Early the next morning, as Rose rumbled down the backroads on the way to the McBride house, the dull roar of an airplane overhead made her look up. She shaded her hand against the early morning light to watch the plane descend toward the airport. It would be the Maple Airlines flight from Vancouver.

She spared a thought for the insufferable Alex Decker and his conspiracy theories, then scoffed, realizing she trusted Jackson's words. If he said he wasn't here on official airline business, she believed him.

The house came into view. The lights were still out, but the McBride boys' rental car wasn't in the driveway. Her stomach dropped with disappointment as she turned off toward her father's cottage. Maybe Jackson wasn't home. She'd hoped they could work together this morning. Had been looking forward to it, in fact. But perhaps he'd gone into town.

When she got out of the truck, she adjusted the hem of her simple green blouse and smoothed her cut-off jean shorts. Not exactly grounds maintenance attire, but she'd taken extra care with her appearance today. Hopefully it wasn't for nothing, and Jackson would show.

She slipped into the toolshed and stood just inside the door, fiddling with the hem of her blouse. The prospect of bringing up the past with Jackson made her feel just like that descending plane—groundless, as though she were falling out of the sky. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't around, after all.

She pushed away from the door and let it fall closed behind her. On the workbench, the length of copper wire was still waiting to be soldered, the tools placed just so. She crossed the small space and ran her hand over the wooden bench absently, considering how to broach the conversation about the past. Just thinking about Jackson made yesterday's kisses flash in her mind. She let out a short, sharp breath. Less than twenty-four hours since, and she was already craving his touch. She rested her forearms on the bench and closed her eyes, remembering.

The scrape of a footstep outside made her jump. She whirled, pressing her back against the workbench as her heartrate ratcheted up. The footsteps came closer. She didn't know whether to hope it was Jackson or not.

"Rosie?" he called out. "Are you there—"

The purr of a car's engine growing louder cut him off. His shoes crunched in the gravel.

Rose crossed the toolshed and put her hand on the door, but as she turned the handle, she heard Jackson swear under his breath outside. His footsteps started up again, this time receding quickly. Brow furrowing, Rose stood on tiptoe to look out the window. The boys' red sedan had returned to the house, and Denman and Dalton were climbing out of the front seats just up the hill. Dalton came around the back of the car and opened the rear door like a chauffeur, then leaned down to speak with someone in the backseat. As he straightened, a man stepped out of the car.

Rose stared. He was thick and broad-chested with cropped, immaculately styled copper-red curls. His short, bushy beard was shot through with grey. He looked just like Jackson, but older—equally confident but without the boyish swagger. As he started forward, coming down the hill toward Jackson, who stood by the Bronco, he radiated command.

A chill went through Rose's body. For a moment, she was sixteen again, standing outside the McBride house while a black car sat in the driveway.

"Son." His gruff voice carried down the hill.

The muscles of Jackson's shoulders were visibly tense beneath his thin, grey T-shirt. "Dad."

Rose rubbed her hands together nervously. It was far from an emotional family reunion, but she couldn't exit the shed without interrupting them. She wasn't sure what to do. She grasped the door handle, but the sound of Mr. McBride's voice made her pause.

"What are you doing in Dogwood, Jackson?"

There was a pause before Jackson responded. "I'm doing what you told me to do."

Mr. McBride sniffed loudly. "I never told you to come back here. In fact, if I recall correctly, I believe I explicitly ordered you to stay away from this town."

Jackson's voice was level. "You never told me to stay away from Dogwood. Just what's in it."

"Don't get smart. You know as well as I do what our deal was." Mr. McBride's voice was stern. "We had an agreement. Why you would decide to flout the rules now and come back to this town—these people—with everything on the line is beyond me."

Jackson sounded suddenly weary. "I just wanted to come home for a while, Dad."

"This is not your home."

"And Toronto is?" Jackson's voice took on an edge. "At the office? Like you?"

"Don't get snide with me."

There was a pause. Rose held her breath.

Mr. McBride spoke again. "I ordered you to find a wife and come home to the city, not to go on some soul-searching fool's errand in the BC backwoods."

Rose frowned, her brows knitting together. Find a wife? What was he talking about?

"I know why you're here, Jackson."

"Do you?" Jackson muttered.

"Have I not been clear? I have veto power over your decision. If you have any desire to keep even a tenuous fingerhold on your inheritance, you'll do as I say and find a wife." His voice was terse. "But you and I both know that Rose Whitfield is not a suitable bride."

Rose flinched as though she'd been slapped. She stepped back from the door as the wind was knocked out of her lungs.

"She's not our kind of people." Mr. McBride's tone was ice. "She never was. If you came here with the intention of marrying Rose, I can tell you right now it's not going to happen. I forbid it. You know the cost."

Rose peeked through the window, her body trembling. Jackson stood on the rutted path with his hands clenched at his sides—and said nothing.

Mr. McBride turned on his heel. "Priorities, son."

