The Cameron Chronicles (TS4 Standalone Short Stories) Echoes of the Heart

Chestnut Ridge
Kershaw Ranch

The Kershaw Ranch was quiet, covered in its wintery hush, save for the occasional whinny of a horse or the rustle of leaves in the gentle evening breeze. Jackson Kershaw stood in one of the horse shelters, his hands methodically brushing the coat of his favorite horse and only stallion, Blaze, named after the blaze marking on his forehead, the rhythmic strokes a meditation of sorts. The scent of hay and leather was a balm to his soul, a reminder of the simple life he cherished.

Briar Rose Cameron, known to those who loved her as Bri, watched him, her heart a tumult of emotions. She was a vision of contrasts, her modern elegance juxtaposed against the rustic backdrop of the ranch. Her eyes, the color of delicate new leaves in spring, held a depth of feeling that belied her delicate appearance.

Bri and Jackson had only recently returned from a festive sojourn in Brindleton Bay, Bri’s cherished hometown. The holiday season had wrapped them both in the warmth of Cameron family traditions, a stark contrast to Bri’s unfamiliarity of Chestnut Ridge. Returning here had made her melancholic, Brindleton Bay’s embrace lingered in Bri’s heart, its memory a balm to her soul, far more comforting than her current abode could ever offer.

The homesickness that Bri harbored was a silent storm, raging within her yet unseen by those around. Her family’s absence was a void that Chestnut Ridge’s sprawling vistas couldn’t fill. On campus, the presence of her twin sister Iris Marie and their friend Jasper had been a constant source of solace.
But here, amidst the cacophony of nature’s symphony that still sounded so alien, it was solely Jackson that she leaned on, leaving her feeling like a pesky toddler, having to be taught even the most basic of things and unable to be left alone. Just over one month had now passed since she decided to take a semester off college to spend with Jackson, yet every rustle of leaves and distant birdcall reminded her that this was not home—not yet. And it left her missing her parents more than ever. Again. Which made her think of Jackson’s tragic background. Bri had always been close with both parents, but especially her mom, imagining losing her at 9 years old was simply unfathomable for Bri, making her want to hug Jackson each time that sad fact crossed her mind. Which was often, of late.

“Jackson,” she began, her voice a soft melody that filled the quiet space. “Tell me about your mom. What was she like?” Bri’s words were born partially from genuine care and curiosity, part from intensely missing her own mom that day.

Jackson paused, the brush in his hand stilling. He turned to face Bri, his eyes a mirror of the open skies above. “Mama was like a summer storm,” he said with a slow, southern lilt. “Full of life and fire. She could calm a spooked foal with just a touch, and when she laughed, it was like the whole world was right.”

Bri lingered nearby, more questions burning in her mind, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the sun setting. “Jackson,” she began, her voice carrying a tender curiosity, “do you have any pictures of your mama? I’d love to see the woman who raised such an incredibly guy.”

Jackson’s hands paused; his tasks momentarily forgotten. He turned to Bri, his eyes reflecting a mix of surprise and warmth. “Well, I reckon I got a few old photographs tucked away,” he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting into a gentle smile. “They’re a bit worn ’round the edges, but they’re precious all the same. I’ll fetch ’em for ya after we’re done here. After dinner, cos I am hungry enough to eat the North end of a Southwards facin’ mule right ’bout now.” he smiled a melancholic smile at her, then resumed his task.

Bri stepped closer, her presence a silent support. “Do you miss her?”

“Every day,” he admitted, his voice thick with unshed tears. “But she’s a part of this land, part of me. I reckon she’s watchin’ over us, even now,” he mumbled from somewhere below the stallion’s belly, having his front hoof propped up.

Reflecting on her own homesickness which had brought on all these questions in her mind, Bri sighed. “I wish I could’ve met her. She sounds wonderful. What was her name?”

