chance, and she don’t even know it.”
Jackson rubbed his face. “Can we just drink in peace now?”
Despite the laughter, despite the comfort of being surrounded by folks who loved him, Jackson’s eyes strayed again, searching the room, bar, door, for the man who haunted his every thought. But Blake was still nowhere to be found.
Several minutes later, although it could have been hours as far as Jackson was concerned, and the Rusty Spur had started to feel too small. The laughter too loud, the heat too thick, the music too sharp, like it was tryin’ to carve its way right through Jackson’s chest.
He set down his beer, heart hammering in his ears louder than the boots stomping on the dance floor. His throat was dry, his palms damp. Every nerve in him felt raw.
“I’m gonna… I’ll be back,” he muttered to nobody in particular, already turning from the bar, his boots hitting the scuffed floorboards in hurried, uneven steps.
He made his way toward the back of the place, past tables littered with empty glasses, past the dart machine with its bent screen where two old men argued over who’d won. The hum turned to a dull roar as he reached the corridor, a narrow stretch of wood-paneled walls that led to the restrooms and the booths where folks sometimes slipped away for business that wasn’t meant for open eyes.
He had near reached the men’s room door when it banged open so hard it rattled on its hinges.
Out stormed Colton.
The boy was flush-faced, sweat slick at his hairline, shirt half-untucked, belt crooked like he’d yanked it on in a rush. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth to dust. “Mother fucker…” he cursed under his breath, a string of foulness that made the walls blush. Colton stopped when he saw Jackson, his lip curling like he’d just stepped in something. “What you starin’ at, Bell?” he spat.
Jackson stood his ground, brows drawing down as his blue eyes narrowed, steady and sharp as a blade. “Ain’t starin’. Just tryin’ to get by.”
Colton snorted, mean and bitter. “You always in the way, ain’t ya?” He jerked his belt straight, fists clenching like he wanted to throw hands just for the hell of it. But then he shook his head, muttered something ugly under his breath, and shouldered past, boots stomping down the corridor, leaving behind the sour scent of sweat and cheap cologne.
Jackson watched him go. Something about the way Colton looked, wild, cornered, angry like a dog that’d been caught, left a pit in his stomach. But he shoved the feeling down, pushed the bathroom door open, and stepped inside.
The light buzzed, flickering. The room smelled of bleach and something sour beneath the clean. A sink dripped slow, the plink echoing against the tile. Jackson moved over to it, turned on the cold water, and splashed his face, letting the chill bite his skin. He gripped the edge of the basin, chest heaving, eyes closed tight.
“Get it together,” he whispered, water dripping from his chin before he straightened, opened his eyes, and stared into the cracked mirror.
And that’s when one of the stall doors creaked open.
Jackson’s eyes flicked up, meeting the reflection of the man stepping out.
Blake Buckley.
His hair was damp at the temples, his shirt clinging to him in places it hadn’t before. His sleeves were rolled up, veins standing out along his forearms. His hat was gone, leaving his long, dark hair mussed, like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times. His eyes, those deep, storm eyes, met Jackson’s in the mirror, and for a moment, neither of them breathed.
“Evenin’,” Blake said, his voice low, rough around the edges.
Jackson turned slow, heart beating so loud he swore Blake could hear it. “Hey.”
A pause.
Heavy.
Loaded.
Blake shifted, like he weren’t sure if he wanted to stay or bolt. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Jackson swallowed hard, trying to find something easy to say, but the words stuck. “Yeah.”
The sink dripped.
The light buzzed.
Blake stood there leaning against the stall door, arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. His eyes watched Jackson, steady, quiet, no mockery in them. Just that look, like Blake saw through every layer Jackson tried to wear.
“I…” His voice cracked, so he cleared it and tried again. “I need to talk to you.”
Blake’s brow arched, and something soft flickered at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile, though he tried to hide it.
“Well,” Blake said, his voice low, rough like gravel on a country road, “I reckon now’s as good a time as any.”
Jackson took a step closer, boots scuffing on the tile. “I gotta know somethin’,” he said, eyes lifting to meet Blake’s, blue as a summer sky. “About you. About Mama.”
Blake’s smile faded, his face going still, respectful. He straightened, arms falling to his sides. “Alright.”
