Chapter 45: Growing Vertical
The evening light was the color of bourbon, soaking the long porch of the main house in deep gold. The heat of the day had broken, leaving a dry, cool breeze that carried the scent of dust, sage, and coming night.
Jackson sat on the top step, a bottle of local IPA dangling from his fingers. Damien leaned against a porch post a few feet away, swirling his own bottle, watching the shadows stretch across the yard. The silence between them wasn’t hostile. It was the quiet of two watchmen, momentarily off-duty.
“She’s cooking,” Jackson said finally, not looking at him. “Dove. Never seen her volunteer to cook for anyone ‘cept family.”
Damien took a slow drink. “That’s what she is now.”
Jackson glanced over, his expression unreadable. “Yeah.”
Another quiet stretch, filled with the distant whir of a quad bike finishing up by the north paddock.
“Took your advice,” Jackson said, the words low, like he was admitting to a minor crime.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Damien’s face. He didn’t need it spelled out. He’d seen the shift in the air around Dove and Jackson that morning, a charge so palpable it hummed. “Good. Was getting painful to watch. Like two magnets fighting it out.”
Jackson snorted softly, a rare show of amusement. “Felt like it.”
“They deserve it,” Damien said, his gaze drifting toward the stables, and beyond them, to where the loft apartment glowed in the gathering dusk. “A little peace. God knows they’ve earned it.”
“You believe in peace, Rossi?” Jackson asked, the question blunt.
Damien’s smile turned wry. “For them? Absolutely. For me?” He shrugged, the movement elegant even in jeans and a dark t-shirt. “It’s a more… active negotiation.”
Before Jackson could form a response, a sharp sound cut through the tranquil evening. A raised voice. Female. Coming from inside the house.
Both men went rigid. Jackson was on his feet in one fluid motion, the bottle abandoned on the step. Damien straightened, his playful charm evaporating, replaced by a cold, immediate alertness. The sound hadn’t been fear. It was anger.
Another voice, just as loud, answered the first.
Dove and Beth.
Jackson took the porch steps in two strides, Damien right behind him. They didn’t run, but their walk was a fast, purposeful clip that ate up the ground to the front door. Jackson’s hand went to the small of his back, a habitual check for a weapon that wasn’t there in the house. Damien’s mind raced through threats—had Crowder’s visit been a set-up? Had something gone wrong already?
Jackson pushed the door open, Damien crowding his shoulder.
The scene in the open-plan living room was not one of danger.
Dove stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over her chest, feet planted. Beth was facing her from near the large stone fireplace, hands on her hips. The television was on, muted, showing some old game show rerun.
“You are absolutely misremembering!” Beth’s voice was sharp, pitched high with indignation. “It was the model, not the nurse! The model won the car! I swear on Daddy’s grave, Dove, you’ve got the memory of a concussed gopher!”
“The hell I do!” Dove shot back, not yelling, but her voice was a low, solid force. “The nurse won the car and the model had a meltdown over the dinette set! It was iconic! You were the one crying because you thought the model’s dress was pretty!”
“I was seven!”
“And wrong!”
They were so locked in their battle they hadn’t noticed the men storm in. Jackson stopped just inside the doorway, his shoulders slumping in relief. He let out a long, quiet breath.
Damien blinked, taking it in. The fierce set of Dove’s jaw, identical to the furious spark in Beth’s green eyes. The complete lack of anything resembling a physical threat. Just two sisters, toe-to-toe, arguing over a thirty-year-old television moment.
“See?” Beth jabbed a finger toward the silent screen. “Look! That’s the model right there! She’s getting the key! I told you!”
“That’s a commercial, you lunatic!” Dove uncrossed her arms to throw her own hands up. “Lord Almighty, did city life just rot the useful part of your brain? The nurse. Red hair. Big smile. Won the convertible.”
“Her hair was auburn!”
“It was red!”
Jackson shook his head, a faint, weary smile touching his mouth. He leaned back against the doorframe, folding his arms. His voice, when he spoke, was a dry drawl that cut through their bickering. “Beth, darlin’, you’re gettin’ worked up. You sound more like our Bell by the day.”
The use of the old childhood nickname did it. Beth froze, her retort dying on her lips. She closed her mouth, swallowed. A faint, self-conscious flush crept up her neck. She’d slipped, the polished, rounded vowels of ‘Bethany’ sanded away by pure outrage, leaving the broader, warmer, distinctly Southern tones of ‘Bell’ in their place.
Damien watched, fascinated. He’d seen Beth furious before—cold, controlled, devastating fury. He’d seen her playful, seductive, sarcastic. But this? This was unvarnished. This was the girl from the creek bed, not the empire in the boardroom. Her accent was thicker, her posture less calculated, her emotion right on the surface, bright and hot and real.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in years.
Dove saw his expression. She smirked, her own anger dissipating into amusement. “Told you she was still in there. Just takes a good fight about nothin’ important to shake her loose.”
Beth shot her sister a withering look, but the fight was gone. She smoothed her hands over her tailored linen trousers, a queen recomposing her majesty. “You’re both insufferable,” she said, but the words lacked their usual edge. The ghost of ‘Bell’ still lingered in the cadence.
“Dinner’s probably burnin’,” Dove announced, turning toward the kitchen. “Jack, set the table. Rossi… you just stand there and look pretty, I guess.” She disappeared around the corner.
Jackson pushed off the doorframe and moved to the oak table, opening drawers for cutlery.
That left Beth and Damien in the middle of the room. The muted television flickered. The smell of something garlicky and rich wafted from the kitchen.
He took a step toward her. “Auburn,” he said, his voice low.
“What?”
“The nurse’s hair. It was definitely auburn.” He gave her a small, crooked smile. “But your sister’s right about who won the car.”
Beth stared at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. She shook her head, turning away from him toward the balcony doors, but not before he saw the reluctant smile she tried to hide. “Unbelievable. Ganging up on me.”
He watched her go, the elegant line of her back, the way the last of the bourbon-colored light caught in her dark hair. The echo of ‘Bell’ rang in his ears, a siren’s call to something wilder and more fundamental than the sophisticated woman she presented to the world. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to be the one who brought it out.
Jackson slid a plate onto the tablecloth with a soft clink. He didn’t look at Damien, but his voice carried, quiet and certain. “See? Peace. It’s loud.”
From the kitchen, Dove yelled, “If y’all don’t get in here, I’m feedin’ it to the dogs!”
The moment broke. Beth called back something sharp and laughing. Jackson finished with the forks. Damien finally moved, heading toward the kitchen, the ghost of a Southern Bell and the promise of a shared meal pulling him forward into the warm, noisy light.