Jackson drove the rental car carefully through the streets of Dogwood, angling for the highway. Beside him, Mr. Whitfield was quiet, his work-worn hands resting in his lap. The silence made Jackson nervous. He flexed his fingers on the wheel and searched for something to say. On the highway, the trees rushed past, a green blur. Jackson stayed under the speed limit, driving cautiously. When they turned onto the gravel road that led toward the Creek House, Mr. Whitfield finally spoke.

"What are your intentions here, Mr. McBride?"

Jackson glanced at him. "My intentions?"

Mr. Whitfield stared straight ahead. "Here. In Dogwood."

Jackson swallowed. He was hardly going to tell Rose's father that he was here to avoid a marriage scheme so he could uncouple himself from the family empire.

"I have no intentions," he said carefully.

Mr. Whitfield turned his head. "Then what are your intentions with my daughter?"

Jackson sucked in a breath through his teeth and held it for a moment before answering. "I have no designs on Rose."

His stomach trembled, and his ears felt hot, as though he'd been caught in a lie.

"See that you don't." Mr. Whitfield's voice was crisp in way Jackson had never heard from him before. "My daughter has done well for herself. She's new to local government, and she doesn't need distractions."

Jackson swallowed. "I understand, sir."

"Good."

They lapsed into silence. Jackson accelerated slightly as he crested the hill toward the Creek House, suddenly eager to get out of the car. Mr. Whitfield had never spoken an irate word to him when he was a boy, even though Jackson had given him plenty of reasons to. Jackson bit his lip. He was glad he'd never experienced the man's displeasure as a kid. The quiet censure cut like a knife.

When he pulled the car up to the Creek House, Denny and Dally came trotting down the steps.

"Bill!" said Denny as he ducked his head to speak through the open passenger-side window. "How are you? What'd the doctors say?"

Mr. Whitfield waved him off. "I'm fine. Just banged up. That's all."

Jackson got out of the car slowly, leaving the door open. He leaned his elbow on the roof and spoke to the twins.

"Rose is on her way with crutches."

Denny frowned and leaned down again to speak to Mr. Whitfield. "You broken?"

Mr. Whitfield's voice was wry. "Just sprained. Don't get too excited."

Dally stood behind Denny. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, then folded his arms. "Well, we're glad to hear it. We were quite worried about you."

Mr. Whitfield shook his head. "Don't fuss. I'll just go to my cottage if you don't mind."

Jackson ducked back into the car. "I'll take you there, sir."

Denny, with his head ducked low to see in through the open window, mouthed sir at him questioningly. Jackson shook his head at his brother.

Denny shrugged and tapped the door. "Well, you can call us if you need anything, Bill. Anything at all."

Mr. Whitfield nodded to him. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll be fine."

Denny and Dally stepped back, and Jackson put the car into gear, rolling down the hill slowly. When they reached the cottage, he stepped out of the car and hurried around the hood.

"I'll help you out, sir, if that's all right."

Mr. Whitfield frowned, but as he shifted in the seat and swung his legs out of the car, he let out a pained groan.

Jackson leaned down and put his hand under Mr. Whitfield's arm. "Sorry, sir."

"Why are you sorry?" he snapped.

"I don't know."

"Well, that might be something to think about, Mr. McBride."

Jackson bit his tongue. The man was in pain; he was bound to be irritable. And besides, Jackson probably deserved it. As he helped Mr. Whitfield out of the car, he slipped his arm around the man's back, getting his shoulder under his armpit so he could bear most of his weight.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait for Rose and the crutches?" asked Jackson.

Mr. Whitfield grunted as he hopped forward.

Together, they hobbled toward the door. Once inside, Jackson helped Mr. Whitfield down the step, into the living room, then onto the couch. The man was pale. Sweat had beaded on his upper lip. Jackson ran a hand through his tangled hair, hovering.

"Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine, Mr. McBride. You can go."

Jackson rubbed his jaw. "I think I should wait for Rose."

Mr. Whitfield exhaled loudly through his nose. "I don't need a nurse." He closed his eyes, then added, "Thank you. I appreciate your help."

Jackson hesitated, then finally turned away. As he strode toward the door, he heard Rose's truck rumbling toward the house and sighed with relief. Rose would know what to do.

He met her outside as she hopped out of the truck and fished a set of crutches out of the box.

"Can I help you with that?" he asked.

"No, I've got it," she said, not looking at him. "Thanks."

