Page 35 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I chuckle before getting back to work. It isn’t long before I’m setting lunch out along the table in the dining room. Like usual, I leave the dishes stacked near one end, and the ranchers help themselves as they come in. The increase in chatter, the stomping of boots, even the soft scrape of chairs moving in and out has become a soundtrack I’m familiar with.

Colleen, one of the second-shift ranchers who starts work post sunup, gives my arm a soft nudge as she passes. “Morning, Ash. This looks great.”

“Thanks,” I answer with a smile, taking my own seat. Lunch isn’t anything fancy, just tomato soup from scratch, grilled cheese with some gruyere thrown in, and a few sides. But a simplified version of this meal was my favorite as a kid, especially in the fall. Something about warm soup and cold, wet weather has always made me feel cozy.

It’s nice to share that with these people.

As I’m loading my plate with a grilled cheese sandwich, my senses prickle. I look up just in time to catch Jackson walking into the room, his hat held down at his side. He’s wearing the same worn jeans and plaid shirt I saw him in earlier, but there’s a streak of dirt near his temple that wasn’t there before. I can’t help but wonder what he did to earn it.

Jackson takes a seat across from me, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest of moments before he starts plating up his food. I’m debating an icebreaker that doesn’t involve his lips on mine when Colton plops into the seat next to me.

“Hey,” he says, reaching across the table to grab two sandwich halves. He drops them on his plate, followed by another, and then practically takes out my eye to reach the soup.

“Jesus, Colton,” Jackson grunts. “Watch where you’re putting your limbs.”

“Sorry,” Colton mutters, falling back into his seat and shooting me an apologetic smile.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, even as Jackson shakes his head. I wonder if he even realizes how often he parents his siblings.

“God,” Colton groans around his food. “That’s good.”

Jackson grumbles what I think is supposed to be an, “Mhm.”

Colleen clucks her tongue from a little further down the table. “I sure hope you offer him more praise than that from time to time, boss. We’d like to keep this one around, you know.”

Jackson’s cheeks immediately start to redden, and I simply can’t help myself.

“Oh, he’s plenty sweet,” I say, holding my smirk in check. “Isn’t that right?”

Colton snorts. “Sure.Sweet. That’s our Jackson.”

Jackson keeps his gaze on his food, but his chest rises and falls in steady bursts. He’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be. What would he look like coming utterly and wholly undone?

I want so badly to find out.

Conversation continues, countless threads carrying on amongst the near twenty lunch-goers. There’s no Remi today, but I’ve noticed it’s somewhat of a crapshoot on whether or not he and Colton attend meals. Lawson is generally absent prior to dinner, seeing as he’s at the school. And Marigold and Hank come and go as they please.

Jackson is the constant. He’s here at nearly every mealtime. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s for his employees’ benefit. To show up. To be present and a part of their workday.

I admire that.

When lunch wraps up, the ranchers go on their way. There’s an auxiliary bathroom attached to the back of the house that most of them use on their way in and out, especially to wash their hands before eating. The family, on the other hand, frequently wander the house itself. Which is why it’s no surprise when I cross paths with Jackson on my way into the kitchen. He’s filling up his canteen with water.

“Ah, so you do drink something other than coffee,” I say, stacking some plates in the sink next to him.

He huffs, which I take to meanduh.

“Can I ask you something? It’s not personal,” I add when Jackson gives me a cautious look. “Just a question I have about the ranch.”

He twists the cap onto his water and settles against the counter. “Sure.”

“The whole feeding the employees thing,” I say, waving a hand back toward the dining room. “Who started that? I’ve never heard of something like that outside of maybe a camp or resort, where everyone is stuck on site. But here, it’s a given—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for whoever wants it.”

Jackson nods, looking lost in thought for a moment. “To be honest, I can’t recall if it was my dad or my mom who first suggested it, and they’d probably both try to take the credit. But one way or another, it began when I was around ten. I remember ’cause it was the year the addition was built on the house.”

I hum, having wondered about that.

“It’s…not just about food,” he says slowly. “It’s a morale thing. It’s comradery. We’re not moving herds through the mountains anymore, not like my grandpa used to. But this job, it ain’t always easy. Conditions are harsh, and it’s not the right fit for everybody. But we’ve had far less turnover in the past few decades than we used to. Maybe it’s not because of shared mealtimes. Maybe it is. I dunno. But it’s a tradition we’ve kept.”

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