Page 36 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“You’ve kept,” I say.

“What?” he grunts.

“It’s a traditionyou’vekept. I know you’re in charge around here, Jackson. It’s obvious.”

He makes a throaty sound, like he’s disagreeing with me. “My parents are still involved in the business.”

I huff a laugh. “Sure. In name, maybe.”

He makes that sound again, but I power on.

“I like it, Jack. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re a family here. A really big one. Andyouare the person keepingeveryone together. Thanks for—” I shake my head, a little embarrassed. “Thanks for welcoming me into that family, too. It means a lot.”

Jackson doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Not at first. “Everybody’s happy you’re here,” he finally says.

My smile returns. “You, too.”

He rolls his eyes. “Now you’re fishing.”

“Can’t say that’s ever been my sport,” I admit. “Maybe I should learn to ride before picking up the rod.”

Jackson blinks at me. “You’ve never ridden a horse?”

I shrug. “Nope.”

He stares at me blankly for exactly two seconds before spinning and flicking on the faucet. “Come on. Let’s get these dishes cleaned. You need a damn lesson.”

My grin is out in full force now. “That so?”

“You’re working on a ranch, Ash. Of course you needa know how to ride. Jesus.”

His disgruntled tone has warmth pooling in my gut. I let my arm brush his as I take the plate he rinsed. “If you say so, darlin’.”

“Christ. None of that,” he grumbles under his breath. “And for the record, I’m notsweet. I don’t know where you’re getting that.”

“Sure, Jack,” I reply lightly, loading the dish into the washer.

He shakes his head, making a put-upon sound, but he keeps handing me dishes, and in no time at all, we’ve worked through the mess from lunch. I run upstairs to grab a light jacket before the pair of us head outside.

Jackson leads me across the ranch toward the stables. “So, here’s the short of it,” he says, all business. “Never stand behind a horse. That’s just asking for trouble. Meet them head on, like you would a person. Be gentle. Respectful. The ones we have here know what they’re doing, so trust ’em.”

“Trust the horse. Got it.”

“Loose reins to hold steady,” he says, slowing down as we reach the entrance to the barn. “You tug and they’ll slow, stop, or eventually back up. Squeeze your legs and dig in your heels and they’ll pick up the pace.”

I cough a laugh, my mind dropping right into the gutter. Jackson looks at me in concern, until understanding lights his eyes.

“It’s notthatkinda riding,” he intones.

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

He heaves a sigh, but I swear there’s a smile on his face. A tiny one. “This is Shorty,” he says, stopping in front of a stall.

I look in. And then up. And then up some more. “Good grief, Jackson. Don’t you think that’s false advertising?”

He snorts before opening the stall door. Holding out his hand, he clicks his tongue. Shorty, the tallest horse I’ve ever had the honor of meeting, snuffles his palm. Jackson pats his—or her? No, definitely his—neck before looking back at me.

“Shorty is a gentle giant. He’ll treat you right.”

---