The next morning, Jackson hunched over the garden beds out back of the house turning over the earth with a spade. Rose knelt a few feet away, pulling weeds. She'd been quiet since she'd gotten to the house. Not moody, exactly, but reserved, as though she were mulling something over. He wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

He turned over his spade, and an endive-white bulb came up with the dirt. He fingered the tiny bulb with its tender, green shoots, then placed it gently back into the earth so it could grow.

Jackson stood and rubbed his back. The grass sloped away from the house, down toward the creek, then up again, undulating in verdant waves as it rolled toward the mountains.

"Rosie?"

She lifted her head.

He gestured to her. "Why don't we take a break? I want to show you something."

She tilted her head and frowned, but she pulled off her gardening gloves without any further urging and set them on the grass. As she stood, she brushed off her knees.

"Come on," he said to her.

He led her down the hill toward the creek, then along the vein of water, his tennis shoes crunching over the rocks. Trees dotted the grounds here and there: tall, skinny cedars and squat firs interspersed with the occasional cottonwood whose thick, rough-barked branches were good for climbing.

Rose followed in silence for a while before speaking. "Where are we going?"

"Not far."

She peered at their surroundings, but if she had any reservations, she didn't voice them. She simply followed the channel of the creek beside him. She didn't seem to notice the mud on her nice shoes. He'd always loved that about her; she'd never been afraid to get dirty.

The grass on the banks grew long and unkempt, interlaced here and there with weeds. As they neared the cottonwood—the big one with the deep vee in its trunk just above their heads—Rose gasped.

"Is that the treehouse?" she exclaimed.

Jackson grinned. "What's left of it."

Rose strode up to the thick-trunked cottonwood tree and rested her hand on the bark. "I didn't know it was still here."

Jackson hung back. Rose's long, chestnut hair slinked around her shoulders like waves of silk. A gentle wind played with the strands, lifting them away from her face. With the sun high in the sky, her skin was golden.

"You don't get out this way much?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. Never." She touched one of the weathered boards they'd nailed to the tree to make a ladder. "So many memories."

"Good ones, I hope," he muttered, remembering her broken arm.

Rose looked over her shoulder at him. She didn't answer, but there was a light in her eyes that said she was remembering, too.

Jackson shifted his gaze to the treehouse. They'd built a platform in the nook of the cottonwood's branches and done their best to install walls and a roof. It had taken all summer. That had been the year they'd turned twelve. Rose had done most of the planning. Now, the walls canted to the left, and the wood had greyed over time, but the structure still stood.

"This is amazing," she said. "Do you realize it's been almost twenty years since we built this?"

He couldn't keep the tenderness out of his voice. "I thought you might like it."

"I do."

She kicked off her shoes and grasped the weathered wooden ladder, putting her foot on the first rung.

Jackson stretched out a hand. "Rosie, no. I don't think that's a good idea."

"It feels sturdy enough." She tested the piece of wood with her foot. "Come on, don't be a chicken."

He started forward as she hoisted herself up step by step until she could grasp the edges of the hole in the platform above her head. He cringed as the boards creaked.

"This is a lot harder than I remember," she said, laughing breathlessly as she pulled herself up and disappeared into the treehouse. "Jackson, come on!"

He let out a bated breath and eyed the ladder dubiously. "You're a little lighter than I am."

"Is that flattery?" She laughed. Her face appeared in the hole. "Get up here. This is incredible."

Jackson sighed, assessing the platform of pitted and wind-worn wood. What were the chances it would hold them both? He made a sound of defeat in his throat as he began to climb. This was madness. The whole thing would probably fall to pieces around them.

The boards creaked as he climbed. He grimaced, expecting the pieces of wood to break under his weight at any minute, but soon he was poking his head through the hole in the platform and pulling himself up with a grunt.

"See?" said Rose. "Just like old times."

He stood and brushed off his hands. "A little harder on the knees than it used to be." He probed the floor slats with the toe of his shoe. "I doubt very much this is structurally sound."

Rose laughed. "If it ever was. I can't believe we built this."

Sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the roof. Dots of light rippled on her skin as she moved. She stepped toward him.

"Watch your step," he pleaded.

"I'm being cautious," she said. "I promise."

She skirted the hole in the floor and came to stand beside him, leaning to look out the window they'd cut into the plywood wall.

She whistled. "That's a long way down."

"Yes, it is," he admonished. "Be careful."

Rose pulled her head in and looked at him wryly. "I remember." She raised her hand. "I was in a cast for weeks. Don't worry. I have no intention of a repeat."

He nodded. "Good." He looked out the window at the mountains. "We should have brought drinks."

She turned toward him. "Thirsty?"

He lifted his shoulders, then let them fall bashfully. "No, I just thought we could make a toast. You know. To history."

She lifted her chin and studied him. There was an openness in her gaze that hadn't been there in the garden, and he thought maybe—just maybe—she'd discarded some of her distrust during dinner, but he couldn't be sure if it was just wishful thinking. Once, he'd been able to read her. She'd had a terrible poker face when they were kids. Now, he couldn't tell exactly what lay behind her curious, brown eyes, which were lit up like gemstones in the dappled light coming through the holes in the tattered roof. She could be thinking anything.

