Chapter 54: Play nice
The low hum of the ranch at dusk was a living thing. Crickets sawing in the long grass, the distant low of a cow, the hydraulic sigh of an automatic waterer kicking on. In the main house, the lighting was warm, throwing golden pools across reclaimed oak floors.
Dove leaned against the doorframe of Jackson’s small, orderly office, watching him clean his service pistol at the desk. The methodical click-clack of the components was a familiar melody.“They’re back,” she said, a smile in her voice.
Jackson didn’t look up, but the line of his shoulders softened. “And?”
“And they walked out of that maze holding onto each other like the ground might try to swallow one of them whole.” She pushed off the frame and walked in, perching on the edge of the desk. “Beth’s got that look. The one where she’s trying not to smile but her eyes are all lit up from the inside.”
He reassembled the slide with a smooth, final motion. “Good.” A single word, heavy with approval. He’d been the most resistant, had seen the shattered pieces of Beth after the divorce up close. His trust, once broken, was a reluctant animal to coax back. But he’d seen Damien this past week—not just the prince of New York, but the man fixing a loose board on the porch before Beth could trip, the one who’d driven two hours to get the specific brand of coffee she preferred, who’d listened, actually listened, to Jackson’s concerns about perimeter security.
Dove reached out, her calloused fingers brushing his jaw. “Told you he’d figure it out.”
Jackson caught her hand, turned his head to press a kiss into her palm. It was a gesture so profoundly tender it still sent a shiver through her. Since their own walls had finally crumbled a few nights ago, he was a man making up for lost time. Every touch was deliberate, a quiet brand claiming a territory he’d only watched from a distance for years.
He stood, his frame towering over her even as he leaned down to capture her lips in a slow, thorough kiss. It was the third one today, not counting the one against the stables wall that morning, or the quick, stolen one by the tack room door. When he pulled back, his dark eyes held a warmth usually reserved for the embers of a fire. “House’ll be a damn sight more peaceful now,” he murmured, a rough thumb stroking her cheekbone. “No more brooding vibrating through the walls.”
She laughed, a low, happy sound.“Don’t you dare get complacent. Beth’s happiness just raises the standard.”
He grunted, a smile playing on his lips. “Noted.”
The kitchen smelled of searing meat, roasted garlic, and the yeasty promise of fresh bread. Salsa music played softly from a smart speaker, a casual, uplifting beat. Beth stood at the central island, her bandaged hands carefully segmenting a blood orange for a salad. Damien was ostensibly her sous-chef, but his position seemed to consist mostly of leaning against the counter beside her, a glass of red wine in hand, watching her with unguarded fascination.
“The trick,” Beth said, focusing on the pith, “is to get all the white off. It’s bitter.”
“Noted,” Damien said, his voice a low rumble.He took a sip of wine. “For a woman who hires people to do everything, you’re surprisingly proficient with a paring knife.”
“I hire people to run my companies, Damien. I still feed myself.” She elbowed him gently. “Mostly.”
Across the kitchen, Dove was tossing cubed sweet potatoes in oil and spices, and Jackson stood sentinel at the massive Viking range, managing two massive ribeyes that sizzled violently. The scene was disarmingly normal, a vignette of domesticity that felt both fragile and坚实.“Need a timer for those, chef?” Dove called to Jackson.
“I’ve got eyes, Dove,” he replied, without turning.His tone held no bite.
“Could’ve fooled me last Tuesday when you incinerated those pork chops.”
A faint smile touched Jackson’s lips.“An aberration.”
Damien watched the exchange, then leaned closer to Beth. “Is this what I missed?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “The familial needling?”
“This is the tip of the iceberg,” she whispered back, a shiver running through her at his proximity. “Just wait for the Thanksgiving football debates.”
He brushed a kiss just below her ear, a soft, public claim that made her breath catch. His hand came to rest on the small of her back, a steady, warm pressure through the silk of her blouse.
Dove glanced over, catching the moment. She met Beth’s eyes and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.A silent, I see you.I’m happy for you.
“Damien,” Dove said, her tone shifting to one of mild challenge. “You’re on dressing duty.Bowl’s over there, ingredients are laid out.Recipe’s in my head. I’ll talk you through it.”
