After they shut down the bar, Jackson couldn't sleep. Instead, he tossed and twisted under the sheets back at the Creek House, sweating in the summer warmth. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut against the moonlight that streamed in through the bedroom window. He'd opened it and the curtains to let in some air. Dogwood summers were hot, and it seemed they'd been getting hotter as the years had gone by.

At last, he flopped onto his back and opened his eyes. On the ceiling, fern-like shadow-branches rippled, cast by the red cedar outside his window. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and watched the branches wave.

What was he doing pining after Rose? He'd come to Dogwood with the express purpose of avoiding any entanglements. He just hadn't expected her to be so pretty—or to still be here. For all he'd known, she'd moved on from Dogwood. And yet, here she was, real and lusciously grown and as sour on him as a crab apple. He pictured her stance outside the Trib. That lifted chin, the set of her mouth. He'd longed to kiss her. But he had done that already, a long time ago, and then left her behind, and it was clear she had never forgiven him for it.

Jackson rolled onto his belly and rested his chin on his clasped hands. He had to be careful. Coming to Dogwood was part of a greater plan. He had to keep his eyes on the prize.

***

Rose woke at dawn. Golden light streamed in through her open bedroom window. She breathed deeply of the scent of dogwood trees and dew-damp grass that drifted into the room. She rolled onto her side and looked at the sky which was orange and pink as sunrise peeked over the mountains.

Mom was snoring gently in the spare bedroom. Rose sighed. Perhaps she could sneak out before Mom and Lily woke. She rose and dressed in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a simple white, sleeveless blouse that tied at the waist. She threw her long hair into a ponytail, then brushed her teeth in the bathroom before creeping down the hall and into the kitchen, passing Lily who was asleep on the pull-out couch.

As she grabbed her keys from the bowl by the front door, Rose glanced in the pewter-framed mirror that hung on the wall. She smoothed her hair.

"Where are you going?" Lily mumbled from the living room. "Jesus, what time is it."

Rose leaned her head into the room. "It's early. Go back to sleep."

Lily squinted at her. Pillow marks creased her skin, but she was as blond and beautiful as ever.

"You're going to go play with Jackson," she muttered. "You're sneaking out. Like when we were kids."

Rose opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. Lily was right. She hadn't been sure she was headed to the McBride house until now.

"I'm going to see Dad," she said softly. "I couldn't stay in bed. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

Lily groaned and rolled over, pulling the blanket over her head. "Okay, but if you end up pregnant by that McBride boy, who's going to tell Mom?"

Rose suppressed a laugh. "I'll see you when I get back."

She crept out of the room and through the small kitchen, then closed the door behind her.

The Bronco started with a throaty rumble. Rose backed out of the driveway, then drove through the residential neighbourhood toward the highway, where she turned right. There was little traffic at this hour—a few campers with Alberta plates heading home after a weekend of camping, the occasional logging truck. Rose turned left off the highway onto an unpaved road. She took her time on the backroads. She spotted a few deer in the early morning light. Her headlights illuminated their white rumps as they bounded away from the road at the sound of her truck. The less populated areas around Dogwood were often rife with wildlife.

The McBride house was tucked away at the end of a gravel road. As Rose crested the hill, it came into view, and she took in a sharp breath. It was just as she had left it: grand and moneyed, the grounds rolling away from the house like an ocean. Behind the house, at the bottom of a slope, she knew she would find the creek—the wayfinder for so may ambling summer journeys around the estate. They'd walked its length from the house all the way to the foot of the mountains, once, and her father had given her hell for ranging so far once she got home. Not Jackson, though. Dad had never said a cross word to the boy. Couldn't.

Rose eased toward the house, down the driveway, then turned left, taking the narrow, rutted path toward her father's cottage. It was early; she hoped the McBride brothers were still sleeping. She wished the Bronco had a quieter engine.

When she reached the cottage, it was almost fully light out. She hopped out of the truck and dusted off her thighs. There was a light on in the kitchen. Dad was up.

Rose knocked once, then opened the door and strolled in.

"Dad?"

His voice was warm and resonant as he called from the kitchen. "Rose, my love. I heard that truck of yours from a mile away. Come in. I'm making coffee."

