Page 115 of Love Wells Kept

Jackson exhales like he’s been holding back from asking for another baby for a long time, and a crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I glance over, and he’s already looking at me without a hint of hesitation or fear or a need to fix things.

“I would,” I say, my voice catching a little in my throat. “Yeah. I think I really would.”

He squeezes my hand, then draws me into his arms.

I murmur against the fabric of his shirt, which smells faintly like a fresh newborn, “We’ve already done the impossible and started over from scratch. Who’s to say we can’t do it again?”

“This isn’t starting over, it’s growing.” He kisses the top of my head, then lingers there.

He might not remember the beginning, but when his heart beats in time with mine, I know we’re nowhere near the end.

Epilogue: Jackson

The ranch hands are drinking beer and cracking jokes around a low-burning campfire, and the kids are running amok, as they tend to do. Dusk settles over us and the skyline bruises purple along the edges. A cool breeze blows through the treetops, and Beryl has a Bluetooth speaker precariously placed on the tailgate of a pickup—classic country melodies back easy conversation.

After a long, hot summer, the cattle came back from their grazing lands for the winter, and one thing I’ve learned quickly about this family and ranch is that any big moment—be it branding, a big cattle sale, a great hay season, or taking the herd to and from grazing land—calls for a party.

My entire body aches in the best way, and I don’t even care that I was merely helping operate gates as the guys sorted cattle, which is arguably significantly easier than being one of the ranch hands who just spent days gathering the herd up and driving them home.

But I don’t care. I was doing something. For the first time since my accident, I feel useful here. And it’s quieting the lingering, albeit irrational, fear that my brothers will get tired of financially supporting us while I do fuck all to pull my weight.

I stretch my arms above my head, then let my hands fall lazily. I cradle the spot on my skull where my hair is mostly grown back in—though it’s quite a bit shorter than the rest—and run my thumb over the raised scar.

Maybe I’ll never train another horse, but I didn’t lose the ability to learn new skills. And I’ve got thirty-some years of manual labor ingrained in every fiber of my muscles. I’ll figure out a place for myself.

Today was a good day. No sense ruining it with thoughts about a past I don’t remember or a future I’m still trying to sort out. So I step away from the fire to check on the kids, squinting to make out where they’re playing next to the tree line. Seems they’re building a fort.

“Hey, handsome.” Kate’s voice sneaks up behind me.

She slips into my arms, the warmth of her back pressing on my chest. For a while, she rests in my arms in a comfortable silence, watching our kids play as the sun sets. When a song she likes comes on, our steady embrace becomes a gentle sway.

She twirls herself out of my arms as if we’re on the dance floor of some country bar. Arms outstretched, fingers barely hanging on, a smile crinkling her eyes. Somewhere in the rubble of broken memories in my brain, there’s a fragile flicker. I pull her back into me, wrapping my arms tight around her and nosing her hair to inhale the smell of everything good in the world.

Couldn’t tell you the name of the song or who sings it, but when I shut my eyes, it’s like I’m scuffing my boots across dusty wood planks. Spinning my bride around on the empty dance floor of a dive bar.

“This was our wedding song,” I murmur into her hair with profound certainty.

Kate spins out, then in again so we’re face-to-face. “We didn’t have a wedding song. We didn’t even have a reception.”

For half a second, doubt washes over me. But…but no. My brain hasn’t made up a single memory yet, and the feel of her tucked into my arms, her dress swishing around our legs, is too visceral to be imaginary.

I clear my throat, and though my voice shakes, I try to muster up some confidence in my memory. “We went to a bar after we got married and danced to this song.”

Kate stills, ears perked to pick up the song amid the dinnertime chatter. Her eyes flutter shut, and a smile blows across her face. “Oh my God, you’re right. I forgot about that…. I wanted to dance, and you tried to argue it because nobody else was on the floor, but I insisted you owed your wife a proper first dance.”

The curated stories I was told after the accident painted Old Jackson as the perfect husband and father. And while I don’t think I was bad, by any means, I’m pretty damn happy with the version of myself I’m discovering now. Because if Kate wanted to dance anywhere, anytime, I wouldn’t argue it. I’d spin her around this patch of grass all damn night, not paying any mind to the audience we have or the music playing in the background.

“I think I owe you more than a proper first dance.” I cup her chin in my hand, pulling her into a kiss. I linger above her lips, breathing her in as my insides swoop and soar. “Marry me again, Kate. You deserve a fancy wedding with dancing, cocktails, guests, and whatever else weddings entail.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t want a fancy wedding. We eloped because we wanted to promise each other forever—all that mattered was me and you, not the guests and cocktails.”

We sway for another breath, another heartbeat, and then I press a kiss to her temple and say, “Okay…We’ll skip the fancy party, but I still want to give you the most important part of a wedding.”

She pulls back to look up at me, her brow lifted, curious and amused. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Vows,” I say, the word catching a little in my throat. “Ones I remember.”

She doesn’t say anything, just searches my face with that quiet, unwavering strength that’s carried the entire family through the last seven months.