Chapter 44: Aftermath of Confession
The first thing Dove became aware of was the solid, warm weight of an arm across her waist. The second was the absence of the dull, constant ache in her shoulders she usually woke to. The third was the light, a pale Texas dawn seeping through the curtains and painting the room in shades of honey and grey.
She was on her side, curled backward into the heat of him. Jackson’s chest was a solid wall against her spine, his breathing deep and even against her hair. His arm, heavy with sleep, held her firmly against him, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach. She’d slept through the night. Not a single fracture of consciousness, no waking to check the security monitors on her bedside table. Just a deep, dreamless plunge into warmth.
She lay perfectly still, memorizing the feeling. The coarse hair of his forearm against her skin. The way his exhale stirred the fine hairs at her nape. The absolute rightness of it. A giddy, unfamiliar sensation bubbled up in her chest, threatening to escape as a laugh. She bit her lip, holding it in.
Slowly, she shifted, turning under his arm until she faced him. He stirred, a low grumble in his throat, but didn’t wake. In the soft light, she studied his face. The familiar landscape of it—the faint scar through his eyebrow from a long -
forgotten tussle, the stubble darkening his jaw, the surprisingly long lashes fanned against his cheek. She’d seen this face in every conceivable light for over half her life. But she’d never seen it on her pillow. The difference was seismic.
She reached out, traced the line of his jaw with a single fingertip. His eyes flew open.
There was no groggy confusion. His gaze focused on her instantly, sharp and clear and blue. For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other. The events of the night before hung in the air, not as a awkwardness, but as a settled, profound fact.
“Morning,” he said, his voice a gravelly rasp.
“Is it?” she whispered, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I was wonderin’.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. He shifted his arm, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the arch of her cheekbone. The calluses on his palms were familiar, but the tenderness of the gesture was new. It made her breath catch.
“You’re here,” she said, the statement simple and enormous.
“‘Course I am.” His thumb stilled. “Unless you’re kickin’ me out.”
“Try and leave,” she said, the smile finally breaking free. She nudged him with her knee. “I’ll hog-tie you to this bedframe.”
A real grin then, bright and fleeting. “Promises, promises.” He leaned in and kissed her. It was slow, deep, and tasted of sleep and them. It felt like a continuation, not a hello. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. “Beth knows.”
Dove sighed, a contented, amused sound. “Yeah. She does. Left us a peace offering.” She nodded toward the bedroom door, beyond which the bottle of whiskey with its scrawled note still sat on the floor of the main room.
“Wasn’t exactly quiet,” Jackson murmured, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
“The bed was positively singin’,” Dove agreed, her tone dry. She watched the flush deepen and laughed, a low, happy sound she hardly recognized as her own. She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Relax, cowboy. It’s Beth. She’s probably just glad we finally stopped orbitin’ each other like a pair of dim planets.”
The ease of it, the normalcy of teasing him in her bed, was intoxicating. But reality, in the form of a blaring alarm from the security tablet on her nightstand, shattered the moment a second later. It was the generic perimeter chime for the south pasture gate.
Jackson was moving before the second tone, rolling out of bed with a fluid grace that belied his size. Dove was right behind him, the professional switch in her brain flipping automatically. She snagged his t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head as she padded to the living area, Jackson grabbing his jeans.
She tapped the tablet screen, bringing up the live feed. It wasn’t an alert for a breach. It was a vehicle, idling politely at the main ranch gate. A black SUV, clean but unremarkable. The driver’s window was down, and a man in a dark suit was speaking into the intercom.
“It’s for me,” Dove said, her voice shifting, the softness of moments ago receding like a tide. She recognized the car. “Seven AM. Gotta admire the punctuality.”
Jackson came to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at the screen, his hands settling on her hips. The casual touch, even now, sent a small shock through her system. “The St. Louis thing?”
“Must be. Consultant was due.” She leaned back into him for a brief second, drawing strength from his solid presence, then straightened. “I need to get down there. He’s early.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” She turned, put a hand on his chest. “You’re Chief of Security. Your being there changes the tone. Makes it look like we’re expectin’ trouble. This is just a preliminary meet. Coffee and intimidation.” She stood on her toes and brushed a kiss against his stubbled jaw. “You should head back to your place. Shower. Change. It’ll raise fewer eyebrows.”
He searched her face, the protector in him warring with the professional. The professional won. He gave a short nod. “Alright. But your phone stays on. And you brief me before anything gets decided.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, a ghost of her earlier smile returning.
