She curls into me, fitting perfectly against my chest. Her head rests under my chin.
I press my hips forward, letting her feel the hard ridge of my erection against her hip.
“It was my pleasure,” I murmur against her hair.
She huffs a laugh. It’s weak, but it’s there.
We lie there in the quiet. The fever is still there, burning under her skin, but the desperate edge is gone. The heat has receded for now.
She’s quiet for a moment.
“I wish I had married you,” she whispers.
My hand stills in her hair. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wasn’t ready,” she says. The honesty cuts deep. “If we had married then… we would have divorced within a year. I would have resented you. I would have resented the ranch. I would have resented being a wife before I was a woman.”
She tilts her head back. Her eyes meet mine.
“I loved you,” she says. “I loved you so much it terrified me. But I was twenty-three. I didn’t know who I was. If I had stayed, I would have destroyed us anyway.”
I swallow. The truth hurts, but it also heals.
“You broke my heart,” I say.
“I know.”
“But you found yourself.”
“I did.” She touches my cheek. “And I came back.”
“Why?”
“Because this is where I belong,” she says.
I look at her. The tears have dried on her face. The fever is breaking. She looks tired. She looks beautiful.
“You don’t belong to me,” I say. “You’re your own person.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But can I borrow your chest for a little while longer?”
I pull her tighter.
“Yeah,” I say. “You can borrow it.”
Smiling, I let sleep drag us both under.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sedona
Light filtersthrough the thin curtains, dragging me out of a sleep that felt more like a coma. My eyelids are heavy, glued together by exhaustion and the remnants of a fever that tried to burn me alive from the inside out.
I blink. The room comes into focus. The bunkhouse. The quarantine.
The events of the last night crash over me in a wave of heat that has nothing to do with illness.
I remember the pain. The ache. I remember Billy’s hands. His mouth.
