By the time Rose got back to the cottage, her ire hadn't cooled at all. She slammed the Bronco's door with a thunk and yanked the ladder out of the box with furious movements. Who the hell did that man think he was? Ordering her around as though they were children! She let out a high-pitched growl of frustration. Clearly, nothing had changed. She'd been stupid to think he was anything but an overstepping, pompous jackass even for a minute.

She dragged the ladder into the toolshed and tossed it back in its spot in the corner. It clattered loudly against the wall. Rose startled at the racket, her shoulders coming up around her ears. She glanced out the toolshed door sheepishly, hoping Dad hadn't heard the noise.

When she returned to the cottage to check on him, she found him asleep on the couch, his head tilted back as he snored noisily. Rose sighed. This was good. Dad needed to rest. She would take care of the McBride house for now—her and Jackson. Together.

She wandered out of the cottage and down to the creek, her mouth set pensively. The water burbled and wound through the eastern hills, coming down from the mountains and passing behind the McBride house, then meandering past the cottage and into the densely wooded area that signified the western border of the grounds. She and Jackson hadn't spent much time in the forest as kids. It had been off-limits, full of wildlife. One of the few rules they'd listened to. They'd preferred, instead, to range over the hills toward the mountains, toward the possibilities that rose sharply into the sky, close and ancient and almost unfathomable in scale.

Rose followed the creek, scuffing her tennis shoes over the rocky bank, her hands in her pockets, head down.

If she followed the creek long enough, past the house and to the East, she'd find the treehouse. She wondered if it was still standing. She shivered, thinking about it, though the day was warm.

He'd come home to the McBride house that summer cockier and fuller of himself than ever. He'd been broader and leaner at the same time, the traces of baby fat gone from his cheeks, and he'd made a point to show off, parading his bare chest around during the record-setting temperatures. He'd been puffed up like a peacock.

It had seemed to Rose, that summer, that she lived in a permanent state of blushing. Something had changed over the course of the school year; she'd longed for him in a new way, felt it in her body late at night as she stared out the cottage window and wondered if he was thinking of her, too. And then he'd returned, a boy on the cusp of becoming a man—and he'd known it.

They'd played in the creek many times over the years, splashing around in their bathing suits, bodies almost bare, and Jackson had never looked at her the way he did that sixteenth summer. Rose had been heady with it, the power it conferred on her. For the first time, she'd understood that Jackson wanted her. She'd known this in some unutterable way, deep in her bones. And without her mother around, she'd had no one to ask about it.

Which was why she'd taken her shirt off down by the willow tree. To tempt him. To do something—anything—about the longing in her belly, the fire that kindled every time he was around.

He'd reached out and touched her arm almost lazily, brushed the backs of his fingers over her skin with a familiarity that sent little shocks of pleasure through her body.

You're so beautiful, Rosie.

She'd blushed. So are you.

Suddenly, he'd gone quiet. Serious. Every trace of self-assuredness erased. He'd looked at her searchingly, as though they were both on the precipice of a grave decision. Her heart had thudded in her chest like a racehorse, anticipation running roughshod over the trepidation in her heart. Everything was changing, and fast. She'd understood in some way that it was her decision, that he was waiting for her to say the words, that as confident as he had become, this was new ground for him, too.

Kiss me, Jackson, she'd whispered.

It was the boldest moment of her life. He'd closed the space between them slowly, his hand on her cheek, a look of pure concentration on his face—as though he'd never done this before. He'd touched her lips with his gently, tentatively. It had taken a moment before instinct had taken over for Rose. She'd lifted her hand and touched his hair and sighed.

As she ambled along the creek, unseeing, remembering him, her fingers drifted to her lips. He'd been sweet and awkward as he explored her mouth—never hasty, never rough, just curious, a look of wonderment on his face, never going too far. When he'd pulled back to look at her, his hand resting on the skin pulled tight over her ribs, he'd smiled a shy smile.

I've never done this before.

They'd both laughed. Sheepish, trembling giggles that made them cling to each other breathlessly.

Neither have I.

He'd buried his face in her neck. Good. You're mine. And I'm yours, Rosie. I'll always be yours.

Rose took a shaky breath, coming to a stop at the bottom of the slope that inclined toward the McBride house. She rubbed her eyes and blinked away the tears that wanted to flow, then stared at the water burbling by her feet.

She'd fallen in love with him that day. Hopelessly in love with that soft and vulnerable boy. They'd stayed under the tree for hours, their skin flushed pink with the heat of the day and the heat between them, just talking, touching. He hadn't pressed her, and she hadn't known how to ask for more.

When the sun was colouring the sky pink at dusk, they'd risen together. He'd taken her hand. They'd walked back to the house. As they neared the stately mansion, he'd paused. There'd been a car in the driveway, sleek and black, its engine still ticking hotly. His father had come to the house. This never happened; the McBride boys' summers were overseen by nannies. Jackson had smiled in delight.