He dressed quickly, and she watched him, this new-old thing between them a live wire in the quiet room. At the door, he paused. He looked back at her, standing there in his too-big t-shirt, her hair a wild tumble, the dawn light outlining her. The look in his eyes was so fiercely possessive it made her toes curl.
“One true thing,” he said, the words a quiet echo in the hallway.
“The truest,” she answered.
He left, pulling the door shut with a soft click. The apartment felt different once he was gone. Not empty, but charged, as if the air itself was imprinted with the shift between them.
Dove moved quickly. A cold shower to shock her system awake. Jeans, a clean dark-green henley, boots. She braided her hair into a severe plait, the better to look like she hadn’t just been thoroughly loved. As she passed the door, she scooped up the bottle of whiskey and Beth’s note. She placed the bottle on her small kitchen counter and propped the note against it. A reminder.
By the time she crossed the dew-silvered yard to the main office adjacent to the stables, the black SUV was parked neatly out front. A man leaned against its hood, sipping from a travel mug. He was in his fifties, with sharp, intelligent eyes and the calm posture of someone who was never in a hurry because he knew he’d always arrive on time.
“Ms. Montgomery,” he said, straightening. “Apologies for the early hour. The flight got in ahead of schedule. I’m Philip Crowder.”
“No apology necessary,” Dove said, unlocking the office door with a key from her ring. Her voice was smooth, welcoming yet devoid of warmth. “Punctuality is a virtue. Coffee’s just made.”
She led him inside, the room smelling of old leather, fresh coffee, and lemon polish. It was a space designed to put people at ease while reminding them of the power behind the quaint ranch facade. Her father’s large oak desk, modern secure-line phones, a wall of screens showing every angle of the property.
She poured two mugs, handed him one, and took her seat behind the desk. Not a power play, just a statement of territory.
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Crowder,” she began, skipping the small talk. “I understand you’ve reviewed the St. Louis situation.”
“I have,” he said, settling in the client chair. He placed his briefcase on the floor but didn’t open it. “It’s delicate. The asset is highly visible. Extraction will require a closed circuit. No external players.”
Dove nodded, sipping her coffee. This was the dance. The client—a corporate entity with a runaway executive privy to damaging secrets—wanted the problem disappeared. But they wanted it done within the family, so to speak. Crowder was the liaison, the architect. She was the contractor.
“My team prefers a closed circuit,” she said. “We find it reduces… variables.”
“Variables like loose ends,” Crowder said, his eyes holding hers.
“Variables like misunderstandings,” she corrected smoothly. “We’ll need full biometrics, habitual patterns for the last month, all access codes to his private properties. And the non-negotiable terms of the retirement package.”
Crowder permitted himself a small smile. He liked her language. Clean. Professional. “The package is substantial. And permanent. He’ll want for nothing, except a past.” He slid a sealed dossier across the desk. “Everything you requested is in here. The client is prepared to initiate phase one upon your confirmation.”
Dove’s fingers rested on the manila envelope. This was her world. The one that existed in the shadows of the rolling pastures and the cheerful whinnies from the stables. A world of quiet violence and quieter solutions. For a fleeting moment, the memory of Jackson’s weight, his scent, his quiet “One true thing” flashed through her. It didn’t feel like a distraction. It felt like a anchor. A reason to make the hard choices cleanly, to keep the darkness she engaged with from ever touching the light she was just beginning to allow herself.
“Consider it confirmed,” she said, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “We’ll begin the demographic tonight. You’ll have an itinerary within forty-eight hours.”
The meeting concluded with the same efficiency with which it began. She saw Crowder out, watched the black SUV disappear down the long gravel drive in a cloud of dust. The ranch was waking up around her. A hand waved from the mechanic’s bay. The soft clang of feed buckets echoed from the barn.
She stood on the porch, the dossier in her hand, and pulled her phone from her pocket. She typed a quick text to Jackson. Consultant gone. All good. St. Louis is a go.
His reply was almost immediate. Understood. Your place or mine for dinner?
A laugh, sudden and bright, escaped her. She typed back, Mine. I’ll cook. Don’t be late.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket, the weight of the dossier in her hand counterbalanced by the lightness in her chest. The day awaited, filled with its dualities: the silent planning of a man’s disappearance, and the simple, terrifying promise of a shared meal. She turned and went back inside, ready to begin.