Love Wells Kept

Jackson

Some mornings make you wish you could stop the clock.

This morning, my daughter’s all braids, freckles, and energy, practically floating as she skips toward the barn, and knowing she won’t be this small and excited forever, I wish I could hit pause. I watch her closely over the hitch of the truck, trying to burn this moment into my memory forever.

“Don’t go far,” I call after her. “I’m almost ready to go.”

“Okay, Daddy.” Odessa beams at me over her shoulder, disappearing through the double doors.

The barn’s gilded in morning sun, blurred by dust motes kicked up in Odessa’s wake. I run a hand through my hair, racking my brain for anything I might’ve forgotten. This time tomorrow, Odessa and I will be on our way back home with the horse of her dreams.

Then a scream slices through the crisp morning air.

Odessa.

I run before I think.

She’s pressed into the corner of a stall, trembling under the stare of a gelding I’ve been working with for weeks—his ribs are thin, his eyes wild from the abuse he came from. Fear pulses off him in waves, coiled muscle ready to strike.

Her name is ripped from my lips as I shove the stall door open.

All I have is one step, one second. And whatever comes next.

Two hours earlier . . .

No man alive has ever been happier.

Arm wrapped around my wife’s waist, I tug the warm pressure of her back tight to my chest. The first hint of daybreak creates shadows and soft edges around the room. The house is still, crisp mountain air spilling in through the slightly open window. It’s my favorite time of the day.

A gentle nudge of my nose moves thick brown locks away from her neck. Even while asleep, her head reflexively cants, exposing more of her creamy skin. My lips brush a kiss behind her ear, and I inhale the faint aroma of castor oil still lingering from last night.

I vividly remember the first night she used some new skincare regime with approximately one billion steps. It was right around her twenty-fifth birthday, following a small quarter-life crisis about getting older. She came to bed looking like a glazed donut, and I told her as much, which she didn’t appreciate. But with that adorable scowl of hers, I couldn’t help but pin her to the sheets and make sure to let her know she tasted like a glazed donut, too.

Now, a decade later, I can’t get enough of that mild earthy scent. Nothing beats knowing I’m the only one who gets to experience Kate Wells slipping into bed at the end of the day.

The stretched collar of my old T-shirt has slipped off her shoulder, and I let go of my hold on her waist to trace the delicate plane of her bare collarbone. With a twist of my wrist, the backs of my roughened knuckles run the length of her arm. Slipping under the frayed hem, I stretch my hand across the front of her stomach and press a kiss to her shoulder.

Kate exhales slow and long, and her hand spreads over mine.

Confident she’s awake, or at least somewhere in that dreamy half-awake state, I softly murmur, “Mornin’.”

With the gravel of sleep still in her voice, her whisper matches mine. “Hi, handsome.”

Kate rolls onto her back, and I brush away the hair stuck to pillow-creases in her cheek. She looks at me with hooded eyes and a thin smile.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, rubbing our joined hands in slow circles over her stomach.

Her throat clenches with an audible swallow. “So far, so good. Been awake for less than ten seconds, though.”

“Good point.” I kiss her cheek. Jaw. Neck.

As I shuffle down the bed, kissing every sliver of skin I come across, the comforter pulls with me. I shift the thin T-shirt up to expose her midriff so I can place the softest of kisses just below her belly button, where the stretch marks from our first two babies are thin, white arcs across her skin. They look like glittering sunlight on water. I can’t wait for the subtle changes in these scars, and the addition of new ones, in the coming months.

“I love you,” I say to my wife. To the baby we found out about yesterday. “Both of you.”

“You know you’re essentially talking to my intestines right now . . . the baby’s nowhere near that high up yet.” Kate laughs under her breath.

My thumbs hook under her cotton pajama pants and I let my mouth trail lower, following the slow dip of her pants. Letting my bottom lip drag over the indent from her elastic waistband, I look up at her. “This low enough?”