Jackson drew in another breath, trying to gather himself, trying not to choke on all the words he’d never meant to say. “She’s the best person I know,” Jackson started, voice steadying as he spoke. “She’s been all I had my whole life. Every good thing I am, it’s ’cause of her. And now…now she looks at you like maybe she can breathe easier, like maybe she ain’t carryin’ the whole world on her shoulders no more. I see it. I see the way she lights up when you walk in the room. And God, I want that for her. I want her to have somebody who looks at her and sees her, not just the girl who had a kid too young or the woman who worked herself to the bone to give that kid a life worth somethin’.”
His voice softened, his eyes burning with unshed tears. “So you gotta tell me straight. What’s your intention with her? Don’t dance around it.”
Blake didn’t answer right away. He looked at Jackson, really looked at him, like maybe he’d been waiting for this moment, like maybe he’d been dreading it too.
“I like Daisy,” Blake said finally, his voice quiet but sure. “More than I expected to. She’s somethin’ special. Strong. Kind. She don’t take no shit, pardon my language. I ain’t here to hurt her. I ain’t here to break what don’t need breakin’.”
Jackson nodded slow, like he’d expected the answer but needed to hear it all the same. He looked down at the floor, jaw clenching, heart beating so loud he swore it echoed off the walls.
But when he lifted his head, his eyes were clear, his voice low and steady. “And what about me?” he asked.
Blake’s breath caught, his eyes darkening like the sky before a storm. His mouth opened, but no words came, because what could he say? The truth was there between them, thick as smoke, undeniable.
Jackson saw it.
Felt it.
And he stepped back, like distance could save him from drowning. “No,” Jackson said, more to himself than Blake. He shook his head, eyes glistening. “I can’t do this. It ain’t right.”
Blake’s chest rose and fell, breathing hard like he’d been running.
Jackson’s voice broke, soft but sure. “My Mama’s happiness… that’s more important than what I want. She deserves that. And I won’t stand in the way of it. I can’t. I won’t be the reason she don’t get her chance at somethin’ good.”
He drew in a breath, slow and shaking. “So whatever this is, we gotta leave it be. You understand?”
Blake didn’t speak. He just nodded, once, slow, his eyes never leaving Jackson’s. Respect in them. Regret, too.
But then, slowly, the veneer he wore in town, the easy grin, the cowboy swagger, slipped. What was left was something quieter. Something real.
Something that took Jackson off guard.
Blake took a step closer, boots soft on the tile, voice low as a prayer. “You got no idea how much I admire you right now.”
Jackson’s eyes flicked up, meeting Blake’s. The look he saw there near took the wind outta him.
“You stand there,” Blake went on, his drawl slow and thick like honey dripping off the spoon, “and you say all the right things, all the good and kind and noble things…and all I can think about is how bad I wanna be wrong.” His voice dropped lower, rough around the edges, the truth spilling out now, thick and hot. “You think I don’t feel it too? You think I don’t see you standin’ there, tryin’ so hard to be good, when all I can think about is what it’d be like…” He stopped, jaw working like the words were fighting to get loose. “What it’d be like to touch you. To take my time and show you what it’s supposed to feel like. To have a real man worship you…the way you deserve. Not rushed. Not hidden. Just…right.”
Jackson’s breath caught, his lower back hitting the sink without him even realizing he’d moved. Blake was close now, too close, his heat rolling off him in waves, his scent flooding Jackson’s senses.
Blake’s hand hovered, shaking like he wanted so bad to reach out, to close that last inch of space between them. “I wanna feel your skin again,” Blake whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Wanna see what you look like when you let go. Want you naked under me, lettin’ me hold you, lettin’ me make you forget all the reasons we shouldn’t.”
The room was too quiet now. Just their breathing, tangled and uneven. Jackson’s hands pressed against the sink behind him, trying to ground himself, trying to fight the pull that had him leaning in when he knew he oughta run.
Blake’s eyes burned into his, desperate. “But I can’t,” he said, the words breaking like a wave. “God help me, Jackson, I can’t. Because he was right,” Blake uttered like a confession. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, trying to disclose the meaning of those words. “Because… you’re good. And I ain’t gonna be the man who takes that away from you,” he stated. “You deserve better.”
Jackson’s body trembled with the force of holding back everything he wanted. The heat between them was suffocating. The need, the ache.
And still, they didn’t touch.
Couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
They lingered there until Blake finally stepped back.
