I place my hand on his chest, thankful he can’t retreat. “Raffe, I’m sorry. Jackson knew where I was, but I didn’t want to wake you. I know you have a hard time sleeping.”
His face begins to relax at the sound of my voice.
“But if you need me to wake you up next time, that is what I’ll do.”
“I need to know where you are … always,” he tells me.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try my best to remember that.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave me,” he says.
He sounds desperate. He needs things from me that others might not understand. We were torn apart … violently.
“Raffe, you know I can’t promise you that, but what I can promise is only death will be the thing that keeps me away.”
He grabs me and holds me tight. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair.
“I’m sorry too.”
“Alright, take this inside, will ya? I have an old lady at home who’s missing me,” Dan says, grabbing Raffe around the back of the neck and turning him toward the house. He waits for me to get out of his truck so he can close the door. “Get some fucking sleep. I expect to see you at the warehouse by two.”
I give him a little salute.
Raffe and I watch from the porch as he pulls away.
“I really am sorry,” I say, feeling guiltier than ever that I scared him.
“I thought you’d ran away. Aspen was sleeping between Jackson and Willow, but I didn’t want to wake them and tell them you were gone.”
“I’ve given you very little reason to trust me, Raffe. Your reaction is valid. I take full responsibility for it.”
He takes my hand and leads me back inside. “It will be daylight soon. We should try to go back to sleep.”
The way he pulls me to him while covering us up makes me breathe a sigh of relief. It feels like coming home.
“Raffe?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I found my home.”
“Oh? Did Dan show you some of our rentals?” He doesn’t hide his disappointment.
“No. It’s here.”
“The farm?”
“No. It’s right here. In your arms.”
He’s quiet for a moment before pressing his lips to my temple and whispering, “I love that.”
Chapter Forty
Raffe
Jenny wanders aimlessly around the farm. She stops at the chicken coop and places her finger over a ladybug Jackson painted with his finger long ago. The colors are faded, but her smile is brighter than I’ve ever seen it.
“My girl is happy,” Miss Maggie says, settling in the chair beside me.