He lingered by the Bronco's grill and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Is there anything I can do?"

She sighed and set the crutches down, leaning her arm on the padded handles and fixing him with a cool stare. "I can take it from here, Jackson. Thank you." She paused. "You were a big help today."

The hint of gratitude in her eyes was tempered by such obvious distrust, Jackson's stomach dropped into his toes. He let his shoulders fall and looked down at his tennis shoes. For a moment, at the hospital, she had looked at him differently—had seen him as a man, he was sure of it. But now, he had the feeling she was seeing the boy he used to be, and he didn't know how to convince her there was a difference.

Maybe she was right to be leery of him. Maybe he hadn't changed at all. Maybe he was still the same overweening, prideful little brat he'd always been, and he just didn't know it.

He cleared his throat. "This is a family matter. I'll leave you two alone." He forced a smile. "If you need anything, I'm just up the hill. Anything at all...Rose."

Something flickered in her eyes, some emotion he couldn't divine.

"I'll keep that in mind, Jackson."

She strode toward the cottage. He watched her disappear inside, then turned away.

When he got back to the house, the twins were in the kitchen leaning on the island, chatting quietly. They turned as one when he came in.

"Sir?" said Denny with a smirk. "I don't think I've ever heard you defer to anyone. Besides Dad. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Jackson grumbled, passing them on his way toward the fridge. He opened the door and poked his head inside, then grabbed a cold bottle of beer off the shelf. "Want one?"

As Jackson popped out of the fridge, Denny held out his hand. Jackson passed his brothers each a bottle, then rummaged around in the kitchen drawers for an opener.

"Well? Any action?" Jackson muttered as searched the silverware drawer. "Tell me you've bent knee already so we can get out of this goddamn town."

He spied the bottle opener and hefted it in his hand, straightening. He popped the cap off his beer, then took a long, carbonated sip.

Dally's voice held a note of confusion as he straightened his glasses. "What do you mean leave? We just got here. This was your idea."

"Yeah, well. I forgot how small Dogwood is." Jackson hitched his shoulders. "It doesn't make you itch?"

"For what?" asked Dally, brow furrowed.

"I don't know," said Jackson moodily. "Light. Sound. Entertainment. Not a lot going on in Dogwood, in case you hadn't noticed."

Denny chimed in glibly. "I have a feeling there's a lot going on in Dogwood, Jackson. I think you're just not telling us about it."

Jackson shot his brother a sour look. "Leave it alone."

Denny lifted his hands, palms facing out. Across the island, Dally's eyes were shrewd and watchful behind his lenses. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jackson forestalled him with a raised hand.

"It's nothing," Jackson insisted. "You guys focus on your own business. Do what we came here to do."

The twins looked at each other.

Denny held out his bottle. "Whatever you say, Red. Would you mind? Since you're just waving that thing around."

Jackson popped off the cap with needless force, then handed the bottle back.

"It doesn't bug you?" he wondered aloud. "The way they look at us?"

Dally offered up his own beer. "Who? I don't follow."

Jackson frowned. "She doesn't trust me—I mean they don't. Trust us. The townspeople don't." He squeezed his eyes shut. "God, you know what I mean."

He huffed and opened his eyes. His brothers were staring at him with raised brows.

Jackson clucked his tongue and slammed the opener down on the counter. "I don't want to talk about it." He stormed across the kitchen. "Pop the question already, and let's get out of here."

Denny's voice followed him down the hall. "Are you sure you want to leave?"

Jackson growled and strode across the foyer. He flung open the door and stalked down the stairs, pounding the stone with his feet. He took a swig of beer, then rounded the house and stopped short. Rose stood under the apple tree fiddling with the ladder.

Her shapely legs were summer tanned, rising to meet the pair of short cut-offs she wore. As she reached up to stabilize the ladder, her blouse rode up and bared a sliver of her back. Jackson inhaled sharply. Just the hint of her bare skin sent a shock of remembrance through his body. He stared blankly, lost in the memory of a long-ago summer day, and let his hand fall, the bottle hitting his leg with a slosh.

It had been late July, the temperature peaking at almost forty degrees in the afternoon. The whole town had shut down. He and Rose had been lolling about in whatever shade they could find drinking iced tea. Around four, they'd made their way along the creek to where the cottonwood tree held their childhood treehouse, its platform above them offering blessed shade. They'd sat with their feet in the cold water and traded stories about the school year, about what it had been like when they were apart. Jackson hadn't felt bold enough to tell her he'd missed her. Fiercely. For months.