Jackson closed his eyes, swallowing hard, trying to breathe, trying to remember who he was and why this couldn’t be.
Then he rushed and shoved the bathroom door open so hard it slapped the wall with a loud crack, drawing a few glances from folks nearby. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, though his skin still burned where Blake’s words had landed. His mind reeled, but as he stepped back inside the pencil floor, the noise of the bar tugged him back to the present.
And that’s when he saw her.
Cassidy.
Lord, have mercy.
There she was, up on Betsy, the Rusty Spur’s mechanical bull, grinning like she’d just won the county fair pie contest and was fixing to celebrate. Her hair was wild already, that dark braid comin’ loose as she adjusted her grip on the worn leather handle. She gave a big wave like a queen on a float, and the crowd roared in approval, egging her on.
“Well, would ya look at that?” came a voice through the ancient PA system, crackling like it was struggling to keep up with the excitement. It belonged to old Roy Tucker, who’d self-appointed himself as the Rusty Spur’s bull-riding commentator years back. His voice was part announcer, part stand-up comedian, and a hundred percent trouble.
“We got ourselves a real daredevil tonight, folks. That’s Cassidy Dalton, the pride of Willow Creek’s trailer park, settin’ out to prove she can outlast Betsy better’n any man this side of the Pearl River.”
The crowd hollered, folks banging on tables and stomping boots. Cash stood near the front, arms crossed, grinning wide, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe she’d gone and done it again.
Jackson made his way through the crowd, flustered still, but the sight of Cassidy up there, so full of mischief and foolishness, started to peel away the tight knot in his chest.
“Cassidy,” Roy drawled over the mic, “if you get flung into that beer pitcher again like last month, I swear I’m sendin’ the cleanin’ bill to your mama.”
Cassidy whooped, throwing a wink at Roy and the room. “Bring it on, Betsy! I been practicin’ on the clothesline pole at home!”
A roar of laughter went up.
Pete, the old fella working the controls, gave a crooked grin and started Betsy slow, just enough to get Cassidy rocking in the saddle.
Roy kept up the commentary. “Awright, look at her, folks. She’s holdin’ on tighter’n a tick on a hound dog. That’s form, right there. That’s dedication.”
Cassidy threw one arm in the air, waving like a rodeo queen, but the bull picked up speed, jerking hard left, then right.
“Uh oh!” Roy hooted. “Betsy’s had enough of bein’ sweet. She’s throwin’ more fits than a toddler at naptime!”
Cassidy bounced, legs flailing, laughing so hard she could barely hold on. Her boots lost the stirrups, and she let out a yelp that turned heads all the way at the bar.
“She’s hangin’ on by a prayer now, folks! Somebody call the preacher!”
Betsy gave a wild buck, and Cassidy went sailing, landing flat on her backside with a thud that rattled the floorboards and sent beer sloshing outta nearby glasses.
The crowd erupted, applause, whistles, cheers.
Roy leaned into the mic. “And there it is, ladies and gents. The queen is dethroned! Cassidy Dalton: undefeated in spirit, but defeated by gravity!”
Cassidy lay there a second, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, then burst out laughing. Cash jogged over, hand outstretched to haul her to her feet.
“You alright?” he asked, grinning ear to ear.
She dusted herself off, still cackling. “Hell yeah! That was the most fun I had all week. Somebody buy me a beer, I earned it!”
Jackson shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips despite the storm still swirling inside him. There was something about Cassidy, reckless and joyful, that made the world feel a little less heavy, even if just for a breath.
Jackson leaned against a post, watching his friends, watching the room, breathing deep.
The laughter from Cassidy’s tumble was still rolling through the Rusty Spur. But Jackson? He wasn’t laughing. He stood there at the edge of it all, leaning against a post, restless as a caged hound. His heart still pounded wild from what’d happened in that bathroom, and the room felt too small, too loud, too hot.
Cash came up beside him, grinning, holding out a fresh shot of whiskey. “You look like you could use this.”
And before Cash could blink, Jackson snatched it clean from his hand and knocked it back in one go. The burn hit his throat and bloomed warm in his chest, but it didn’t slow him down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blue eyes flashing with a fire even he didn’t understand, and strode straight for Betsy, boots hitting the floor hard, leaving his friends gaping.
“Lord have mercy,” Tiffani Jean breathed, elbowing Cash. “What’s gotten into him?”
