Page 11 of Sweet Beloved

I set the chicken down, peeling off my oven mitts. It’s moments like this when I look at her and see her like a snapshot.

In these moments, I marvel that this is my life. My lovely Freya filled my house with everything I ever wanted. But more than that, she showed me that love isn’t just heat and lust. Of course, we have plenty of those moments. But as I’ve aged, I’ve learned that love is more like the deep parts of the forest: earthy, long lasting, less like fire and more like the far-reaching roots of old growth pines.

It isn’t something I knew before. It’s something learned.

The tiny moments. Memories, snapshots in my mind. Seeing her with one son after another in her arms. Watching her do the same things every day with the same love and care. It’s working for her, so she has everything she wants and needs.

It’s in the secret parts—not just like the scorching hot ones, but the quiet ones. Seeing her read her books, watching as she built her collection back up and painted her flowers and leaves all over the attic. It’s the intimacy of early summer mornings, the way her mouth tastes, the warmth of bare skin on skin. It’s woven through the evenings, when all I can do is think about getting home to her again.

I’m overwhelmed with the richness of the life she’s brought me. Some days, I worry I might pinch myself and wake up alone in my bed.

But no, here she is.

“Why’re you staring at the wall?” Freya asks, coming up beside me, brows creased.

I shake my head. “Sorry, long day.”

We sit as the rest of the boys come in and take their places. Then, it’s impossible to have a conversation over their chatter. I hold her hand under the table, and she plays with my weddingband. It’s an absentminded habit of hers, spinning it around my finger.

Freya says she wants to go take a bath and relax, which means she’ll sit in water up to her chin and overthink. I have to lock up the barn and do some fence repair, but I promise I’ll hurry back. I kiss her in the hall and duck into the living room in search of my two eldest sons. Slate is sitting in the armchair, his laptop balanced on his knees. Recently, he took over doing monthly inventory and expenses. He’s good at it, better than I ever was. I credit the brains to his mother.

Gage is laid out on the floor, flipping through a farming magazine. I knock on the wall, and they both look up.

“Let’s get the barn locked up,” I say. “And I’m riding out to the eastern pasture to check some damage if anybody wants to come.”

“I can do that in the morning,” Gage says.

I shake my head. “We’re headed out to Carter Farms in the morning. I need you both to go with me.”

“I’ll go,” says Slate, yawning and setting aside his laptop. He gets up, and Gage peels himself off the floor.

“I’ll lock up the barn,” he says. “You all can go on ahead and do the fence check.”

I jerk my head in a nod. “Good, thanks. Alright, let’s haul out.”

In the barn, I grab a couple of electric lanterns while Slate brings out the horses, Silver Phantom and Booker, and saddles them up. Gage waits around to see us off, standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips and hat on his head. He’s starting to look like a real cowboy these days.

“We’ll be back in about an hour,” I call as we head up the hill.

The air is starting to cool down a little. We’re both quiet as we ride, which isn’t unusual. I’m pretty worn out after a day of working in the heat. Slate seems to be thinking hard. He’s got a big crease in the same place I get one across his forehead.

“You good?” I ask.

He shakes his head once. “Yeah, all good. Just thinking.”

We pull up beside the portion of damaged fencing, and I dismount, grabbing the bag that always hangs off my saddle horn. Slate follows me, leaving the horses waiting. He starts taking the tools out as I assess the damage. It’s not bad, but we might as well get it fixed up tonight.

“What’re you thinking about?” I ask, crouching to cut away the rusted portion.

“The ranch,” he says. “About what happens when you retire.”

I glance up. He’s never mentioned this before.

“I’m not retired yet,” I say. “But it’ll come.”

He takes the rusted wire and starts crushing it up to take back. “And what happens then? You thinking of parceling it up?”

Truthfully, I’ve thought about that a lot. I have four boys, and it wouldn’t be right to have one of them take over for me. None of them have expressed an interest in leaving, so I assumed they would each want at least a fourth of the land. Maybe I was wrong.

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