"I'm out of practice," he whispered.

She raised a brow.

He blinked, not realizing he had spoken aloud. He opened his mouth to say something, trying to find the thread of his own thoughts, but his mind was a jumble. Rose's face was angled just right, and she was so close to him. If he inclined his head, he could kiss her right now, and the thought set his veins on fire.

A smile tugged at Rose's lips. "You know, you're not what I expected."

"I'm not?"

She shook her head. "No. I thought... I thought you would be like those gossip rags say."

"What do they say?"

"That you're a playboy." She stepped closer to him. "A letch. That you McBride boys are all alike. That all you do is chase women and drink champagne."

His heartrate ratcheted up at her nearness, and his voice came out hoarse. "Don't believe everything you read."

"So, it's not true?"

Jackson lowered his voice. "Do you think that's who I am?"

Her eyes were dark and unreadable. "I don't know who you are, Jackson."

"You know the boy I was," he said slowly. He thought his heart might beat straight out of his chest. "And you can see the man I am today. There's been a lot of living in between, not all of it good, but you can see that I've changed." His voice rose like a plea. "Can't you?"

Rose's eyes swept over his face as though she were reading him—or remembering.

"I can see that something is different," she said quietly.

He inhaled sharply. The air in the treehouse had thickened with the fog of memory.

Rose's voice came out in a whisper. "Jackson, why did you come back to Dogwood?"

"Because I missed you."

He lifted his hand and brushed a tendril of dark hair away from her temple, tucking it behind her ear and letting his fingertips graze her cheek.

"I came back for you," he whispered.

He hadn't realized it was the truth until now.

Her gaze flickered to his mouth, and her breathing visibly quickened. It was the signal he had hoped for. Was she as curious about kissing him as he was about kissing her? He hardly dared to breathe. Slowly, he tilted her chin up with his fingers.

"Rosie," he murmured.

"Yes?"

"I told you I would find you again," he rasped. "Let's not wait another fourteen years."

She let out a small sound that wrapped around him like a shroud. With his heart beating roughly in his chest, he claimed her mouth with his.

***

Rose's heart raced. It was not a soft kiss. It was pleading and verging on rough, different than the one they'd shared under the willow tree all those years ago. Back then, his touch had been tentative, his lips soft and uncertain, but Jackson had learned a few things in the intervening decade, that much was clear. He covered her mouth with his with the kind of passion she'd only ever read about in books. There was a needfulness to it, a desperation, as though he couldn't get close enough, as though he were trying to say something with his body that he couldn't put into words. It made her knees weaken.

Their breaths grew quick and laboured as he drank her in. He wrapped strong arms around her. She could only cling to him, transported by the force of his ardor to some place out of time. Every nerve ending in her body sizzled with awareness—of Jackson, of his scent and the hardness of his body against hers, of the treehouse creaking beneath their feet and the evening heat that had grown sultry around them—yet she was also gripped by the past as memories swirled like lacy curls of smoke. Jackson was right; in some ways, he had changed.

His kiss softened. He broke away from her, lifting his head and resting his forehead against hers. Rose couldn't help the moan that escaped her mouth. Jackson groaned and kissed her again, a gentle brush of the lips.

"Rosie," he murmured, running his fingers through her hair. "I missed you so much."

The raw intensity in his voice struck her wordless. He kissed her forehead gently, then her temples and cheeks. His mouth was almost cool against the sudden fever that made her skin burn.

The unanswered question still lingered. The why of his leaving was stuck in her throat, but she didn't want to break whatever spell the treehouse had cast over them, not when his touch roused a torrent of heat in the runnels of her veins. She closed her eyes. Maybe she should just give herself over to this, right here and now. Maybe the past didn't matter so much anymore. Only...

Jackson stroked her face with his fingertips and said her name again. She opened her eyes, her lashes fluttering.

"I missed you," he murmured.

There was an earnestness to his words, as though their kiss had unlocked something tender and vulnerable in him. Rose hesitated. With the question of his leaving still unanswered, she couldn't be sure he wouldn't disappear again.

"You surprise me," she whispered.

"I hope so," he said, breaking into a smile.

His boyish grin was the old one, the glib and charming one she was used to. She softened toward him, smiling in return. Jackson made a soft sound in his throat, almost a growl, and pressed his lips to hers again, softly this time. She clung to him, adrift on the waves of his kisses, her hands finding his silky hair, the back of his neck, of their own volition. When they broke apart, all sensible thought had fled her brain.

Jackson looked around, and Rose mimicked him, tearing her gaze away from his handsome profile. The light outside had gone dim as clouds covered the sun.

Jackson stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "I guess we should get out of here before it rains."

"I should check on Dad before I go."

"Ah." His eyes twinkled. "I think he has a few questions about my intentions. Why don't I come with you?"

"You want to see my dad?"

"Sure. Why not." He shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Unless you'd prefer to go alone."

She smiled. "No, I think that sounds nice." She stepped away from him and clasped his hand. "Come on. Let's get out of here before we get into trouble."

"Can't have that," he said, chuckling. "After you, Rosie."