Damien straightened, a playful gleam in his eye. “Finally, a task worthy of my skills.”
“Your skills at following directions?” Beth teased, nudging the bowl toward him.
“My skills at improvisation, tesoro.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the dark ink that coiled around his forearms. He looked absurdly out of place—a tailored-linen-and-tattoo vision in the rustic kitchen—yet he moved with a focused grace as he gathered the cornbread, herbs, and stock.Dove guided him through it. “Now, you’ve got to get the consistency right. Not too wet, not too dry.”
Damien mixed carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration.After a minute, he looked up. “And how am I to know what ‘right’ feels like?”
Beth leaned over, dipped a finger into the mix, and brought it to her mouth.She considered.“A bit more stock. Just a splash.”
He obeyed, adding a careful pour.“Like that?”
She sampled again. “Perfect.”
He smiled, a real, uncomplicated smile that transformed his face. He caught her wrist before she could pull her hand back, and brought her finger to his own mouth, tasting the dressing from her skin.His eyes never left hers.“You’re right. Perfect.”
A faint blush colored Beth’s cheeks.The air between them crackled, dense with a rediscovered intimacy.
Jackson flipped the steaks with a sharp hiss of steam. “Save it for dessert, you two.”
Beth tossed a crouton at him.It bounced off his shoulder. “Jealous, Jack?”
“Of his cooking skills? Absolutely.” He nodded at Damien’s bowl. “That’s the first thing he hasn’t burned.”
Damien laughed, a rich, easy sound that seemed to surprise even him.“I resent that. I merely… aggressively caramelized the onions.”
“You set off the smoke alarm,” Beth corrected, grinning. “In a house with commercial-grade ventilation.”
“A technicality.” He bumped her hip with his own.
As they worked, the conversation flowed—easy, light. Plans for repairing the old guest bunkhouse.The upcoming cattle auction. The absurdity of a celebrity who’d inquired about boarding their pet alpaca. For stretches of time, the tangled web of New York, the dormant threats, the unspoken dangers, felt like a bad dream from another life.
During a lull, as Beth sprinkled pomegranate seeds over the salad, she looked at Damien. “You know, for a man who runs a multi-faceted empire, you’re taking to ranch life with suspicious ease.”
He was wiping his hands on a towel.He shrugged, the linen pulling across his shoulders. “It’s simple here.The problems are concrete.A fence is down, you fix it. A cow is sick, you treat it. A beautiful woman is mad at you…” He threw the towel over his shoulder. “You grovel adequately in a rose garden until she forgives you.”
“Adequately,” Beth repeated, arching an eyebrow.
“Spectacularly,” he amended, moving to her side again. He plucked a stray piece of pomegranate aril from her hair. “I hope you know, Bethany Montgomery, that I have no intention of leaving this time. However complicated it gets.”
The use of her full name, the gravity beneath the words, stilled the playful air around them for a heartbeat. She saw the promise in his green eyes, a vow that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with them.
“I know,” she said softly.And for the first time, she truly believed it.
Dove announced that the food was ready, her voice breaking the moment. They moved to the long farmhouse table, laden with steaming platters. They sat, not in assigned seats, but naturally: Beth and Damien side-by-side, Dove and Jackson across from them. It felt like the closing of a circle, the settling of a foundation.
As they passed plates, their laughter mingling in the warm air scented with rosemary and wood smoke, Damien’s phone, silenced on the counter, began to vibrate. The screen lit up with a New York area code and a name that wasn’t saved, just a number he knew by heart. It buzzed insistently against the granite, a tiny, mechanical distress signal.He saw it.So did Beth, following his gaze. A shadow, fleeting but undeniable, passed over his face.
He looked back at her, at the table, at the family they were reconstructing piece by piece. He reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass, then his own.He did not get up.He did not even glance at the phone again.
“So, Jack,” Damien said, his voice deliberately light, cutting through the quiet that had fallen. “Tell me more about this alpaca situation. I feel like there’s a business opportunity we’re missing.”
The conversation stuttered back to life, the moment passing. But the phone glowed on, a silent, persistent ember in the corner of the room, a reminder that the outside world was always waiting, just beyond the porch light.