The sunken living room was packed full of knick-knacks and homey trinkets. The evidence he'd raised two children was all over the walls, on shelves: pictures Lily had drawn; a clay pot Rose had thrown in art class as a teenager. Rose ran her hand over the colourful, knitted blanket draped over the back of the couch as she passed. This was home.

She found Dad in the kitchen. He wore his khaki coveralls, the sleeves rolled up as usual, while he puttered over coffee. He was a kinetic man, always moving. She often wondered how he fared out here alone in the cottage without two growing girls to take care of anymore, but he'd always assured her the McBride house kept him busy.

"Good morning," he said. "Cream and sugar?"

Rose embraced him from behind and gave him a quick squeeze. "Yes, please." She took a seat at the rustic oak table and ran her hand over its smooth surface. "I remember when you made this table. I love this thing."

He chuckled. "Scraps from reflooring the house. It's a monstrosity."

"It is not," said Rose, indignant. "Do you have any idea how much money people would pay for a table like this now?"

Dad poured two mugs, then stirred in a spoonful of cream and sugar into each. "What need have I of money, Rose?" He turned with a mug in each hand. "I'm the richest man on Earth already."

She smiled at him as he set a coffee down beside her. His eyes twinkled in the yellow kitchen light. As he took a seat, he straightened a photograph on the fridge.

"What's got you up so early?" he asked, crossing his ankles and bringing his cup to his lips. "You're never up with the sun unless you're feeling troubled."

Rose sighed. "I couldn't sleep."

Dad nodded sagely. "Is this about the McBride boy?" He paused. "McBride man, now, I suppose."

She bit her lip. "Yes, he is that. Why didn't you tell me he was coming?"

"I'm sorry, Rose. I didn't get a chance to. They didn't give me much notice."

She leaned back in her chair and heaved a tortured breath. "I just—I never thought I would see Jackson again."

"I know." Dad's mouth turned down. "You cried yourself to sleep for weeks when he didn't come back."

"I know you know. I wish you didn't."

He folded his arms and looked away from her, toward the photographs that littered the refrigerator. "A father makes a point of knowing what wounds his children. A scraped knee. A broken arm." He glanced at her. "A broken heart. There are some hurts he can't soothe. But he makes a point to know." He shook his head and lifted his mug again. "I made it my mission to be the man who never left you, Rose. I didn't want you to associate love with abandonment, especially after your mother left. And then Jackson."

Rose leaned across the table to squeeze his arm. "You did a good job, Dad. You were always there for me."

He patted her hand. "I'm here for you now. What's got your mind racing? I can see the thoughts in your eyes."

She groaned. "Why are the boys here? Why now?" She rubbed her forehead. "If it's anything to do with the airport, I need to know. Losing service to Dogwood would be a real blow to this town. He swore that wasn't it, but can I trust him?"

Dad raised a brow. "You spoke with him already?"

"Last night. At the Trib."

"You went to the pub?"

Rose grinned. "Don't act so surprised."

He chuckled.

She ran her finger around the lip of her mug, hesitating before speaking. "I've done all right for myself, haven't I?"

Dad cocked his head. "What do you mean? Of course, you have. You just won a seat in municipal government. Everyone likes and respects you, Rose."

"Almost everyone."

"Alex Decker is a moron."

Her lips twitched in a smile. "You're not wrong about that." She swallowed. "I want people to like me. I do. Why doesn't...he?"

Dad took a slow breath through his nose. She knew that Dad knew she wasn't talking about Decker anymore. He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw.

"I can't tell you the answer to that, Rose. I don't know why that boy left anymore than I understand why your mother did." He frowned. "But I think some people have a drive inside them. A yearning. Your mother had it, and so did Jackson, and so do you. Some ambition they will go after at any cost."

"You think I yearn?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes, Rose, I do."

"For what?"

He smiled, and the creped skin around his eyes crinkled. "Only you can answer that question."

Rose returned his smile. "Thanks for nothing."

Dad's grin widened. "You're welcome." He patted her hand. "Now, I have an apple tree to tend to. One of the branches is broken. Do you want to carry my tools?"

She looked at him dubiously. "To the house?"

