Page 60 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I huff a laugh. I knew I loved that woman. “Well, I’m happy for the company.”

He hums. I jolt when he shouts, “What’re you doing?”

Jackson looks up, the brim of his hat nearly obscuring his eyes. “What does it look like?” he yells back.

“Looks like you’re drowning,” Hank calls.

Jackson shakes his head. His mouth continues to move like he’s saying something to himself, and my lips quirk in amusement. “Fixing the fence,” he finally shouts.

“Couldn’t wait?” Hank responds.

Jackson stands fully upright, one hand on the auger, the other on his hip. “You wanna go chasing the dairy girls down the street when they get loose?”

Hank makes apftsound and waves his hand through the air. The next second, Jackson does the same, and I bust out laughing. Jackson goes back to work, twisting the auger with a little more intensity than he was before.

“Stubborn,” Hank says. “No clue where he got it from.”

I keep my guess to myself.

“Was that rice pudding I saw setting in the fridge?” the older man asks.

I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t get into it, did you?”

“’Course not,” he says with a scoff. “I know how to be patient.” After a second, he adds, “It’s Jackson’s favorite, you know.”

Oh, I know.

“His ma used to make it when he got sick. Don’t ask me why,” Hank goes on. “Lord knows what good cold rice is gonna do. But I swear that boy would feign illness just to get some of that rice pudding.”

My heart clenches as I watch Jackson pull the auger out of the dirt. It’s all too easy to imagine him as a young boy, playing in the rain, maybe, or at home, sick in his bed.

“It’s not always easy to ask for the things we want,” I say quietly.

Hank makes a soft sound at that. “Suppose not.” With a grunt, the elder Mr. Darling stands. “I’ll look forward to that pudding at dinnertime.”

I give him a nod, and he heads off around the house. Sipping my tea, I watch Jackson, my mind chasing fantasies until it’s time to start lunch.

The ranchers are all wet and dirty as they file into the dining room. I add a big carafe of hot cider to the table, hoping, in addition to the beef-and-lentil soup, it’ll help warm their bones. Jackson is one of the last through the doors, his jeans muddy and hat dripping water onto the floor. He gives me a hint of a smile that makes my stomach swoop before he takes a seat across from me.

From further inside the house, a door opens and then slams shut. Colton’s voice follows. “There’s gotta be something I can do. It’sslander.”

“It’s not,” Remi says evenly, his voice quieter. Most of the ranchers are occupied with their own conversations, but my ears stay with the Darling brothers as Remi adds, “He didn’t say anything bad about you outright.”

The two come into the room, Colton snagging a piece of bread off the table as he passes on the way to an empty seat. “He sure as heck implied it,” he says, tucking the bread into his mouth and pulling a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He removes the bread to read, “‘If you want the royal treatment, go King. Prime shoeing, compassionate handling, and fair prices. King Farrier Service. Better than the rest.’”

Colton looks around at me and his brothers, waiting for a reaction.

“That’s not slander,” Jackson says, clearly having heard the beginning of the conversation, same as me.

“The heck it isn’t,” Colton shoots back, crumpling the clipping in his hasty attempt to fold it back up. He tries again, smoothing the paper before folding it more carefully and slipping it into his pocket. “He implied my services are bad!”

“Eh,” Remi hedges.

“I can’t believe this,” Colton mutters, plunking into his seat and grabbing some more bread. He drops it on his plate as he motions for the soup to be passed. “Of all the people to take his side.”

“We’re not taking his side,” Jackson says. “We know you’re the best farrier ’round these parts, Colt.”

“I am,” Colton says, tucking into his soup. “No one shods better than me.”

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