Page 193 of We Redeemed the Rain

So did Bea.

After long moments, her chilly hands wiggled their way into my open shirt, causing me to suck in a breath. She looked up and tapped her fingers on my chest like she was waiting for something. “You said the hayloftwasn’tboring.” She wrinkled her nose. “Are we just going to stand here and hug?”

My hands captured the sides of her face, lifting her chin, as I chuckled. Her eyes fluttered closed when my lips briefly brushed over hers. Then I whispered, “We’re gonna do a hell of a lot more than hug, Strings.”

All pretense of playfulness fell away—shucked like clothes on the floor. Her voice was sultry and sweet—smoke and honey. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Bea’s hands lifted to her top button, slipping it through the loop.

Greedy for my wife, I watched as her fingers quietly trailed down the line of buttons then moved to the waist of her jeans.

Her trust won’t ever get old. In moments like that, I’m floored by her quiet belief. I’ve spent the majority of my life afraid I’d never have this—the intimacy of being fully known, fully loved. It’s more than physical. Our oneness is built on a foundation we laid years ago when we gave our hearts away—one postage stamp at a time. The baring of our souls led us here—to the baring of our bodies.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away as she proved her trust in me.

By the time my hands slipped around her, we needed each other. The ensuing kiss was a sigh of relief. Our passion was unhurried, but building. I tasted her lips one at a time and her hands followed the lines and ridges of my chest then slipped into my hair. She pulled me down, hanging her weight against our kiss. My hands tread the known paths of her body, crushing her against me. Her mouth pleaded for more, her hum cueing me. Grabbing tiny fistfuls of my hair, she squeezed and I groaned. Bea arched against me, her hands falling to my belt.

I had to scramble for the hayloft doors, latching them so we didn’t get soaked by gusts of wind. In the dimly lit loft, I pulled Bea down onto the quilt and loved her. Our desire for each other, pure and good, intensified with the drum of the rain and the roll of thunder.

Our love wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced.

I’d be lying if I said that our union has always been easy. It hasn’t. I’ve had so many dark days, more backward steps than I can count…but, that’s the thing I’m learning about love…

It isn’t daunted.

Love existsin spiteof the pain, just like Bea said.

They don’t just coexist. Pain calls something out of love that normal circumstances don’t. It takes big, dedicated love to stay, to weather storms, to hunker down and ride them out together. Bea and I have found that love, somehow, is stronger—more beautiful—in rain.

Every day my darkness rolls in, she brings her light.

Every time I can’t find my voice, she pours her words over me.

Anytime I feel like nothing, the music of her heart whispers my worth.

Now, my entire existence is about making sure I’m there for her. She’s had dark days the last few years, too. The Taggarts, the ranch, the Thompsons…we’ve all seen rain. We’ve all seen loss and tragedy.

A while later, the rain lost energy and the soft pitter-patter on the barn roof lulled us into satiated awe. I kissed the dark freckle on her chest, meandering my kisses up the graceful curve of her throat to the freckle below her lip—thoroughly adoring her.

She whispered, “Tag?”

I pushed up on my forearms, looking into her hazy dark eyes. They flitted open and closed, heavy with desire. Her chest heaved beneath mine. The dark wisps of hair around her ears were damp with rain and sweat. I gently tucked them off her face.

“Yeah?”

“I think coming up here when it rains…” She took a deep breath, pulling air all the way to her toes. She spoke on a happy sigh, “I think it’s a perfect idea.”

Once upon a time, I told Bea I didn’t believe in miracles. I thought the universe wouldn’t let someone like me access them. Now, I look back and I see the everyday miracles sprinkled into my story—the safe places, the heartbeats, the buoys amid the flood.

The greatest miracle of my life is Bea and her love that threw open my door.

A while back, she finally fell asleep. Her humming died off. When I covered her with a quilt, she didn’t move for a long time. But when I opened the loft doors to get some more light to finish this page, it woke her up. The rain is mostly gone, only a light shower. She flopped on my back and is reading over my shoulder now.

She wants to know if I’m writing about her.

I’malwayswriting about her.

She’s laughing at that.

I’m going to put this away because the sun just peeked out.

There’s a sun shower.

And we’re going to dance in it.

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