“I can’t take it off,” he started again, and my heart nearly plummeted to the floor, but he kept speaking. “I—I feel better having it on me. Like I can feel him through it.”
“What if you kept it in a pocket or something just for a few days while we wait for the swelling to go down?” Marcy offered.
Tucker shook his head. “I’m afraid I’d lose it. It could fall out and get lost when I’m out in a pasture or something.”
I ran a hand over the back of my neck, trying to come up with a solution when realization dawned on me. “What if you could wear it? Like on a chain?”
Marcy snapped her fingers at me. “That’s a great idea!”
But Tucker looked hesitant, his eyes swinging back and forth between us with a look that told me he wanted to shoot this idea dead, but after a beat, he gave a slight nod. “Okay, but where would I get a chain to put it on?”
I grinned wide, feeling just a little too pleased to have the answer to this dilemma as well. “I’ve got one you can use. It’s back at the bunkhouse, but you’re welcome to use it for as long as you need.”
“It’d make me feel a whole hell of a lot better if y’all went sooner rather than later.” Marcy chimed in, glancing wearily toward Tucker. “You don’t want to wait much longer because it's likely not done swelling.”
When Tucker grunted his understanding, I gave a nod of appreciation toward Marcy as Tucker and I made to exit the stall, and she mouthed “thank you” back.
Both he and I had just stepped out when Marcy called back out. “Oh, and Tucker?” He turned back to her. “Make sure you see anactual doctor. You at least deserve to get some of the good stuff for all you’re going through.”
He tipped his hat in acknowledgment, but I caught the sliver of a grateful smile on his lips when he turned to start making his way to the barn doors.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TUCKER
My skin crawled, and the closer we got to the bunkhouse, the worse it got. This felt wrong. Logically, my brain knew what Jackson said was true. But my heart? My heart was a wasteland of memories and feelings for a man who only existed in the broken fragments of the life he left behind. Maybe that was why I was so protective over the things that held even an ounce of him. Like in some weird way, I could piece him back into existence one object at a time.
Jackson offered to drive, and after the bickering I’d done with both him and Marcy, I couldn’t muster the energy to protest. The rain had picked up some and it pattered against the windshield as we made our way along muddy roads, my heart tapping out the same rhythm against my ribs.
When we finally pulled up before the single-story building, the churning sea of my emotions nearly made me nauseous. Somehow, Jackson knew I needed a moment, and he sat back in the driver’s seat after putting his truck into park. We both stared out the windshield in silence, the image of the place he called home looking blurry through the repeated assault of raindrops against the glass.
“Raleigh used to love the rain,” I found myself saying.
“Oh, yeah?” Jackson replied casually as though the topic of my dead husband wasn’t the ever-present elephant in the room.
I nodded, not knowing if this was a stalling tactic or if Jackson just brought out the desire to share in me. “He said rain was nourishing, not just to the plants, but to us too. Good for the soul.”
My farmhand made a hum in the back of his throat, and from the corner of my eye, I could see him shift slightly to turn his attention my way. “I like that.”
“When it would come down real hard, he would open the front door and just lean against the frame to watch the rain fall.” A small smile spread over my lips, the visual of him so clear in my head. “I used to bitch and complain about all the water getting inside the house, but then he started putting a towel down inside the doorway.”
Jackson let out a small huff of laughter. “Dedicated to watching the storm like some old man, huh?”
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “I used to joke he’d make better friends with the folks at the nursing home than he would with other people his age. Sometimes he felt like such an old soul. But he was my Storm Chaser.”
“I think I would have liked him.”
Something about that statement hit me square in the chest, never mind you’d be hard pressed to find someone sunshine incarnate Jackson Arness wouldn’t like.
“He would have liked you, too.” I swallowed.
Without letting myself wander any further down the path those thoughts would lead me, I opened the truck door and jogged up to the porch. The cooling rain pelting against me felt almost soothing on my overheated skin. The slam behind me told me Jackson had followed, and only a moment later he was standing beside me on the porch. We made our way inside silently, and he pulled out his key to unlock his door before pushing it open and motioning me inside. I took a second to scan the space.
It was still the same generic gray bedding that all the other roomssported, along with a thick comforter for the cold nights, but now a neatly folded quilted blanket laid at the foot of the bed. It was made up of vibrantly colored patchworking, and it stood out in stark contrast to the neutral color on the rest of the bed.
His suitcase had been neatly situated by the bed, and a Stetson hung on the outside bedpost on the headboard, just waiting to be traded out for the flat bill trucker hat he wore today. There were a few others sitting on the bedside table along with a pair of sunglasses and the box of earplugs. Everywhere I looked, little indications of Jackson’s presence were scattered around the room, and for some reason, it settled a piece of me knowing he truly had taken to making this place his own.
Jackson pulled out a duffle from under the bed and started rummaging through it before he produced a small toiletries bag. Inside was a necklace with a thicker, silver chain and a pendant on the end which he quickly slid free and tossed back inside.