Cash just smirked. “Hell if I know.”
The crowd quieted, heads turning, folks leaning outta booths and over tables to see what was happening. Jackson Bell, golden and storm-eyed, was mounting Betsy. And not a soul in that room had seen it coming.
Jackson swung his leg over with a smooth grace, hands settling on the worn leather, body aligning like he’d been born for this. His boots found the stirrups, thighs snug against the machine.
That’s when Blake Buckley stepped back into the room.
He stopped cold, eyes locking on Jackson like a man struck dumb. The noise, the heat, the whole damned bar faded into nothing. There was only Jackson. That boy on that bull, lit by the glow of neon, his hair shining like wheat in the sun, his mouth set, jaw tight, eyes burning with something fierce.
Pete’s voice crackled over the mic, trying to catch up. “Well, I’ll be damned. Jackson Bell’s takin’ a turn tonight, folks. Y’all better keep your drinks close. This one’s gonna be worth watchin’.”
And then Betsy came to life.
Slow at first, rocking easy, like she was testing him. Jackson rolled with it, his body flowing with the rhythm, boots planted, hands gripping tight, hips shifting in time. The bar fell silent, hypnotized. The way he moved, Lord, it wasn’t just riding a bull. It was dancing with it, like man and machine were one, like every jerk and buck was a beat in some song only he could hear.
Betsy picked up speed, jerking harder, twisting, trying to throw him, but Jackson held on, leaning into the turns, his body flexing and bending with a grace that stole the breath from every chest in the room.
Blake couldn’t look away.
He watched the way Jackson’s shirt clung to him, riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin, the smooth line of his back arching as Betsy bucked. He watched the way Jackson’s thighs gripped tight, the strength in him, the beauty. His heart pounded, his mouth dry, his hands fisted at his sides to stop from reaching for his bulging cock.
Pete’s voice was full of wonder now, narrating like he was calling a holy moment. “Look at him, folks. Never seen nothin’ like it. He’s ridin’ Betsy like he was born in that saddle. Breakin’ records tonight. Breakin’ hearts too, I reckon.”
The seconds ticked on, long and glorious, Jackson holding on, outlasting every fool who’d tried before. The crowd counted down, the chant building, louder, faster.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
Blake’s eyes stayed locked, drawn in like a man bewitched.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
“C’mon kid, c’mon. That’s it…” Blake whispered to himself, fingers curling.
“Three! Two! One!”
And Betsy slowed, giving up the fight.
The Rusty Spur erupted, cheers and whistles, boots stomping so loud the floorboards rattled. Jackson slid off the bull, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, hair a wild halo of gold. He stood there, breathing hard, so beautiful and alive it near hurt to look at him.
From across the room, Daisy made her way over, her eyes shining with pride, her smile wide enough to light the night. She stopped beside Blake, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed, hadn’t blinked.
“That’s my boy,” she said, her voice warm, full of love, full of joy. “Ain’t he the most beautiful thing you ever saw?”
Blake swallowed hard, lips quirking into a smile that couldn’t hide the storm inside him. He nodded slow, his eyes never leaving Jackson.
“Yeah,” he said, voice thick, soft as confession. “He sure is,” he whispered again as Daisy ran toward Jackson who stood in the middle of that crowd, soaked in applause and adoration.
*
(Hours Later)
The night had softened.
The rowdy heat of The Rusty Spur had bled out. The parking lot, once packed tight with trucks and dusty cars, had thinned. Folks lingered in small clusters, saying long goodbyes the way country people do, like the night won’t let go easy.
Blake leaned against the hood of his truck, arms folded, watching the last of the regulars shuffle out. His hat was pushed back, hair falling loose at his temples. Daisy stood beside him, cheeks pink from laughing, from dancing, from whiskey maybe, but mostly from being alive in a place that still felt like home. She held her purse under her arm, glancing at the emptying lot, then up at Blake with that look, the one that could disarm a man at twenty paces.
“Well,” she said, slow, letting the night fill the pause between her words. “Guess this is when I’m supposed to say thank you for the company, Blake Buckley.”
Blake smiled, soft, eyes glinting. “Was my pleasure, Daisy Bell. Always is.”
She shifted, foot scuffing the gravel. For a beat, she looked almost shy, unusual for Daisy, who carried herself like a queen even when her crown was bent. But tonight, something in her heart pushed up through her pride.