Rose sank down onto her feet. Her lips had gone numb, and her knees were weak. It was all she could do to remain standing. She swallowed convulsively; her throat was suddenly dry. Not a suitable bride? She clenched her fists as ire burned in her belly. Who the hell did Jackson's father think he was? Who did he think she was? She was no one's bride! But Jackson was just standing there. He hadn't defended her. He had barely said a word.

Scowling, Rose yanked open the toolshed door, letting it slam against the wall. As Jackson turned to face her, the blood visibly drained out of his face.

"Rosie—"

She spoke through gritted teeth. "Don't."

He took a faltering step toward her, but she held up her hand. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath; it was as though something was sitting on her sternum, squeezing the life out of her.

"I guess you weren't kidding when you said you weren't here on business," she grated.

"Rosie, it's not what you think. I—"

"You what? Came here looking for a wife? Thought you'd take your pick in Dogwood?"

His brows knitted together. "I know what that sounds like, but—"

"It sounds like you came here for a bride." Her voice broke. "But not me, right? Well, joke's on you. I may not be your kind, but I have no intention of marrying anyone. I'd rather not end up like my mother, and I sure as hell wouldn't marry you."

Jackson's gaze was solemn. He didn't say anything.

Rose searched his face, her brows drawn. "Why didn't you stand up for yourself? For me?"

"It's complicated."

"Everything is complicated with you." She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. "You haven't changed, Jackson. You're the same as you ever were. Well, I'm not some backwater local you can toy with and then leave behind. Not this time."

"Please."

"What?" She let her hands fall. Her voice trembled. "What is it? Why did you leave Dogwood all those years ago? Tell me."

He took a deep breath that made his chest rise, then he held it, unspeaking. His shoulders slumped.

Rose tore open the Bronco's door and threw herself into the truck. "Forget about it. I'm done."

Jackson put his hand on the door as she fumbled the keys out of her pocket.

"Rosie, please listen."

"No." She jammed the keys into the ignition and punched the truck into gear. "Go find yourself a suitable wife."

She gunned the engine and backed up down the path. Her vision clouded with tears, and she blinked rapidly to clear it. But as she swung into the driveway of the McBride house, then turned and sped for the road, gravel spraying, she couldn't stop the tears from coming. How could she have been so stupid!

She'd allowed him to soften her heart with his kisses. She'd thought, for a moment, that he'd come back for her—he's said he had. She'd begun to believe that this time, things might be different. But she'd been a fool to believe him.

Tears coursed down her face. As a kid, she'd known Jackson came from money, that he went away to fancy schools and wore designer sneakers. It would have been impossible not to notice his status, since he'd been so high on himself. But somehow, she'd never considered herself anything less than his equal. Despite Jackson's blowhard attitude, she'd had no reason to believe she was unwelcomed in the McBride family—until today.

Had the McBrides merely tolerated her all this time, the poor caretaker's daughter? She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and sucked in a juddering breath. Heat made her face flame. How could she not have noticed? She shook her head. Well, whatever. She was done. Jackson McBride had broken her heart for the last time.

***

The ache at watching Rose go was so deep, so painful, it was all Jackson could do not to fall to his knees.

"No," he moaned, tearing at his hair. "No, no, no."

He looked up at the Creek House where his father had disappeared inside. His hands balled into fists. Gravel crunched underfoot as he strode to the house. He mounted the front steps and flung open the door, anger burning him up like a fever. Denny was in the foyer taking off his shoes.

"Hey, Red, what're you—"

"Not now," Jackson snapped as he stormed past his brother. "Where is Dad?"

"I think he's in the kitchen."

"And Dally?"

"Well, I don't exactly put tracking devices on the family, Jackson. He's around."

"Fine." Jackson's shoes slapped the parquet floor as he started down the hall. "Whatever."

He found his father in the dining room standing by the bay window and tapping on his phone. Jackson stopped just inside the door, clenching his fists so tightly his arms shook.

"How could you do that?" he exploded.

Dad set his phone down on the dining room table and rested his fingertips on the screen before speaking calmly. "How could I do what?"

"She heard every word you said," Jackson shouted. "You belittled her. She heard you."

Dad's voice was stern. "If Rose is not aware of her station in life, that's not my problem. Perhaps it's time she understood her place."

"Her place?" Jackson's voice carried a hysterical edge. "She's the goddamn mayor of Dogwood. You come here and insult her in her town, and you're talking about Rose understanding her place? What about you?"

Dad looked down at his phone, then lifted his hand and wiped his fingertips on his suit jacket. His mouth turned down beneath his bushy, grey-streaked copper beard.

He fixed Jackson with a hard stare. "I'm surprised that, with your education, with everything I've given you, you don't understand how this town operates. What makes Dogwood what it is, Jackson?"

Jackson furrowed his brow in consternation. "The people make Dogwood."

Dad shook his head slightly. "That's a surface-level assessment. You can do better." He straightened. "I'll tell you who makes this town. We do."

Jackson scoffed and folded his arms. "Oh, please."

