The drive into town is tense, the silence broken only by the country music playing quietly on the radio. We’re halfway there when Jackson finally speaks.
“You’ll meet me back at the truck at three. Not a minute later.” His voice is calm, controlled, but I hear the steel beneath it. He doesn’t say another word until we pull into town. Before I can open my door, his hand is on my arm.
“Take this.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me a black credit card. “Use it if you need anything.”
I blink. “I have my own money.”
Jackson raises a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything? Your contract states you don’t need to worry about a damn cent when you’re with me.”
I blink, reining back the hurt at the reminder of the transactional nature of our relationship. Right. I belong to him. And he pays for me. I slip the card into my pocket without further comment.
As I step out of the truck, he calls after me. “Three o’clock, hellcat.”
When I push open the door to the bar, the familiar smell of polished wood and faint beer welcomes me. Inside, my three closest friends wait at our usual corner table, and Autumn stands behind her bar, polishing it as she jokes with customers.
Blair sees me first, immediately jumping up to wrap me in a fierce hug. As the founder of Hope Haven—a non-profit that helps female ranchers in abusive relationships—she’s looking at me with more than just friendly concern.
“Jesus, Shiloh, we’ve been worried sick,” she whispers against my hair.
From her seat, Morgan gives me a tired smile, raising her glass in greeting. There are new lines around her eyes that weren’t there a month ago—her mom’s illness taking its toll.
Eden practically bounces over, her energy at odds with the tension in the room. “Look at you! Still in one piece and looking surprisingly well-rested.”
Autumn nods from behind the bar, her taciturn acknowledgment more meaningful than most people’s effusive greetings.
“Drinks are on the house,” she says, sliding a gin and tonic across the bar. “You look like you need it.”
I take the seat between Morgan and Blair, suddenly overwhelmed by the normalcy of it all—how quickly my life has been upended, and how unchanged theirs seems in comparison.
“So.” Eden leans forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Spill everything. What’s it like living with Montana’s most eligible bachelor-slash-terror?”
Blair shoots her a warning look. “Maybe let her breathe first?”
“I’m fine,” I say, though the word feels hollow. “Complicated.”
Morgan studies me with tired eyes. “Complicated how? Does he beat you? Force you into sexual slavery?”
I don’t know how to answer the question, so I take a long sip of my drink to hide my indecision. “He has me working with the horses. Actually listens to my input about them.”
Blair’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sound almost impressed.”
“I’m not,” I say too quickly. “He’s controlling, possessive, impossible, but …”
“But?” Eden prompts.
“But he’s not what I expected.” The admission feels dangerous. “He cooks for his ranch hands every week. Works alongside them.”
“Still doesn’t give him the right to basically kidnap you,” Blair says, her voice taking on the careful, measured tone I’ve heard her use with clients at Hope Haven.
Autumn approaches with another round of drinks. “Jackson Hawkins isn’t Matthew Walsh,” she says bluntly. “Walsh put three women in the hospital last year alone. Hawkins is a hardass, but has a different kind of reputation.”
“Thanks for the character reference,” I say dryly.
“Not defending him,” Autumn shrugs. “Just stating facts.”
Morgan leans back in her chair. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like,” she says quietly. “Having someone else make all the decisions. Carry the weight for a while.”
The table falls silent, none of us quite knowing how to respond to the raw honesty in her voice. Unusual for a woman who normally exudes vitality.
