Chapter 51: Swirling Roots
The silence in the foyer after Damien’s whisper felt thicker than the Hill Country humidity. Beth didn’t wait for him to say another word. She turned on her heel and walked away, the silk robe flaring behind her like a banner of retreat.
Upstairs, in the clinical white marble of her bathroom, she dressed with sharp, angry motions. Denim jeans worn soft from years of use, a faded gray t-shirt, scuffed leather work boots. Armor. She pulled her hair into a severe ponytail, her reflection showing sharp green eyes and a set jaw. Courting. He called it courting. It felt like a siege.
She took the back staircase, avoiding the main rooms, and emerged into the blistering heat of the late morning. The sun was a physical weight. She breathed in the smell of dust, hay, and distant stock pens. Real things. Uncomplicated things.
She strode toward the equipment shed, a long, low building of corrugated metal that simmered in the heat. Inside, it was shadowy and cool, smelling of gasoline, cured wood, and dirt. She bypassed the tractors and went to the far wall where the splitting maul stood against a stack of seasoned oak logs. The wood was for the outdoor boilers that heated the guest cottages. It was work that needed doing. It was also work that required violence.
She hauled a heavy round of oak onto the broad, scarred stump, rolled her shoulders, and swung.
The thwock of the maul biting clean through the grain was profoundly satisfying. It shuddered up her arms and into her teeth. She split the halves, then quarters, the rhythm brutal and pure. Sweat plastered her shirt to her back within minutes. Each swing was a punctuation mark on her thoughts.
Arrogant. Thwock. Possessive. Thwock. Showing up here, thinking his… his everything just undoes years. Thwock. And Beau. God, Beau. Thwock. Smiling like time stood still. Thwock. Those roots. Those damn, complicated roots.
She didn’t hear Jackson approach. He just materialized, leaning against the doorway of the shed, a shadow blocking the rectangle of blinding light. He watched her for a full minute, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. She knew he was there. She didn’t stop.
“You’re gonna have enough wood to heat the compound through an ice age,” he said, his voice a dry rasp.
“Good,” she grunted, setting another round on the stump. This one was knotty, stubborn. She Adjusted her grip.
“Saw your visitor leave.”
“Yeah.”
“Looked friendly.”
“He is.”
“Rossi looked… less friendly.”
Beth swung. The maul hit the knot and bounced, sending a jarring shock straight to her shoulder. She swore, low and vicious.
“I don’t want to talk about Damien,” she said, resetting her stance.
“Then talk about Beau.” Jackson pushed off the doorway and walked in, his boots scuffing on the concrete. He picked up a split piece of oak and tossed it onto the growing pile. “Haven’t seen him in what, ten years? More? Brings tamales. Charming.”
“What’s your point, Jack?”
“No point. Just observing.” He leaned against the workbench, watching her wrestle with the uncooperative log. “First love’s a powerful ghost. Shows up in a red truck, it’s easy to get nostalgic.”
She finally cleaved the knot, the wood exploding into two jagged pieces. “It’s not nostalgia. It’s just… simple. He’s simple.”
“And Rossi isn’t.”
“Rossi is a category five hurricane wearing a Tom Ford suit.” She stopped, chest heaving, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. “He thinks he can just… redecorate my life. Again.”
Jackson was silent for a long moment. The only sound was Beth’s ragged breathing and the buzz of flies near the door. “Saw the way he looked at you when that truck pulled up,” he said finally. “Wasn’t the look of a guy redecorating. Was the look of a guy watching his house burn down.”
“Good,” she muttered, but the word lacked its earlier heat.
“You want it to burn?”
“I don’t know what I want!” The outburst echoed in the metal shed. She drove the maul head into the stump, leaving it standing upright. She braced her hands on her knees, head down. “He broke it, Jack. He broke us. And now he’s here with his… his grand mission of winning me back, and Beau shows up smiling, and it’s all just a mess. I feel like I’m twenty again, and just as stupid.”
Jackson walked over, pulled the maul free, and set it aside. He handed her a bandana from his back pocket. It smelled of laundry soap and diesel. “You were never stupid, Bell. Not even at twenty. Messy, maybe. Heart too big for your own damn good.”
She took the bandana, pressed it to her face. “What do I do?”
“Can’t tell you that.” He picked up a split log, turning it in his hands. “I liked the guy. For you, back then. Solid. Predictable. He’d have given you a quiet life. Probably still would.” He tossed the log. “Rossi… he’s a different animal. Always was. You knew that when you married him. Hell, I think that’s what you liked. Problem with wild animals is they bite. You knew that, too.”
“So that’s it? I just have to accept the bite?”
“No.” Jackson’s voice was firm. “You decide if the bite was a one-time thing, or if it’s in his nature. You decide if what he’s offering now is worth the risk of getting bit again. And you decide if ‘simple’ is enough for a woman who hasn’t been simple since she was fourteen years old.”
He looked toward the door, his gaze distant. “Loved both of ‘em, in their way. Saw what they gave you, and what they cost you. Beau gave you a soft place to land back when you needed it. Rossi…” He shook his head. “Rossi set the whole world on fire and handed you a match. Can’t un-strike that match, Bell.”
Beth followed his gaze. Out in the blinding light, far across the manicured lawn near the main house, a figure stood silhouetted in the shade of the porte-cochere. Leaning against a pillar. Watching the shed.
Damien.
Even at this distance, she could feel the intensity of that stare. A hunter’s patience. He didn’t approach. He just waited.
Jackson saw him too. He let out a long, slow breath. “He’s not gonna make it simple. That’s not in him. Question is, after everything, do you still want complicated?”
He placed a heavy, calloused hand on her shoulder, squeezed once, and walked out of the shed. He didn’t look at Damien as he crossed the yard, heading toward the stables, leaving her alone in the dim, cool silence.
Beth looked down at her hands. Blisters were rising on her palms, the skin red and raw. She felt every ache in her shoulders, every beat of her heart. She looked back at the distant, unmoving figure under the shade.
Complicated.
The match was already struck. She was holding it, and the kindling was all around her. All she had to do was decide where to drop the flame.