Page 162 of We Drank the Dawn

I had to bite back my laugh and the comeback burning my tongue.

I would gladly take off her pants.

And even though I started the task with a chuckle lifting from my mouth, a very profound sense of purpose hit me as I slipped off her shoes and socks. My fingers located the button and zipper on her jeans then slowly shimmied the tight denim off the swell of her hips. Sixteen years of history thrummed between us. God only knew how many times I’d completely fumbled, but she was still here. Still putting her heart in my hands. Still allowing me to care for her. Still trusting that I would see her.

See her in a way that didn’t require two working eyes.

And I was—finally.

After far too long of seeing no one but myself, I saw the woman I loved. I felt the warmth of her determination and love. The forgiveness and second chances brimming in her heart. The hope for the future burning in her soul. And I sensed the darkness in her, too—the fear hiding in her shadows. The worry that her love wouldn’t be enough to bring me back. The fact that she relived her childhood nightmares right inside the four walls of our home.

I’m here, Sarah. I wanted to say the words aloud but I didn’t. I see you.

A lump rose in my throat.

I’m so sorry I ever stopped seeing you.

There would be a time to tell her that. And I hoped it came quickly because the stifled words sat in my chest like a heavy boulder. I needed to say them. For her sake. But also for mine.

I slipped my finger under the jean’s tight ankle hem and tugged the fabric over her heel, denying my desire to explore and touch. The sound of denim whisking over her skin was torture enough.

“You want your sweater off, too?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. Air moved as she lifted her hands above her head and flopped them on the pillows.

Leaning sideways over her, my fingers latched onto the hem and pulled upward. She arched her back then lifted her shoulders so I could bunch the knit and direct it over her head. Then I folded back the top cover so she could crawl between the sheets. No sooner had her head hit the pillow than her soft, deep breaths filled the quiet space between us.

For a moment, I just sat there, listening.

I hoped every deep breath would heal her a little.

Then I debated what to do. Walking up to the bunkhouse seemed like the honorable thing. But, if I did that, she could wake up and need something. And I didn’t want her to feel alone. Or maybe that was the line I fed myself to justify staying because I couldn’t bear walking away.

After I folded her clothes and stacked them on the end of the bed, I meandered into the fifth wheel’s living room and stretched out on the couch, tucking my hands behind my head like a pillow. It was only eight thirty or so, but her presence hit my nervous system like a sedative.

And I drifted off to sleep in minutes.

I didn’t even bother taking off Harlan’s uncomfortable boots.

FIFTY-FIVE

Sarah

Light punished my eyes as they cracked open, dry and stinging. My surroundings swirled as if I were underwater. It felt like I’d awaken from the dead. Where was I? I rubbed my eyes.

Peter.

I bolted upright with a gasp, wide awake in a single heartbeat.

I scanned the bedroom of the fifth wheel, my heart falling when I realized I was alone. The blanket pooling over my lap revealed my skimpy tank top and underwear. And then I remembered I deliriously demanded Peter undress me last night.

And he did. So sweetly, too.

Where was he? What time was it? Was he working today? Where was my backpack?

Questions mounded.

My feet slipped to the cool floor and I found my backpack propped against the wall beside my bed. Quickly, I pulled on a pink crewneck sweater and flare jeans, freshened up in the bathroom, then walked to the common area of the fifth wheel. My heartbeat jumped to my throat, pulsing at the base of my neck when my eyes landed on Peter, who was now wearing an old hoodie and gray sweats. He had his arms folded across his chest, his head tipped back on the edge of the couch, and AirPods in his ears. His eyes were closed, the ends of his dark lashes brushing the top of his freshly shaven cheeks.