Jackson’s smile was bittersweet as he straightened up and turned to face Bri. “Savannah Rae Kershaw was her name and she wore it with great pride, whenever she told it to someone in her sweet and slow Southern twang, it sounded like the beginnin’ of a song and made ya smile. She would’ve loved you, Bri. Just like I do.”

The stable’s tranquility was a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Bri’s heart. As she watched him finish up, as he did every night, the way he took off his gloves, pointlessly wiped his dirty hands on his equally dirty jeans before bending down to kiss her, linking his fingers into hers as they strolled together to the cabin door, these moments, woven into the fabric of their everyday, were the threads that pulled at the corners of her mind, whispering of a forever.

Stepping into the kitchen, both kicking off their boots, they fell into their comforting routine of cooking together, a ritual that framed their days with sustenance and familiarity. The concept of a hearty breakfast was new to Bri, who had long settled for nothing more than a steaming cup of milky coffee each morning since her early teenage years. The habit of skipping lunch, a consequence of endless chores or distant journeys to places devoid of dining options, was slowly reshaping her habits. By evening, after the day’s final tasks, hunger would claw at Bri’s insides, yet the sparse kitchen of Jackson’s ranch—stocked with canned goods and non-perishables due to the unreliable electricity—posed a challenge her cooking lessons with Sophie, her Cameron’s trustee caterer and family friend, hadn’t covered. Nonetheless, they embraced the act of preparing meals together, Jackson patiently teaching Bri, finding joy in the shared experience.

In this quaint Southwestern town, culinary traditions were passed down not through precise recipes but through the intuitive hands of the cooks. Meals were crafted on the fly, with each dish bearing the hallmark of its creator—Sally’s Special Chili, Trey’s Cobbler—names that spoke of personal touches to time-honored family dishes. For Bri, who was accustomed to the refined dining of her luxurious upbringing, these meals were a departure from the familiar. They weren’t inferior, simply distinct in flavor and form. And though they were unlike anything she had ever tasted, Bri found herself embracing the local fare with an appetite so fierce, she’d humorously echo Jackson’s colorful phrase: she was ready to “eat the stank off a dead skunk” by the time dinner was served.

While layering the enchiladas, laughter and light-hearted teasing filled the space between them. Bri’s attempts at a southern accent drew hearty chuckles from Jackson, their playful exchanges intermittently paused by soft, flirtatious kisses. Each gentle touch of their lips was a wordless vow, an intimate secret, as effortless and harmonious as the mingling aromas of spices in the air. With every tender kiss, their bond deepened, their fondness as tangible as the heat radiating from the oven, ready to embrace their culinary creation.

“Jackson,” she whispered, her voice barely rising above the sizzling of the pan. “There’s something I need to bring up, something that’s been keeping me up at night, thinking in circles. It had kinda totally slipped my mind until I came here, staying here with you like this, knowing it’s for the next half year or so, somehow my perspective on many things has changed. And probably made me mushy, cos I am finally with the guy I love.”

He looked up from peeking through the window of the oven, his eyes reflecting the last light of day, a silent invitation to share her burden.

“It’s about kids,” she continued, her words tumbling out like leaves caught in a gust. “You know that… that it might not be easy for me. Maybe even impossible. That maybe, I can’t EVER have children of my own. I know what you said when I told you about all that back when it happened, but that seems a lifetime ago, even though it wasn’t. Still, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your mom, about you being a kid with her, and when you see your little half-siblings Cody and Vivienne, or even my little nephew Chris, it’s clear you’re a natural with kids. And I miss my parents SO much now, it’s embarrassing. It kinda makes me … think… things… Despite of what you said, it makes me worry. About… things. Things you may feel now, but might regret eventually, way, waaaay down the line. I don’t want you to hate me one day cos I couldn’t make you a dad, once we’re old and ready for all that.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Jackson’s expression softened, the lines of his face etching a map of understanding.

