Page 18 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“Say hi to Virginia for me,” she adds.

“Yep. Talk soon.”

When I click off the call, I set my phone down on the table next to me, right beside my glass of lemonade. With nothing pressing to do, I kick back and enjoy this little slice of country life I seem to have found myself smack dab in the middle of.

It’s some time later when I hear the approaching sound of hooves. I blink my eyes open, not having realized I’d shut them, and watch as Jackson comes riding up on a jet-black horse.

Hoo, boy.

He’s wearing plaid again today, but I swear the man wears it better than anyone I’ve ever met. His eyes are bright yet brimmed in shadow underneath his hat. Hiscowboyhat, despite him telling me he’s a rancher, not a cowboy. His jeans are tight, legs hugging the horse, and he moves with an ease that speaks of longtime experience in the saddle. He was probably riding horses the same time I was learning to swim.

I sit taller in my seat as he pulls on the horse’s reins, making a gentle “whoa” sound. The horse, who I can tell is a boy after a quick glance, comes to a stop, but not before spinning in a tight circle twice, as if he has energy to spare.

“Howdy,” I say, smiling brightly.

Jackson grunts in response. “Have you been over to the petting farm yet?”

“I have not.”

“I can show you now,” he offers. “Unless you have something else to do?”

“Nothing better than you,” I mutter.

“Hm?”

“I’d love to,” I say louder, standing and pocketing my phone.

Jackson nods, jumping down from his horse in a fluid move I follow greedily with my eyes. He holds the reins out in front of the horse, which I take to mean he’s going to walk.

“What have you been up to today?” I ask, falling into step next to him but keeping a bit of distance between me and the horse. I have no clue if I might spook him.

“Mm. Bit of everything. Surveyed the fences, checked the local milk deliveries, ordered supplies. Did Colton get the groceries you need?”

“He did,” I say. “But hold up. You guys hand-deliver milk?”

“Couple times a week,” he says. “We bring it out to stores and a delivery service that runs it to folks’ homes.”

I stop still, and after a moment, Jackson stops, too.

“What?” he asks a little warily.

“Your town has a fresh milk delivery service?” I repeat. “Like, bottles that get dropped off at people’s doorsteps?”

“Yes?”

“Holy shit,” I mutter, immediately wincing. “Sorry.”

Jackson snorts, the closest he’s come to a laugh since my meeting him. “You can swear ’round here. It’s not gonna bother anybody.”

“Good to know,” I mumble, getting my feet under me again. “Milk delivery. Geez.”

Seriously, what is this place?

It doesn’t take long to reach the petting farm. Jackson ties his horse’s reins to a post near a water trough back behind the barn where people aren’t allowed, and then we walk up front to thevisitor’s entrance. I immediately make anawwsound I’m not the least bit embarrassed by. Becausegood grief. Baby goats.

I hustle inside as Jackson explains to the attendant who I am. I make a mental note to say hello before I go, but right now… I sink to my butt in the middle of the fenced-in petting farm, and, immediately, I’m swarmed.

I laugh as a goat tries to nibble my ear, another climbing onto my leg and nearly slipping off again. A third pulls at my shoelace, a few others nearby bleating.

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