"Why not. You have just as much right to be here as they do. I'm your father. Give an old man a ride?"

She knew what he was doing. Her whole life, he'd encouraged her to challenge her fears, to stand her ground when faced by anyone who made her feel small.

She nodded. "Sure, Dad. I'll give you a ride. Finish your coffee first. I'll put the ladder in the truck."

Dad raised his mug to his lips. "Thank you, Rose. I know you're strong enough to handle that on your own."

As she strode out of the kitchen and into the living room, tears pricked her eyes, and she took a deep breath to calm her emotions. She knew what he meant. She could handle Jackson McBride.

***

Jackson wandered into the vaulted foyer with a coffee in hand. He paused by the front door and twitched aside the curtain on the glass pane. There was no one outside, but he'd heard a vehicle in the yard. Strange. The road ended at the Creek House, so why anyone would be driving around out here at the crack of dawn was beyond him. Perhaps Mr. Whitfield was up early.

He strode back into the kitchen, sipping his coffee as he went. He rubbed his bare arm, scratching idly as he looked around the spacious room. As a kid, he'd thought the house was comfortable and warm, a real country home. It had been the place he longed for when he was in Toronto isolated by the starkness of city skyscrapers and his father's endless work hours. Though he'd only spent the summers in Dogwood, he'd considered the Creek House home base. Now, as an adult, he found the house a little too ostentatious for his liking. Too big. Too empty. Something was missing.

His ears pricked as the sound of an engine intruded on the rural quietude. It was definitely a truck, close and coming closer. Frowning, he made his way back to the foyer and pulled the curtain aside again. Outside, a baby blue Ford Bronco was pulling up to the house, its wheels crunching in the gravel. Jackson sucked in a breath through his teeth as Rose hopped out of the cab and went around the back to wrestle a ladder out of the short box.

Jackson let the curtain fall and backed away from the door. Despite his nighttime resolution to avoid Rose, his heart raced at the mere sight of her, and it was all he could do to avoid striding out of the house right now to take her in his arms.

But he'd just woken up and had yet to shower, and he was pretty sure he didn't smell all that great. Besides, if he tried to hold her with any kind of tenderness, she'd likely slap him with a few choice words.

He ducked out of the foyer and into the hall where an oblong mirror was mounted on the wall. His hair was a mess of snarled curls. He ran his hand through it, his fingers sticking in the knots.

The sound of Rose screaming made him freeze. The hair on his arms stood up, his breath coming suddenly fast and harsh as he was transported back in time. He'd only ever heard her scream so loud and long when she'd broken her arm falling out of the treehouse. This was worse. Much worse.

"Rosie," he whispered.

Jackson tossed down his coffee cup. It rolled away from his feet, spilling hot coffee. He flung open the door and rushed outside, his bare feet striking the gravel painfully. His head swivelled from side to side. He didn't see her.

She screamed again, high-pitched and breathless. "Help! Help!"

The sound was coming from behind the house. He barrelled across the gritty driveway and into the short grass, rounding the house at speed. He found her in the backyard. She was crouched over the prone form of Mr. Whitfield beneath the apple tree with tears streaming down her face. Jackson reached her and threw himself to his knees. Mr. Whitfield was grey, his eyes closed, his breathing laboured.

"What happened?" asked Jackson breathlessly.

"He fell off the ladder," she sobbed. "I think his leg is broken. It's—it's my fault. I was holding the ladder. I was distracted."

Mr. Whitfield moaned.

Jackson shook his head. "Whatever happened, it's not your fault, Rosie. Here. Just wait. I'm going to call an ambulance. I don't think it's safe to move him just now. Not us."

Rose blinked away tears. "Please hurry."

"I will."

He pushed himself to his feet and ran back to the house, his mouth grim. As he raced through the foyer, he caught Denny and Dally on the stairs, each of them blinking sleepily.

"What's wrong?" asked Dally. "Jackson? I heard screams."

"Not now," Jackson shouted as he hurried into the kitchen.

He grabbed his cell phone off the counter and dialed the emergency line.

"Police, fire, and or ambulance?" queried the operator when she picked up.

"Ambulance," Jackson breathed. "And hurry."