“I was thinkin’…” she began, voice low, drawling sweet and sure, “maybe you’d wanna come by the house sometime. Nothin’ fancy. Just supper. Me and Jackson don’t entertain much, but Lord knows we can set a good table. Maybe this week?”
Blake’s smile faltered.
Just a flicker, but Daisy caught it.
He hesitated.
She watched him, brows lifting just enough to ask what her mouth didn’t.
Blake cleared his throat, staring down at his boots like maybe they had the answer. “I…Daisy, that’s real kind of you. I ain’t sure…”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Blake,” Daisy interrupted, grinning now, that lightness back in her voice. “I ain’t proposin’ marriage. It’s just a meal. You look like a man who ain’t been fed proper in a long while.”
He chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re right about that.”
“Then say yes. Don’t make me beg, cowboy. I ain’t too proud, but I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of the Rusty Spur’s finest.”
Blake lifted his gaze, caught in her charm, her warmth, that unshakable Daisy spirit. He couldn’t find it in him to say no. Not to her. He nodded, slow, resigned to the path he knew was dangerous ground. “Alright, Daisy. Supper it is.”
Her face lit up, brighter than the porch light over the door. “Good. You’ll let me know what night works for you. And don’t you dare come empty-handed. I expect a story or two with that grin of yours.”
“I can manage that,” Blake said, though his chest felt tight.
Daisy touched his arm, a quick, kind squeeze, then turned to join her friends who were calling from their car. “Night, Blake.”
“Night, Miss Daisy.”
She walked off, laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon on the wind.
Blake stayed by his truck a moment, watching her go, the ache in him sharp and real. He ran a hand down his face, breathing deep, trying to steady himself.
That’s when his eyes caught movement near the edge of the lot.
Jackson.
He was climbing into Cash’s truck, the door sliding shut with a soft clatter. His hair was mussed, his face flushed from the night, from the ride on Betsy, from everything. But it was his eyes, those storm-bright blue eyes, that found Blake across the lot. For a heartbeat, the world hushed.
Their gazes locked. And in that single look, a thousand words passed.
Farewell, want, don’t go, I have to, I see you, I ache for you.
Neither man crumbled. They stood tall, proud, holding the weight of that moment like men who knew better than to speak what couldn’t be undone. Cash’s engine rumbled to life, headlights flashing as the van rolled out, tires crunching gravel. Blake watched it go, watched Jackson watch him in return through the side window, both of them caught between letting go and holding on.
Blake climbed into his truck, hands tight on the wheel. He started the engine, and as he pulled out, his rearview mirror caught that last glimpse, the van heading one way, his truck the other. Jackson’s face, small in the glass, eyes on him till the distance swallowed them both.
Two taillights.
Two hearts.
Two roads that weren’t meant to meet, but couldn’t stop trying.
Cash’s truck rumbled along the narrow blacktop, tires humming steady over the patched-up road. Tiffani Jean’s laughter bubbled up from the backseat, Weston cracking wise about Cassidy’s ride on Betsy, Cassidy barking back with twice the fire. The radio sputtered out a half-tuned country ballad, warbling like a ghost in the wires.
But for Jackson, it all blurred to noise.
He sat stiff in the passenger seat, eyes glued to the dark stretch of road, though he didn’t see it. His chest felt tight, like the night itself had its hands around him. The ache inside him was too big, too heavy, too real. His eyes burned, his fingers trembling where they clenched his thighs. The taste of whiskey still on his tongue. The feel of Blake’s nearness still burning on his skin. The look, that look, in Blake’s eyes when their gazes had caught across the lot. It haunted him, carved something out of him that couldn’t be put back.
“Hey,” Cash’s voice cut through, low but sharp, drawing him out. “Jackson? You alright? You’re shakin’ like a leaf.”
Jackson’s lips parted, but his voice barely made it out. “Stop the car.”
Cash flicked his eyes from the road to his friend, brows drawing down. “What?”
Jackson swallowed hard, breathing faster now. “Stop. The. Damn. Car.”
Cash hesitated, foot easing off the gas but not enough to halt.
“Stop the car, Cash!” Jackson shouted this time, voice cracking with the storm inside him that had nowhere left to go.
