Jackson stared after Rose's truck, his heart beating so hard he could feel it hammering against his sternum. Goddamn, but Rose had grown up to be a woman. She hadn't gotten any taller, but she'd sure filled out. No longer the skinny-legged teenager he remembered from when they were sixteen, she was all curves now, lush and achingly pretty—but those doe eyes, the ones that had haunted him for over a decade, they hadn't changed.

Denny slapped him lightly on the back of the head, and Jackson jumped.

"You haven't seen these mountains often enough?" Denny said dryly. "Get in the car."

Jackson let his eyes rove over the landscape. The close mountains, mottled brown and green with a few peaks perpetually coated in snow, were beautiful, sure, but they were nothing compared to Rose Whitfield. But her truck had disappeared down the highway.

Was she still a Whitfield? A cold ball formed in his stomach. Perhaps she'd gotten married to some local boy right out of high school. Suddenly, he felt sick.

"Jackson," Denny warned as he got into the driver's seat of the rental car. "You've got all summer to screw around, but right now, I'd very much like to get on the road, get to the house, and take a piss in a private bathroom."

Jackson smirked. "Yeah, yeah."

He ducked into the back seat. As the youngest and shortest of the McBride brothers, he was perennially relegated to the back of any vehicle.

Denny pulled out of the parking stall and maneuvered the car out onto the highway. Dally tapped away on his phone in the passenger seat while Jackson stared out the window, watching the densely packed trees go by. He suppressed a sigh.

Denny guided the car through town, slowing down to fifty, then accelerating when they were through Dogwood proper. The town flew by, old Craftsman homes and quaint shops and a new fast-food restaurant on the outskirts. Jackson mostly ignored it. It wasn't the town he was eager to see.

The Creek House was situated just outside Dogwood at the end of an unpaved backroad. Jackson straightened in the backseat as they neared it, trepidation making his muscles tense. They rolled up the hill toward the house, trees on all sides. When the large, two-story building came into view, he made an involuntary sound in the back of his throat. A release.

The house was bigger than he remembered but somehow smaller at the same time, stately and sprawling but bursting so full of memories it was a wonder the walls hadn't expanded to accommodate them. Behind it, the titular creek wound through the grounds. He couldn't see it yet; the meandering water lay beyond the house's stone foundation, down a gentle slope. The grounds were hilly, the Rocky Mountains rippling the land on all sides.

Jackson took a deep breath. The McBride brothers had spent every summer here when they were kids until, when the twins turned nineteen and said they were too old for it, Jackson had also refused to return.

Denny parked the car in the gravel driveway, and Jackson got out, leaving the car door open behind him as wonderment burned in his belly. He strode up the uneven stone stairs slowly, his mind drifting back through the years. He paused and ran the toe of his tennis shoe over the step.

He'd kissed Rose right here. Sixteen years old and desperately shy beneath his cocky exterior, he'd stood on the bottom step, knees trembling, and kissed her.

"Hey, Red. Get your head out of the clouds and help me with these bags."

"In a minute, Denny."

He scanned the windows, which were shuttered, and the front door, firmly closed. Rose had visited him here, knocked on that door, or, when they were older, strolled in without any announcement. She had been like family. Before everything changed.

Jackson heaved a tortured breath and turned away from the house. Denny handed him a suitcase out of the trunk, and a carry-on bag, then draped another bag over his shoulder. Dally was busy tapping away on his phone in the front seat of the rental car.

"Is he going to help?" Jackson asked, jerking his thumb in Dally's direction.

"Dalton is busy with board business." Denny gave him a pointed look. "You know, since you won't pull your weight."

Jackson scoffed. "Whatever. You ever heard the phrase pack light?"

"I'm sure you can handle it, pipes."

"Fine." Jackson turned and peered at the house, at the stone façade and the well-tended planters lining the entrance. "Where'd you say the caretaker left the key?"

"Bill said he'd meet us here."

Jackson's stomach dropped. "Ah."

Denny cast a curious glance at him, which Jackson ignored.

As Jackson started up the steps again, the door to the house swung inward, and a man appeared in the doorway. Bill Whitfield was older than when Jackson had seen him last, with greying hair and a weathered face, but his stoop-shouldered stance and dusty, khaki coveralls were the same.

"Mr. Whitfield," Jackson said, his voice hitching.

Mr. Whitfield straightened and regarded him with a stoic gaze. He'd never been much of a talker, though he'd always been patient with the young McBride brothers. As a boy, Jackson had trailed the caretaker all over the grounds, asking question after question about the land or the local wildlife or how to hammer in a nail straight, and Mr. Whitfield had been inordinately kind. This despite the fact that Jackson had been a boastful and cocky kid, inflated by the importance of his family name. He marvelled that Mr. Whitfield had never put him in his place. Jackson was sure he'd been a royal pain in the man's ass.

He didn't look so patient, now, not with that measuring stare.

Jackson forced a gracious smile. "Been a long time."

Mr. Whitfield huffed a short, sharp breath through his nose.

Jackson hoisted the bags. Unspoken words hung in their air between them, weighty and laden with truth. He knew what Mr. Whitfield was thinking. And now you've returned, the boy who broke my daughter's heart. Jackson worked his shoulders uneasily. Perhaps coming back to Dogwood had been a bad idea.

Mr. Whitfield stood aside. "This way, Mr. McBride."

Jackson's face heated as he passed the man on the way into the house.

"Please, call me Jackson."

