Page 13 of Sweet Beloved

She obeys, chewing her lip hard.

“You and I will always be the same,” I say. “When the day’s done, it’ll always be me and you, just like this.”

Her chin quivers, but she smiles, leaning into my chest. I wrap my arms around her body and listen to her heart thump. Her fingertips stroke over the back of my neck, tracing the faded ink. She does that so much, like she might forget every little detail.

“Let’s go to bed,” she says after a while.

“It’s late. Tomorrow’s another day,” I say.

I shower then lay down beside her. And like always, somehow, we end up fucking beneath the quilt. Because I was right. Despite getting older and the world moving fast around us, she and I will always be the same at the end of the day, when it’s just the two of us.

CHAPTER SIX

FREYA

After Deacon left with Slate to fix the fence, I went into my attic space just to look at everything around me. Like my late, destroyed bug collection, I acquired all these bits and pieces over many years. It was a slow process. A happy process.

I remember how I felt every flower I painted. Who I was pregnant with, who was laying on a blanket on the floor, babbling and chewing on baby toys while I worked. I loved every minute of it, despite the hard parts. I’m a little sad tonight. It’s starting to dawn on me that if I take on the café, a phase of my life is really, truly over.

That’s just the flow of time. Doors will close whether I want them to or not. My independent boys will need me less and less as the years go by. Knowing how they take after their father, it’ll be sooner than expected. Maybe now is the perfect time to take on something new.

In my hand is the deed—a copy of it anyway. If I agree to take on the café, we’ll have to go down to city hall and go through the formal paperwork.

Then, it’ll be a whole new chapter.

I set the paper on the desk and go downstairs. The barn light is still on, and I can make out Gage, Red, and Remington leaning on the fence. I watch them chatter, hanging off the posts, as the electric tea kettle boils. Then, I take my hot cup of tea out to the porch.

It smells like evening, baked earth, and hay from a hot afternoon. The porch is warm under my bare feet as I cross it and sink down on the steps. Red turns, throwing his hand up in the air to wave.

I wave back. The door to the barn is still open. I know they’re supposed to be getting everything locked up and likely got sidetracked. That’s fine. There’s plenty of time for slow living on summer nights like this.

After a while, they leave the fence and finish up their chores. I hear them chattering, slamming doors. The feed bin crashes shut. Then, they roll the big doors on the east end shut. The other side is left open for Deacon and Slate to come through later.

Then, the quiet porch is invaded. The younger boys flop down on the steps while Gage sprawls out on the porch swing, propping his feet up on the armrest. I reach down and ruffle Red’s hair, prompting him to squirm. He’s getting to that age where everything his father and I do is embarrassing. I roll my eyes, leaning back to look up at the stars.

I loved these stars when I was the same age as my boys. I fell in love with them again when I came to Ryder Ranch, and they’ve watched over me the last few decades.

Sometimes, I still miss Appalachia, but I fell in love with Montana the same way I fell for Deacon. Reluctantly, then all at once, then hopelessly.

“I might go to bed,” yawns Gage. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“Good idea, honey,” I say, rising to my feet. “Anybody want a snack before bed?”

They clamor to their feet, heading inside. Smiling, I get up and follow them in. Gage holds the door for me, and I give him a quick hug as I pass by. He has grown so much these past few years, and I’m so proud of him. He reminds me of my older brother, Bittern—the way he was like water, changing, shifting, just being whatever the world made him for the moment. I wonder who he’ll be when he’s all grown.

I make a mental note to call Bittern and Janie sometime this week. Now that they live in South Platte, it’s harder to have them around, but we still find time to get together once or twice a month. They have two children now, a boy and a girl: Andy Jr. and Lady. They’re the sweetest kids—a lot better behaved than mine.

I mull over everything as I make the boys sandwiches. Then, I head upstairs to shower before Deacon returns. The echoing thuds of Gage stomping down the hall sound, likely with his sandwich and several cookies stolen from the jar piled on a plate. His door shuts, and I smile.

My boys never listen to distinguish the timbre of footsteps. They never have to sit at the kitchen table while somebody berates and humiliates them. Their home is always a safe place.

I catch my own eyes in my vanity mirror. Sometimes, I think I owe that all to Deacon. Other times, I think I owe it to myself. I dared to dream of something better, and everything changed.

I think it’s a little bit of both.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DEACON

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