Sure, I’m horny as hell, but not for just anyone. For Bellamy. My wife. We may have signed papers, but she’s still mine. My wife. My girl. My bluebell.
I love her so damn much.
Never stopped. Never will.
From the moment I saw her in that bar, I considered her mine. The way she approached me, ballsy yet shy, bowled me over. That feeling only grew as the night went on, as we connected over music, the deaths of our parents. Over our love of Christmas. Her beautiful drawing, so hesitant, held so much hope. Just like her. My best friend, Clint, teased me for dating a city girl. I’d just grin and tell him she wouldn’t be one for long.
Swallowing hard, I look down, flexing my hand. Watch my wedding band catch the remaining light filtering in through the windows.
My father clears his throat and peers at me from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Christmas is a time for miracles.”
“I don’t believe in miracles.” The memory of that day hits me. The opposite of a miracle. Pain and despair always choose the perfect fucking time to sneak up on me.
Coming home from the ranch to meet Bellamy beneath the mistletoe. Only, I didn’t find Bellamy. I found bloody footprints instead. Heart in my throat, I followed them, racing through the cabin until I found my wife curled up on the bathroom floor.
Tears streamed down her pale face. She clutched her stomach with one hand. The other gripped her phone. “Hank,” she gasped. “It hurts.”
I didn’t want to waste a second waiting for the paramedics, so I scooped her up and hauled ass to the hospital.
But it was too late.
We lost Cody.
We lost our son.
The worst fucking time in my life.
I’d never felt so powerless.
Eyes closed, I rub at the sting in my chest.
“You lost a baby. Hell, you nearly lost your wife. That pain will never go away.” My father’s voice is stern, but when I force myself to look at him, his craggy face is sympathetic. “You’re mad at the world, son. Mad at everyone. Bell left, but—”
“She left because I wasn’t there for her.”
After we lost our son, I made work my priority. I stayed out all day on the ranch, putting myself into backbreaking tasks that helped me forget, if only for a little while. I couldn’t fucking bear to look at the room Bellamy had painted a cheery sunshine yellow. Her quiet sobbing in bed gutted me. I’d hover, not knowing how to help her. The weight was crushing. I had to be strong, calm. I had to hold it all together even as she pushed me away. And when she did, I went to Buck’s Bar and drank in silence until my father arrived with words of common sense and threats to put a boot up my ass.
He grabbed me by the front of the shirt and tossed me against the side of my Bronco. “Get your shit together, son.”
“Fuck this entire world,” I blasted, the parking lot and my father blurring in front of me thanks to the whiskey. “Fuck everything.”
“I don’t disagree, kid. But right now, there’s someone else hurting more than you.”
“Bellamy.” Just her name had the power to make me cave in on myself. I dropped my head into my hands and cursed my stupidity.
“You can’t heal her. She doesn’t want to be healed.”
I lifted my face, wiped at my eyes. “So what do I do?”
“You sober up. You go and love her. Just be there.”
I did that. I stopped going to Buck’s. I tried like hell to talk to her. But she shut down.
Six months later, she left her ring on the kitchen counter and walked out.
Our divorce was my fault. The biggest failure of my fucking life. She needed my help to move on, and I failed.
“But you’re here now,” my father says gently. “She’s got some pain. You both do. Christmas seems like a mighty fine time to work out the kinks.”