Mr. Whitfield didn't answer. Jackson's face flushed hotter, a bright flare of shame. He grimaced as he set the bags down in the foyer. Denny and Dally sauntered in, barely laden with luggage at all. Jackson scanned the opulent foyer as memories ghosted through the space. A grand staircase led to the second level. Sunlight streamed through the high, arched windows, casting rectangles of light on the parquet floor. Dust motes danced in the light.

Mr. Whitfield's voice was stiff. "Your rooms have all been aired out. Will you need anything else?"

"Bill!" Denny exclaimed, clapping the caretaker on the shoulder. "Good to see you, man."

Mr. Whitfield inclined his head. "Welcome back, Mr. McBride. Will you be staying long?"

Denny blew out a heavy breath. "The whole summer, I guess."

The caretaker nodded. "Very well. If you don't need anything else, I'll retire to the cottage."

As Mr. Whitfield closed the door behind him, Denny frowned.

"What was all that about?" he asked.

Dally shrugged and adjusted his glasses.

Jackson thumbed his lip, lost in thought. He startled when Denny clapped his hands together.

"Well, whatever. Please tell me there's a watering hole in this one-horse town." Denny threw his arm over Jackson's shoulder and rattled him. "You up for a drink?"

Jackson exhaled slowly. Going into town sounded like a fine idea. He hadn't expected the Creek House to be so robust with remembrance. Besides, the sooner they left the house, the sooner he could stop thinking about Rose.

He shook his brother companionably. "Yeah. Sure. Let's go down to the pub. Gotta find you boys some wives."

***

Rose stood in the kitchen with her arms folded and tried not to glower. At the table, Lily sat with their mother, clasping her hand as Mom wailed in anguish. It was all Rose could do to keep from rolling her eyes. Since Lily's arrival, Mom had really been hamming it up.

"I don't understand why he's leaving me," Mom cried in a high-pitched voice.

She pulled a fresh tissue out of the box and dabbed at her eyes. She must have worn waterproof mascara, because although her eyelids were puffy, her lashes were still coated thickly, and her tears ran clear. She sniffed and tossed her head, then patted the back of her neat chignon. There wasn't a blond hair out of place.

Rose pushed her tongue into her cheek and bit it, but it didn't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "Probably because you asked him for a divorce, Mom."

Mom looked at her sharply. "It was a strategic move."

"It's a legal proceeding." Rose couldn't keep the note of exasperation out of her voice. "What did you expect would happen?"

Mom tilted back her head and keened. "I just wanted Michael to pay more attention to me."

Rose admired her vibrato as she held on to the last word with a wail like an opera singer.

Lily leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea. "Michael was a fuddy duddy, anyway, Mom. You can do better."

Mom broke off with a sniff. "Don't speak so about your father."

"Stepfather," Rose corrected sharply. "We have a dad."

Mom waved her fingers through the air as though to brush Rose away, her painted nails glittering in the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window. Rose suppressed an irritated snort. Unlike Lily, she had zero patience for their mother's dramatics.

"You know what we need," Lily mused, staring into her tea. "A girls' night out."

Rose made a face. "I don't think that's such a—"

Mom interrupted her, waving her arms grandiosely. "That's an excellent idea, Lily, dear. We need music and gin and dancing."

Rose compressed her lips. She had no desire to listen to their mother's hysterics sober, let alone drunk. It was bad enough she'd come to stay in Rose's spare room since Michael had served her the divorce papers. Rose could just imagine Mom holding court at a bar table, bemoaning her divorce loudly for all to hear. She shuddered.

"That settles it," said Lily, her voice chipper. "We can go to the Trib."

Rose sighed. "Fine. But I'll drive."

Lily shook her head. "Not dressed like that, you won't."

Rose looked down at her khakis and T-shirt. "What? What's wrong with this?"

Her sister tutted at her. "You look like a soccer mom. Come on, show me what you've got in your closet." She stood and grabbed Rose's hand. "See if we can't remind the boys you've got a butt. God, are those pants pleated?"

Rose followed Lily down the hall to the master bedroom. "Lily, for God's sake, would you slow down?"

They entered Rose's bedroom, and Lily finally let go of her hand. Rose sat down on the edge of the bed, grumbling.

Lily whirled on her. "You need to be nicer to Mom. You're being a bit of a jerk."

Rose raised her brows. "I am not. I'm housing her. What more do you want?"

"Just...don't be so judgemental." Lily sighed. "I know she's a mess, but she's still our mother."

"When has she ever acted like a parent?" Rose grumbled.

Lily's mouth turned down. "She's trying, Rose. I don't think you recognize that. She's trying to connect with you. Why else would she be here? She could have come to stay with me in the city, gotten out of town, but she came to you. Try to be nice?"

Rose looked down at her feet and folded her arms. "I know you mean well, Lil, but you're too young to remember what it was like when she left, how hard Dad had to work just to get by. He was a servant."

Lily regarded her with shrewd, brown eyes. "Is this about Mom or growing up with the McBride boys?"

Rose huffed. "We wouldn't have had to grow up on the McBride House grounds if she hadn't flitted off in search of..." she waved her hand. "...whatever she's looking for."

Lily's mouth tightened sympathetically. "I know that hurt you. But could you try to have fun tonight? For me?" She gestured toward Rose's closet. "Come on, let's find you a pretty dress and pretend, for just one night, that you're neither the oldest child nor the mayor of Dogwood."

Rose looked at her sister wryly. "What am I supposed to be instead?"

Lily grinned. "A woman, Rose. Just a woman."