Dad pushed on, his voice growing colder. "If you'd put as much energy into your degree as you did into gallivanting around with women like Rose, you'd understand this already. Without Maple Airlines, Dogwood would not be the town you see today. Do you really think some hick town in the middle of the Rocky Mountains could survive without our charity? The airline brings a lot of money into this town in ways you can't even begin to fathom—but you should. You would know this if you'd been paying attention instead of pining after some boyhood crush. Rose Whitfield may be mayor, but she exists because we allow her to."

"Bullshit," Jackson snapped. "Rose made her own way."

Dad sniffed. "Didn't she grow up on the grounds? We put food on her table, Jackson. You want to marry a woman who is dependent on you?"

Jackson blinked at his father. "Bill Whitfield worked hard for his money." His voice rose incredulously. "To provide for his family. Rose may have grown up on the Creek House grounds, but we don't own her. She's never asked for a handout from you or anyone."

Dad narrowed his eyes. "No?"

Jackson cocked his head, his brows knitting together.

Dad huffed. "If she's so independent, ask Rose how much she knows about the airport. I won't have you marrying that woman, Jackson. I forbid it. You know the price."

The ire in Jackson's veins pulsed. "You can't possibly hold me to that promise any longer, Dad. It's been fourteen years."

"I can, and I will."

Jackson let out a sound of vexation and pushed away from the doorway, advancing on his father, rage bristling beneath his skin.

Dally ambled into the dining room from the patio with his hands in his pockets, his heterochromic eyes filled with caution. "Dad. Jackson. Sorry to interrupt."

Jackson bit his tongue. Dally's gaze was calm behind his lenses as he strode to their father and put his arm around his shoulders.

"Dad, what do you say we rustle up some breakfast?" Dally entreated. "You must be hungry after that flight."

Their father lifted his chin and regarded Jackson as he spoke to Dally. "That sounds just fine, son."

Jackson took a slow, deep breath through his nose. Trust Dally to intervene. He had always been an ally, a buffer between them. The family peacemaker.

"You want some breakfast, Jackson?" Dally asked.

"No." Jackson scowled. "I'm going for a walk."

He didn't wait for Dad or Dally to respond. He brushed past them, then through the patio door. The morning sun hit his eyes, momentarily blinding him, but his feet took him down the stairs and toward the creek. He'd walked the path a thousand times. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he strolled over the rocky banks. As the weight of his situation bore down on him, his shoulders slumped.

That day, years ago, he'd left Rose and scurried into the house, eager to see his father, who never came to Dogwood. He'd found Dad in his office. The man had been cold. Stern. Arms folded, scowling through his beard.

You're not to see her anymore, Dad had ordered.

Still heady with the rush of kissing Rose, Jackson had protested hotly, but his father had been immutable as a stone. They'd argued. Then Dad had cut him at the knees, uttering the ultimatum that would sever his connection to Rose in a heartbeat, like a scalpel cutting through an artery:

If you insist on seeing her, you can say goodbye to your brothers. The choice is yours, son. Rose Whitfield or the McBride family name.

Jackson had stepped back, stunned.

Denny, he'd whispered. And Dally?

You'll never see them again, Dad had said. I won't have any son of mine besmirching the family name. If you stay here, you'll get that girl pregnant. You'll end up living in some backwater hick town working at the mill. Do you want to go down that road? Think about it. Think about her, too. Would you ruin Rose over a boyhood fancy?

Jackson had stared at him, aghast, his mind whirring with the possibilities. He didn't want to ruin Rose's life. He loved her.

Dad had taken his silence for acquiescence. He'd nodded once, firmly, as though the matter were closed.

We leave tonight.

Now, tears stung Jackson's eyes as he ambled alongside the creek. That had been it, the moment that neatly divided his life in two: he couldn't have the girl he loved without losing the brothers who were so dear to him. He sighed and ran his hand over his eyes. He'd left a piece of his heart in Dogwood that day, and he hadn't been whole since.

So, he'd jumped at his chance to fail when his father told him to marry. It had seemed so simple. Don't get married, but keep the family name—and his brothers, too. But he'd bungled it. He'd gotten too close to Rose, too fast. And now, with his father's arrival, his grand plan had been shattered underfoot.

He couldn't sacrifice his brothers for Rose, but the idea of leaving her again made him want to peel off his own skin, left him red and raw and bloody. He couldn't do it. Not this time.

Jackson scrubbed his hands through his hair and looked around. He'd reached the treehouse with its greying boards and canted walls, all nestled in the vee of the cottonwood tree. He put his hand on the trunk. The bark was rough beneath his palm. The creek burbled along behind the treehouse, nipping at the tree's gnarled roots where they dipped into the water.

Jackson turned and slumped against the cottonwood, the slats of the ladder digging into his back. Rose had told him she would never marry—never marry him, actually. And he couldn't blame her for it, but he wasn't ready to let go. He let his head fall forward, chin to chest. There had to be a way to please everyone. He couldn't lose Rose. Not again. But he was desperately afraid he already had.