Page 61 of Harvest Moon (Riverbend 3)

Another cry rang out. This time she recognized the guttural sound, coming from the direction of the spare bedroom. Was Gavin hurt? When they’d been married he sometimes woke in the middle of the night with terrible thigh cramps. A heating pad was the only thing that relaxed the muscle.

She whipped the covers back and scrambled out of bed. Where would a heating pad be? The floor was cold against the soles of her feet as she used the night-light to navigate to his room.

Moonlight spilled across his form, the white sheet a dim glow in the darkness. He thrashed in the bed, crying out, something about coming.

He didn’t have a cramp. He was having a nightmare.

Laurel paused on the threshold. Should she wake him or go back to bed? Over the past few days they’d done a solid job of keeping things cordial. They took care of Emma and handled the chores, keeping to their own corners whenever possible.

But entering his bedroom and waking him from a dream drifted into spouse territory—and she was no longer his wife.

She turned to go, giving his shadowed form one last look. His legs fought the confines of the sheet, and his head whipped back and forth on the pillow. “No, please . . .” Then his anguished moan pierced the air. “Jesse!”

A shiver shot through her, kicking her heart into gear. She dashed forward and grabbed his shoulder. “Gavin. Wake up.”

He thrashed, jerked away, mumbling.

“Gavin, it’s okay. Wake up.” She shook his shoulder.“Wake up, Gavin!”

He suddenly stilled. Stiffened. His breaths were loud and ragged in the quiet.

She lowered her weight to the bed, leaving her hand on his sweat-dampened shoulder. “It’s okay. You were dreaming.”

His shuddery breath shook the bed. His throat released a pitiful squeak. He latched on to her, wrapping his arms around her middle, clutching her with the desperation of a dying man.

Or a man who’d lost his son.

He quaked against her. “Couldn’t save him. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

A vise tightened around her heart. “It’s okay. It—it was just a dream.” But was it really? Hehadlost his son. She had, too, of course. But he obviously still carried the weight of guilt—and she hadn’t exactly helped with that.

“Couldn’t get to him,” he grated out, still in the throes of his nightmare. “Couldn’t save him.”

“Shhh...” She put her hand on his head and blinked against the tears gathered in her eyes. “You’re okay. Everything will be okay.”

Did he have these nightmares often? It had been four years. Their son had been gone longer than he’d been alive. She’d grievedher way through that first year, wondering how someone could hold so much pain inside and not die from it.

And yes, of course... she still thought of her son every single day. But now, all these years later, the bittersweet memories brought a smile. She could accept that God had called him home for whatever reason and that Jesse was in a better place now.

She glanced down at Gavin. Those strong arms wrapped around her as though he were holding on for dear life. Gasping for breath.

When their son had died, Gavin retreated into himself. Over the next weeks he became a stranger. She needed someone to grieve with her, and instead he withdrew, only engaging with her when he lashed out in anger.

Laurel had lost her son and then she lost her husband. She felt utterly alone. And nothing she did could draw him back to her.

After they’d separated, he returned to Riverbend. The divorce went through—he gave her everything but his truck. She heard snippets about his new life. He’d forfeited his career to work at a campground and live there in a tin can. His family was worried about his state of mind. She took in the updates with a certain smugness, delight licking at her own wounds. He’d gotten what he deserved.

But now, years down the road, her wrath assuaged, she felt differently. She didn’t want him to suffer anymore—he’d been through enough. They both had. Now she only wanted to comfort him. And that was a dangerous place in which to find herself. In five minutes flat he’d managed to tie her stomach in knots.

His breathing had settled. His grip loosened. His head grew heavy in her lap.

She cleared her throat. “You—you should probably try and get some sleep.” She began easing away.

His arms tightened. “Don’t go.”

She hesitated. The raw anguish in his tone gutted her. His pain was her pain. How was that still so? After a separation and divorce, and all the time and miles between them, why did she still feel so connected to him?

“Please...”

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