The van jolted as Cash stomped the brake, gravel kicking up, tires groaning in protest as the truck lurched to a stop on the shoulder, dust rising in a cloud around them. Before the wheels even stopped spinning, Jackson threw the door open, boots hitting the ground hard.
He didn’t look back.
Didn’t speak.
Just ran.
Ran like his life depended on it.
His boots pounded the cracked blacktop, breath coming in sharp gasps, arms pumping, legs moving faster than his mind could catch up. The dark swallowed him whole, the trees on either side rising like silent witnesses, the moon spilling silver over his path as he sprinted back toward the Rusty Spur, back toward what he couldn’t have, back toward what tore at him in ways he didn’t have words for.
Inside the van, the noise had died. Tiffani Jean, Weston and Cassidy sat frozen, mouths open, watching the dust settle where their friend had vanished.
Cash stared after him, jaw tight. “Damn fool,” he muttered, slamming the door open, boots hitting the ground. “Jackson!” he hollered into the dark, voice echoing down the road, bouncing off the trees. “Jackson, get back here!”
But Jackson didn’t stop. His figure grew smaller, swallowed by the night, by the weight of his own need, by the truth he couldn’t outrun.
“This ain’t gonna end well,” Cash said, voice low, meant only for himself, for the crickets, for the Lord above. “Not one damn bit.”
Yet, Jackson ran.
Lord, he ran like the devil himself was on his heels, or maybe it was his own heart he was trying to outrun. But with every stride, every slap of leather against road, he felt the weight inside him lighten. Felt the ache turn into motion, the sorrow melt into speed. The road blurred underfoot. The crickets, the tree frogs, the soft song of the night, they all fell away, drowned out by the rush of his own blood in his ears.
Past the Rusty Spur he flew, the neon sign flickering like it was waving him on, the last stragglers at the lot turning just in time to see the golden-haired boy streak past like a comet on fire, past the main square, where the old courthouse clock ticked slow and steady, uncaring.
He ran like a cheetah, legs stretching long, arms pumping, his heart pouring out onto the night with every step. His hair flew wild behind him, shirt clinging to his back, damp with sweat, with need, with the fire that had nowhere else to go.
And then the rodeo grounds rose up out of the dark, quiet now but for the creak of gates and the soft nicker of horses. The dirt ring lay bathed in the pale glow of a single tall lamp, the kind sponsors kept burning through the night, its light spilling over the pen like moonlight made man. Jackson skidded to a halt at the edge of it, chest heaving, lungs burning, legs shaking from the force of the run. His eyes scanned the ground, wild and bright, searching, searching.
Searching until they found him.
Inside the pen, beside the rail.
Blake.
He stood quiet, easy, his big hands moving slowly over the flank of a chestnut mare, brush sweeping through her coat in steady strokes. His hat hung on a post, his dark bun mussed from the work, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms glinting with a fine sheen of sweat. The soft sound of the brush on the horse’s hide was the only music in that quiet place.
Then, finally, Blake looked up at the movement, his body stilling, eyes narrowing as he took in the figure standing at the edge of the pen, bathed in sweat and moonlight. “Jackson?” His voice was low, uncertain. He stepped away from the horse, leaving the brush hanging on the rail. “What are you doin’ out here?”
Jackson couldn’t speak at first.
Couldn’t find words big enough for what stormed inside him. His breath came fast. His body vibrated with the run, with the ache, with the pull that had dragged him all this way. He shook his head, a wild, helpless gesture, a boy lost in his own want. “I don’t know,” he finally got out, voice raw, thick. “I don’t know,” he stuttered, his heart finally catching up with his mouth. “I just…I couldn’t breathe…I had to see you. I had to.”
Blake stared at him for a beat, the space between them charged, humming. And then, slowly, softly, he smiled. That kind of smile that broke something open inside. That made the world hush.
Jackson’s breath hitched, his heart tripping over itself.
And then he moved.
Before his mind could catch up, before doubt could snake its way in, Jackson shot forward, boots kicking up dust, arms reaching.
And Blake caught him.
The rodeo grounds watched.
The lamp flickered like it might wink out from the weight of it all.
The stars above Willow Creek blinked down, witness to the change that had come.
Because that was the night the world shifted.
That was the night the quiet streets of Willow Creek held their breath, as something wild and true took root in its soil.
Because it knew.
Nothing would ever be the same.
(To be continued…)
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