Page 28 of We Drank the Dawn

Hollie placed more cookies on the table, which the cowboys had no problem finishing off. Even little Wren had one then cried for more. Tag leaned closer to her and said, “I think you’ve probably had enough sugar, Little Bird.”

She scowled up at Tag and slipped off his lap to disappear under the picnic table. No one seemed to notice. Curious about what she was doing under there, I dipped my head beneath the edge to watch her. Still frowning, she crawled on her hands and knees until she reached a man’s pair of boots—Cooper’s, I thought. Then she smacked Cooper’s knee and, to my utter dismay, he reached a fist under the table and opened it—revealing half a cookie inside.

I bolted upright and slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from howling with laughter.

That was not the first time, clearly.

My face heated from the effort of holding it together and I glanced at Cooper, who wore a bored expression as if the crimes happening under the table were old news. Unable to help myself, I took one more quick peek at Wren, who was now leaning against his shin, munching the forbidden.

When Peter and I finished eating, we got back in the car and followed the driveway past the big house and cabins to a shady spot by the creek—just past Cabin C. A white and beige fifth wheel stood in the shade of a few tall oak trees. We were far enough away from the guest cabins that we would have plenty of privacy. Once I parked, I realized there was even an outdoor shower and two reclining outdoor chairs near a portable barbeque. The chairs faced the back of the property, which meant nothing but rolling hills and a wide open sky in the distance.

Already, the sun had disappeared and the last colors of dusk lingered beyond the hills—the sky purple with receding light. Tomorrow we would have an unhindered view of the sunset.

Peter, silent on the drive around the house, quickly got out with his cane as I popped the trunk and directed him. “The fifth wheel is on the driver’s side, straight ahead.”

He rounded the front of the car as I heaved our bag out of the trunk and slung my purse over my shoulder. Peter found the metal steps ascending to the door and we went inside.

I flipped the lights on and a smile lit my face. “Oh wow. This is really nice.” Much more spacious than I imagined, the living area of the fifth wheel had a couch, kitchen, table and chairs, even an island with bar stools. On either side were three steps up into what I presumed were bedrooms. Giving myself a quick tour, I located a tiny bunk room, a bathroom, and the bedroom for Peter and I—a full-sized bed with barely enough space to walk between the bed and the walls. Overhead cabinets and a built in dresser lined the only available spaces.

The whole thing smelled a little like…upholstery and cherries, maybe?

“This is so cute.” I called to Peter who was still in the living room area. “Come back here.” When he stepped in, I flopped on the bed, relishing in the overhead vent blowing cool air onto my face. An exhausted groan slipped from my lips. “I love this. What do you think?”

He eased down onto the corner of the bed. “Yeah, the AC seems to work well.”

“It does.” Stretched out on the bed, I rolled to my side and studied him. A hat, his signature since childhood, was situated backward over his head. A handful of tiny freckles dotted his olive skin. Even though he’d lost muscle mass since the accident, the breadth of his chest and shoulders still made my heart turn in my chest. I’d always marveled over his shoulders—how they were the perfect cradle made just for me. His arms wrapping around me were my favorite thing in the whole world.

It had been so long since he held me.

A sad smile tilted my lips as I imagined exactly what the old Peter would be doing in a moment like this. He would press me against the mattress and kiss me, promising more to come. He would stop and marvel at the purple sky then lift the lid on the barbeque and promise to grill one night. He would rip off his clothes and test the outdoor shower. He would pull up my Live List on Google Sheets and make a plan so we could cross off as much as possible.

But thoughts like that could break me.

The conflict in my chest raged. How could my husband feel so close but yet so far? I wanted to shake him—force him back to me somehow. In moments like this, desperation and hopelessness threatened to tear my heart to pieces. I needed Peter. His indifference was strangling the oxygen out of my lungs, slowly killing me. But a quiet, constant urge to save us, save us, save us made me sit up, reach out, and grab his hand.

I whispered, “I’m glad we’re here together. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” He said it as if he was trying not to hurt my feelings.

“You don’t seem glad.”

A loud breath expanded his chest. “All places kind of feel the same to me, Sarah.”

Itching to touch him, I lifted my hand to his chin and turned his face toward mine. He resisted for a moment before relenting. His brown eyes bounced over my facial features as if he could see them. “But at least we’re together, right? I’m not working and we’ve got a whole week to do whatever we want.”

Please say you want to be with me, I silently begged him.

“It’ll be good.” But the fake smile he offered sent my heart careening into my stomach.

Without speaking, we parted ways, unpacking our suitcase and getting ready for bed. It wasn’t late. In fact, with the time change, it felt earlier than what it actually was. Bea had invited us over to their cabin, but Peter said he was tired. And, considering I was here to work on my marriage, I didn’t want to leave him alone. Determined to have a good attitude about an early bedtime, I took a long warm shower in the surprisingly spacious bathroom and shaved my legs. Then I slipped into my pajamas—a silky tank top and booty shorts Peter used to find irresistible. Then I dabbed some lavender behind my ears.

When I exited the bathroom, Peter was already under the covers, so I got under them too. “Do you want to listen to our audiobook?”

He hummed. “I might fall asleep.”

“I’ll stop it if you do.” Grabbing my phone, I started The Two Towers by J.R. Tolkien. Peter liked fantasy, so we were slowly making our way through The Lord of the Rings. I settled the phone on my belly and cranked the volume. Peter rolled onto his back and tucked a hand behind his head. The cover slipped down a little, drawing my eyes to his bare chest and the hollow of his throat.

I debated whether to touch him or not because I knew the attempt would feel like plunging my arm into a bucket of ice water. But how would we break the barrier between us if we never tried?