“Tex could have done it. Or Seth.”
“I’m the foreman,” I say. “My responsibility.”
She stops walking. She pulls her hand away from my arm.
“Stop,” she says.
I stop. I turn to face her. “Stop what?”
“Stop pretending you don’t care. Stop being the stone wall.” She takes a breath, her chest heaving. “You kissed me, Billy. You touched me. You can’t just act like that didn’t happen.”
“I can,” I say. “I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re sick. Because you’re vulnerable. Because I’m taking advantage.”
Her eyes flash. A spark of the fire I remember. “I’m not a child. I wanted it too.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t you dare say that. It wasn’t a mistake. It was real. It was us.”
“There is no us, Sedona. There hasn’t been for five years.”
“Then why are you here?” she demands. “Why are you walking me back? Why did you look at me in that kitchen like I was the only thing keeping you alive?”
She steps closer. Too close. Her scent hits me, thick and sweet, cutting through the fresh air. It makes my head spin.
“Because I hate that I still love you,” I say.
The words hang in the air. I didn’t mean to say them. I wanted to keep them locked inside. But they’re out now, raw and bleeding.
She stares at me. Her lips part. Her eyes fill with water.
“You love me?” she whispers.
“I never stopped,” I say. “That’s the problem. I never stopped loving you, and I never stopped hating you for leaving. They’re both true. And it’s tearing me apart.”
She reaches for me. Her hand touches my chest, right over my heart.
“Billy…”
“Don’t.” I grab her wrist. Not to push her away. To hold her there. “I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t be the guy who just forgives. I need time. I need space.”
“You have time,” she says. “We have quarantine. We have nothing but time.”
“Dr. Thorne wants to move the cattle again,” I say, changing the subject. I can’t do this. Not here. Not in the middle of the dirt road with the CDC watching us from a hundred yards away.
“Let them,” she says. “I don’t care about the cattle right now. I care about you.”
“You’re sick,” I say again. “You need to rest.”
“I need you,” she says.
The words are a punch to the gut. I close my eyes. I breathe in. I smell the rain, the mud, the hay. And her. Always her.
“Get inside,” I say, releasing her wrist. “Go to bed.”
