Page 5 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“Jesus, Ma. I saidno, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Mhm,” she hums, leaning back in her seat. “You may have taken over running the ranch, Jackson dear, but don’t forget who made you. I brought you into this world. I can take you out of it.”

I turn slowly, glaring at my mom. She smiles back at me. “You sound deranged.”

“Maybe that’s ’cause I had to tromp all the way over here to come wake you,” she says.

I nearly huff.All the way. My house is less than a quarter mile from the main ranch house.

The coffeemaker stops spitting, and I pull out the carafe, emptying the contents into my travel mug. “You coulda called,” I point out. “Who’d you leave the new hire with?”

“Your dad.”

“Jesus,” I groan, slamming the carafe back into place. “Why would you do that?”

“He’s not that bad,” she says.

I turn to look at her again. “Not that bad? Just the other day, you called him an old goat who had more stubbornness than brains.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“And the day before that, you said his head was stuck so far up in the clouds, you wouldn’t be surprised if he found Jack’s beans.”

“Well, yes,” she says, sounding put-out. “I’m allowed to say that. I married the man.”

“And divorced him,” I point out. “Twice.”

“Semantics,” my mom says, waving me off. “The point is Ashley is waiting, so go brush your hair and say hello. You’re doing the tour.”

“Why me?” I ask, capping my coffee.

“’Cause I said so. I already gave the spiel. Cooking, cleaning, keeping things in line. Now’s your turn. After all, you’re the boss, ain’t you?” My mom gets up, pushing her chair in noisily. “And Jackson?”

I heave a breath. “What?”

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” I answer, affronted.

My mom laughs. Loudly. “Time’s a tickin’,” she says, heading for the door. A moment later, it slams shut, and I look up at my exposed beam ceiling, wondering what in the hell I ever did to deserve a mother likethat.

I make a quick trip to the bathroom to tame my hair and piss—plus brush my teeth because I wasn’t born in a barn—and then I’m out the door. The air is cool this morning but not as cool as usual for the start of autumn. Flowers are still blooming strong and the trees haven’t yet let go of their green. There’s time, of course. The seasons always change, and winter will be here before we know it.

Vehicles occupy the dirt lot in front of the ranch house when I arrive, many of them dusty or flecked with mud. I don’t see any unfamiliar cars or trucks that could belong to Ashley. The house itself is expansive, two stories and built in a log-cabin style. Granted, it’s more log-cabinchic. Big windows let in plentiful light, and a new metal roof shines under the sun.

I kick my boots against the mat before opening the front door. The ranchers are out working this time of day, as they are every dawn, breakfast having already been eaten. I would’ve been into my day already, too, if it weren’t for the late night and extra shots of whiskey my brothers so helpfully shoved down my throat, courtesy of my birthday.

Forty goddamn years old.Shit.

The house is quiet when I enter, but it doesn’t take long to hear my dad’s voice coming from the kitchen. It sounds like he’s lecturing our new employee on the differences between Holstein and Angus cattle.Christ. He couldn’t give her a day to get settled?

I shake my head as I make my way down the hallway inside my childhood home, and then I come to a dead stop.

Two men are standing inside the kitchen. One is my father, dressed in blue sleep pants and a chunky oatmeal sweater, his glasses on top of his head. The other I’m not expecting in the least. He’s taller than my dad, but not by much. His jeans are gray, and while his shirt certainly isn’t inappropriately tight, the stretch of it doesn’t hide the lean muscle he’s sporting. His hairis a dark blonde, long enough to curl at the back of his neck, some pieces tucked behind his ear while others hang across his cheekbone. And his eyes… His eyes are a stormy blue-gray that widen in surprise the moment they land on me.

I’m so shocked, my tone comes out biting when I ask, “Who the hell are you?”

My dad blinks mildly, taking a sip of his coffee before saying, “This is Ashley.”

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