She had looked at him enviously—him shirtless and roasting in the heat but catching what little breeze he could on his bare skin. He'd been proud of the few red hairs that had sprouted on his chest, the thickening of his muscles, and he'd taken every opportunity to be shirtless around her. Meanwhile, she'd been sweating in her pretty blouse of eyelet lace. Let's go in, she'd said suddenly, lifting the fabric over her head. Come on, Jackson. It's too damn hot.

Rose put her foot on the first step of the ladder.

Jackson startled back to the present. "The hell are you doing?"

Rose's foot slipped. She turned and put her hands on her hips. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

He strode toward her, down the hill. "Fixing to break your goddamn neck, I gather." He reached her and tugged on the ladder. "You do realize this isn't safe?"

Her cheeks flushed. "It's fine. I shored it up with some rocks. The branch has to come down before it falls on someone."

"And you're going to get it down yourself?"

"Yes." Her eyes flashed with anger as she grasped the ladder and tugged it back toward herself. "Dad can't do it, and you certainly won't, so somebody has to."

Jackson lowered his brows and firmed up his grip. "I don't think so, Rosie."

"Don't call me that."

"It's your goddamn name."

"Look," she spat, exasperation in her voice, "Dad needs to rest, and things need to get done around here. If I don't do it, he'll try, and he'll get hurt. It's my responsibility. I'm doing it."

Jackson narrowed his eyes. "Not alone, you aren't."

"Oh, please. You wouldn't know an honest day's work if it bit you in the ass."

He flinched, blinking at her. "Is that what you think?"

Her eyes flickered back and forth. "Yes." She straightened. "Yes, it is."

He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to calm the heat that bristled beneath his skin. "If there's something to be done around here, we'll work on it together. I won't have you hurting yourself on the Creek House grounds."

His eyes strayed to her forearm. In his mind, he heard the echo of her anguished screams.

Rose spoke dryly. "You know, you can't order me around anymore just because you're Jackson McBride. I outrank you now."

He raised a brow. "My house, my rules." He tugged the ladder out of her hands. "Deal with it."

Rose scowled. "Fine. Hold the ladder if it suits you. Sir."

He flushed. "Fine. Fix the damn tree, and let's get it over with."

She turned away from him and stomped up the ladder. Jackson set down his bottle in the grass, then grabbed the ladder with both hands.

"You know you could wait while I—"

He looked up and fell silent. Rose was above him, leaning into the tree, her body on display magnificently in her short shorts, her luscious curves amplified by the bend in her knees. He sucked in a breath and looked down, then back up, then away again, face heating.

"What?" she grouched, her voice drifting down toward him.

"Nothing. Just...get it over with." Jackson kept his head down.

He heard her fiddling with the branches up above. As she pulled the broken branch away from the tree, she let out a small sound of effort, like a breathy sigh, which only made his face flame hotter. The branch crashed down to his right, then rolled down the grassy slope toward the creek.

"There," she panted. "I'm coming down."

He held his iron grip on the ladder until her foot nudged his fingers.

"Jackson? I'm coming down."

He shook himself and stepped aside, still holding the ladder with one hand. Rose reached the ground and stepped onto the grass. They stood close together, Rose with her hand resting on one of the rungs. Jackson breathed lightly through his nose. His heart hammered in his chest. Her cheeks were pink from effort or possibly anger. She was so close he could have reached out and brushed his fingers over her skin. He imagined finding it hot, burning, just as he had that day by the creek when her skin had gleamed with sweat.

"I've got it," she said, wiggling the ladder. "You can let go now."

Jackson blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the sultry haze from his mind.

"Good," he said haltingly. "That's—yes. If you need to do anything else around the house, tell me. I'll—I'll make sure it's safe."

The colour in Rose's face deepened. "Fine, if you're so worried about it." She lifted her chin. "Whatever you say, Mr. McBride."

He let his hand fall. Rose picked up the ladder, then half-carried, half-dragged it up the hill. Jackson stood by the apple tree, stunned into paralysis as sparks like fireworks went off in his chest. He stooped and picked up his bottle, then passed it from hand to hand, his mouth turning down. Was she serious about working the Creek House grounds? He swallowed hard. If she was, he was about to see a lot more of her. He shook his head. This was a terrible idea. For the first time in a Dogwood summer, he wasn't sure he could handle the heat.