“Bri,” he drawled, his voice a warm blanket in the cool uncertainty that surrounded her as he grabbed her hips and pulled her against himself. “Ya know I love this land, the horses, and yeah, I do like kids, they’re fun and untainted by rules and society. But darlin’, none of that holds a candle to my love for you. We’re both young, ain’t no need to be frettin’ ‘bout all that now, but if a time comes way down yonder when we wanna start a family and we’re facin’ some hurdles… well, we’ll tackle ‘em together. There’s a heap of ways to make a family, Bri. Adoption, fosterin’… love, it don’t do no countin’ of chromosomes. We done talked ‘bout this before, and ain’t a thing changed, nothin’ will ever change. Thinkin’ I might prefer fosterin’ or adoptin’, cos I know how those kids feel.”

He kissed her. A simple kiss, almost innocent, but it held a genuine promise.

“And if it turns out it’s just us two, ridin’ solo for all our days,” he continued, his gaze lockin’ with hers, “then I reckon I’ll be the luckiest man ‘neath these big ol’ skies ’cause I’ll have you. You’re all I need. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. That’s why I didn’t give up on ya, even though I always knew that you was way out of my league. Yet, here ya are, so I ain’t asking questions or settin’ conditions. Just happy with what the good Lord sent my way.”

Bri’s eyes glistened with tears, a mixture of relief and love, he smiled at her, then resumed his tasks. She trusted his words, his promise.

After dinner, tucked into the soft embrace of the couch, Jackson and Bri delved into a world frozen in time, captured within the frames of old photographs. She, hailing from a life of affluence and luxury, found herself peering into the humble beginnings of a small family in Chestnut Ridge, where Jackson’s late mom and stepdad/uncle had lived and loved, and their ancestors before them.

As Jackson thumbed through the timeworn photographs, a soft southern drawl colored his words. “See this one here?” he said, pointing to a faded picture of a young woman with a smile as wide as the Montana sky. “That’s my mama, Savannah Rae. Folks always said she could light up a room with her laugh.” He glanced up at Briar Rose, his eyes holding a tender but somber spark. “And you know, sometimes when you smile, I swear it’s like she’s right back here with us. Probably not the thing to say to the woman I love, but you do remind me of her, in the best way.”

Briar Rose leaned closer, her gaze tracing the unfamiliar contours of Savannah Rae’s face. “She was beautiful,” she murmured, her voice lacking the southern lilt but filled with a warmth that bridged the gap between their worlds. “And strong on the inside, I bet, to have lived through all that drama.”

“Yeah, she was the strongest person I knew,” Jackson agreed, his thumb brushing over the photograph as if to wipe away the years.  “And she loved horses, just like you and I do. This cabin you and I are sittin’ in used to be my grandparents’, and their parents before ’em, goes back 7 generations that we can trace back. My grandparents died young too, I only remember little ’bout them, this place had always belonged to my daddy, meanin’ Jack, since he’s the older brother, but momma would take me here often, to look after it for him since he left and stayed gone for a decade and a half after my Ma realized she was expectin’ me. Every time the man I then knew as Pa was away at the oil rig, we’d come here and stay for a while. I didn’t know the real reasons back when. When ma and pa died and I was put in fosterin’, Ahanu took care of it for Jack until he finally returned home. Kershaw men always return here, it’s where we belong.”

A soft melancholic sigh escaped Briar Rose as she imagined the stories these pictures held. “Before I met you I would have probably been all judgmental that your mom got caught up in a love triangle, ironically, now it’s another thing she and I have in common,” she said, a glint in her eye.

Jackson’s laughter rumbled through the room, genuine and heartfelt. “Oh, it’s all been a mess alright. But in the end, it brought me here, to you, and you to me.” He reached out, taking Briar Rose’s hand in his. “And that’s something I wouldn’t change for the world.”

Even in the stillness of the photographs, the images of days past were imbued with such vitality and cheer that Bri could nearly hear the laughter ringing out as she beheld the young woman showering a young Jackson with kisses. The boy’s innocence seemed to leap from the page, bridging the years between then and now.