I need to go to him, he'd said.

He had paused on the steps, his hand still warmly clasped in hers, and kissed her lips sweetly as they said goodnight.

I'll find you, Rosie.

As Rose had pulled back, she'd seen the curtain twitch beside the door, and she'd blushed at being seen.

In the morning, the black car was gone—and the McBride boys, too. Jackson had left without a word, without even a goodbye. Rose hadn't heard from him again. Until now.

***

Jackson threw himself onto the couch in the living room and turned on the TV, then took a sip of his beer. On the television, some sort of football game was in progress. He tossed the remote aside and stared dully at the screen. He didn't care for Canadian football, but at least watching men smash into other men for sport would distract him from the desire burning in his body.

He pictured Rose above him on the ladder and groaned. He needed to stop imagining what her body looked like under her clothes. What it felt like. The sounds she might make. For fourteen years, her breathless sigh that day under the willow tree had haunted his dreams. It had seemed like an invitation, but he'd been too young and inexperienced to do anything about it. It had all been too new. But now they were grown. Here. Together. And he couldn't stop thinking about making her sigh again.

Which would have been fine if she didn't hate his guts.

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, letting his chin roll toward his chest. He didn't blame Rose for holding a grudge. Maybe she was right to.

His phone rang where he'd set it on the coffee table. He picked it up and let out a sound of displeasure.

"Dad," he said as he answered the call.

"Jackson," Dad barked. "Where the hell are you?"

He grimaced. "I'm at the Creek House."

There was a pause. "In Dogwood?"

"Dally didn't tell you?"

"No." The beats between his father's words were like ellipses. "What are you doing there?"

Jackson sighed and leaned back, crossing his ankle over his knee. "Finding a wife, remember? Your little plan."

"Did you decide to make it harder on yourselves? It's a town of five thousand people."

"Oh, probably five-thousand-and-three, now," Jackson said wearily. "You think we're going to find wives in the city? I'd be swiping right for weeks. In Dogwood, you can strike up a conversation with a stranger in the lineup at the bank. Besides, I thought you'd approve. I thought you'd like it if we found women like Mom."

"God rest her soul," Dad muttered. "You need to stay focused, son."

Jackson narrowed his eyes at the warning in his father's voice. "I am focused."

"Remember, I need to approve of this marriage."

"Yeah," Jackson said, unable to keep the testy note out of his voice. "I'm aware of what you do and do not approve of."

"Don't take that tone with me."

Jackson took a deep breath. "I'm sorry." He rubbed his eyes. "Everything is under control."

"Good."

Jackson could almost see him looking at his watch.

"See that it is under control," Dad continued. "I have a meeting."

He hung up without even a perfunctory goodbye. Jackson scowled and contemplated throwing his phone across the room.

He folded his arms and hunched over, pressing his elbows into his sides and feeling suddenly small. His chest felt as though it were caving in. There was an ache in the vicinity of his heart, and it made him feel sick. His father wasn't wrong; he needed to focus. What Dad didn't understand, could never understand, was that they were aimed at different targets. Jackson's goals had nothing to do with airlines or boards or committees or any kind of email that started with Dear Mr. McBride. They wanted different things.

If only he could just quit outright, stand up to his father, and tell him the truth: I'm not like you. But he couldn't. So, here he was, doing it by default. Slithering around Dogwood pursuing failure so he could walk away from it all with his father's permission. Shame made his face burn. He wasn't sure what was right or wrong, anymore. He should never have kissed Rose that day by the treehouse. He should have spared them both the pain.

Jackson stood and grabbed his beer, then strode through the house into the kitchen. He set the bottle aside by the sink, then leaned on the counter and crossed his arms. Coming here had been foolish, an emotional, impulsive decision. He ought to walk away. Now. But he was already in too deep. Dogwood had that effect on him. He'd felt it as a boy, and he felt it now; to leave town again would be to tear himself out by the roots.

Tears blurred his vision. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his eyelids until he saw stars. The only thing that matched the magnitude of what he stood to gain by staying in Dogwood—what he chanced to win—was what he stood to lose.

Denny wandered into the kitchen. "Why do you look like somebody just shot your dog?"

Jackson lowered his hands and straightened. "What? Nothing. Allergies."

"Oh. I thought maybe it had something to do with the caretaker's daughter."

Jackson forced a smile. "Rose?" He shrugged. "No. Hey, what do you say we get out of here for a little while? Go into town. We need to find you a wedding outfit."

Denny grinned. "Let's get Dalton. I think I'd look real good in a dress, but do you think I can wear white?"

Jackson chuckled and shepherded his brother out of the kitchen. "You can do whatever you want, Denny. Your life is your own."