Briar Rose, not one to usually fuss over childhood snapshots, found herself unexpectedly moved. Gazing at the images of Jackson as a carefree child, she felt a profound connection, as if he had entrusted her with a glimpse into a sacred chamber of his heart—a chamber known only to him and his father, Jack. It was an intimate revelation, a silent sharing of his most cherished memories.

Jack, captured in the frame of youth, bore an unfamiliarity despite his recognizable features, even as a teenager standing beside his younger brother, Clayton Kershaw. Bri’s eyes lingered on the image, noting the stark contrast to the man she knew as Jackson’s dad and her brother’s best friend.

The resemblance between Jackson’s mother and Briar Rose was subtle yet undeniable—the same slight frame, though their blond hair and light eyes were shades apart. Her smile, radiant and undiminished by the rugged backdrop, mirrored Briar Rose’s own. And there, the man Jackson as a little boy only knew as dad stood, Clayton Kershaw, his aura as striking as the broad-brimmed hat that crowned his head, a testament to his commanding presence. The familial likeness to his older brother Jack was unmistakable, a visual echo of brotherhood. But seeing both brothers together, it was obvious which one the real father of Jackson was. Jackson was the younger reflection of Jack, not his brother, even though nobody would know the truth until Jackson’s mother couldn’t keep Jackson’s true heritage a secret anymore, a truth that Clayton couldn’t live with, a truth that would take not only his life, but also Jackson’s guilt-ridden young mother’s, at their own hands, leaving 9-year-old Jackson all alone in this world until Jack returned home 6 years later and found him. This was a truth that Jackson held close, a topic he preferred to leave unspoken.

The sequence of photos from Jackson’s foster years painted a stark contrast, his young face seldom lit by a smile, reflecting the tumultuous path of his early life. It was only when Jack, his biological father, stepped into the picture that the boy’s demeanor began to shift. The initial photos captured a cautious optimism, a boy on the brink of rediscovery. As time passed, his smiles broadened, echoing the joy and warmth of the man who had brought him back into the fold of family. Bri remembered the day she met him for the first time, at her big brother Connor’s home, who had since become Jack’s best friend, which was the reason why Jackson and Bri would run into each other now and then over the years following. Bri still remembered Jackson being very aloof at first, and she still remembered the way her heart fluttered the moment she first saw him, she couldn’t stop staring at the teenaged cowboy, with his Stetson drawn deep into his face. Even her then barely 14-year-old self absolutely enamored with this tall, quiet 16-year-old boy. And ever since, as it eventually would turn out, after a few detours.

Through these silent portraits, Briar Rose glimpsed the resilience woven into his character. The shared viewing of the album was more than a simple act of remembrance; it was an intimate bridge connecting their disparate worlds, offering her a deeper understanding of the man whose heart she was coming to hold dear.

Once the album was closed and set aside, Briar Rose nestled closer to Jackson, the two of them lost in the quiet comfort of a shared movie. After some time, she shifted to face him, her voice wistful. “Jackson, do you ever wonder what if… what if one day we were to have a child? Against the odds, and it probably won’t ever happen, but what if?”

Jackson gave up on following the movie they had turned on, smiled at her, his voice tinged with hope. “I gotta admit, thought has crossed my mind, darlin’. We’re both green behind them ears, so it ain’t exactly on the table right now, but thinkin’s free, I been doin’ a lot of that and I heard what you said and what Connor said about it bein’ unlikely for ya to ever have a child, but honest, I have seen the impossible happen more than once. Look at us now. You’re here, with me, against all odds, that was impossible. Me havin’ a dad again and siblings was impossible, only turned out it ain’t. We’re both strong, resilient and stubborn like my horses out there, I think if you really wanted to, you could have a baby jus’ fine, Bri, if only because you wanted to. Mind over matter kinda thing. Gotta admit too, you sittin’ here thinkin’ about kids with me makes me feel real good. And if we ever were to have a lil’un, I imagine they’d have your hair, golden like the sunrise, and my eyes, blue like the Chestnut Ridge skies. I got ’em from my dad, and he got ’em from his dad, so me’s thinkin’ they’d prevail for us too. So, that’s what I think about all that.”

“Yeah, and they would have your strength and big heart,” she mused, leaning into his embrace. “And our love for horses. But maybe, just maybe, they’d inherit a bit of my family’s creative side too. You gotta love music if you have Cameron blood in you, or at least paint or write or something.”

He smiled, a dreamy look crossing his face. “If it were a boy, we could call him Clay or Clayton, after the man I thought was my father, he was a good man, plain, simple, no-nonsense, but solid, he helped make me into the man I am today, along with my dad, of course and I think even your brother Connor to a degree, since your brother has helped my dad and me so much when he really didn’t have to, which went a long way with my dad and me. But Clayton, pa, well, uncle, I still get all tangled up when thinkin’ of him as my pa, but Jack’s also pa, my real pa, it’s just such a mess. Anyway, Clayton Kershaw was the one I looked up to as a boy, the man I loved as my father then. He taught me a lot. I only have good thoughts about him, all the way to the day he shot himself. If my real dad, Jack, wants a kid named after himself he needs to go ahead and take that up with Izzy, his wife, maybe she’ll have another with him.”

Briar Rose’s eyes sparkled at the thought. “And if we had a girl, perhaps Savannah Rae, after your mama.”

“I’d be partial to Hailey, after yours, now that she finally likes me,” Jackson grinned.

This entered them into a lighthearted debate. “My mom has always liked you just fine, Jackson,” Briar Rose insisted, her voice firm yet playful. “She’s just worried about how different our worlds are, that’s all. Can’t fault he for that, cos so are you and I, which is why I am here. She cares about the stability of our future together, just like us.”

Jackson chuckled, the southern drawl in his voice wrapping around his words like a warm blanket. “Darlin’, I reckon your mama’s concern ain’t just ‘bout our differences. I ain’t got much to offer but my love, my horses, and wide-open spaces. That’s my world, and it ain’t likely to change, seein’ as I barely got through high school and make my livin’ off the competin’ and breedin’ mah horses. That ain’t much of a career to impress them with.”

Their exchange was a dance of affection and humor, each understanding the other’s perspective, yet standing their ground. Briar Rose, with her quick wit, and Jackson, with his easygoing charm, navigated their conversation with the ease of two people deeply in tune with one another.

Some hours later, the night had settled over the ranch like a silent promise, the stars twinkling above like distant lanterns. Inside, the world was reduced to the soft rise and fall of Briar Rose’s breath and the steady heartbeat of Jackson lying beside her. Bri’s eyes were wide open, the moonlight casting shadows that danced across the ceiling, mirroring the turmoil in her heart.

She thought of Jackson’s past, the hardships that had weathered his young soul, yet somehow left it more tender. She thought of her own life, so starkly different, filled with the laughter of relatives and the security of privilege. The contrast was stark, and it weighed on her like the heavy quilts that covered them.

Jackson, feeling the shift in her breathing, stirred from his half-sleep. His arm, which had been resting gently around her waist, pulled her closer. “Bri,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm, “ain’t no use in losin’ sleep over what can’t be changed. My past is just that—past. You’re my now, and you’re my tomorrow. That’s all that matters.”

His words were simple, but they carried the weight of truth. Bri turned to face him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But your life, it just hurts me to think—”

He hushed her with a tender kiss, his lips barely grazing hers. “Darlin’, stop your worryin’. My life started over the moment I first laid eyes on ya, we was still kids then and just didn’t reckon it at the time. We had our back and forth, but now you’re here. Ever since you came to stay with me on this here ranch, even though only for a little while, each mornin’ has been sunnier, every load a mite lighter. You’ve turned this ol’ place back into a home. Now, let’s hit the hay, you get ornery when you’re tuckered out, and I’m no peach at that time neither,” he said with a laugh, making Bri giggle too.