She gives me a coy shrug, lifting her hips off the mattress so I can tug those pesky bottoms off, then settle myself between her thighs, to make sure she has a really good start to her day. God knows she deserves it.

We found out about Kate’s pregnancy after she’d been sick all week. Kate doesn’t get sick. Honestly, I think germs are too scared of my wife to even consider invading her body.

Blowing a cool breath on her hot skin, I feel the vibration of anticipation run the length of her thighs. Her back arches like the slow pull of a bowstring, begging me to be the one to let it snap. After sixteen years, I know her every move, every sound, every want better than I know my own.

I kiss her about a quarter of an inch from where she wants my mouth to be. “How’s that, Kit?”

She palms the back of my skull, urging me into her at the same time her legs spread impossibly wide. And just as that first savory lick up her wet entrance floods my senses, her fingers knot in my hair to sharply yank my gaze to meet hers. There’s a hiss in her tone when she quietly says my name.

“You okay?” I ask.

With a disgruntled sigh, she hooks the thumb of her free hand toward the bedroom door. I prop myself up on my elbows, training my ears.

Sure enough. There’s an uneven thud of small feet heading down the stairs. On any other morning, I’m thrilled to have a moment with my wife and at least one of our kids snuggled up in our king-size bed before the chaos of a day on the ranch begins. Before I head out to do ranch work or train horses, and Kate becomes so busy tending to the kids and the ranch hands there’s barely time for a brief kiss when we cross paths.

But this morning, the last people I want walking into the room are our children. Love them, but goddamn, we need a lock on the door.

Pressing a firm kiss to my wife’s gorgeous pussy, I help her shimmy her pants back up and return to my still-warm spot next to her.

“You tease.” She cups my chin and kisses me.

I shift the erection in my boxers, willing it to go away, just as the door swings open and our three-year-old, Rhett, saunters in. At least he’s a little bit less hell-on-wheels than our seven-year-old daughter, Odessa, which is a great thing during a moment like this, when my brain’s still hazy and sluggish.

Ignoring Rhett for a second, I lock eyes with Kate and say, “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow after Odessa and I get home from the auction. I’ll do bedtime and meet you right here afterward.”

Then I pop a final kiss on her lips before sitting up and returning my focus to Rhett. “Morning, buddy. How’d you sleep?”

“I had a dream about donuts that fart.” He scrambles to pull himself onto the bed, clutching at the thick comforter until Kate offers her hand as a lifeline.

“Wow. Sounds like quite the dream.” I plant my bare feet on the worn wooden floorboards, working up the energy to fully remove myself from the bed. A few minutes ago, I had the energy—and virility, apparently—of a twenty-year-old man, but now that I have to get up and do things I’d rather not do, it’s taking everything I have. With a stretch overhead, I look at Rhett in my periphery. “Did they poop sprinkles?”

His small, freckled face twists to match the disheveled state of his hair. “No.”

Kate snickers.

“Right. Because that would be too weird.” My palm scrubs my jaw, and I stand, setting a weary hand down on his head to tousle his short brown hair. “Let’s get out of Mommy’s hair—let her fully wake up.”

Spreading my fingers, I grip the top of his head and gently veer him toward the open doorway. Seems like yesterday I could hold his entire body in one outstretched hand.

I don’t loosen my hold on him until we’re stepping into the kitchen, because Lord knows he’ll head back to the bedroom to talk Kate’s ear off about donut farts if I don’t keep him on track.

And I’m hoping Kate takes the few minutes of alone time to finish what I started, but even if not, there’s a good chance she’ll be nauseous when she gets out of bed. Given we haven’t told anyone about her pregnancy yet, it’s better if the kids don’t see her sick.

Slanted sunlight streams through the windows behind our kitchen table, silhouetting an abandoned coffee cup left behind on the wooden tabletop, and pours across the island’s white counter. Besides Rhett’s rustling through cereal boxes in the walk-in pantry, the only sound is a sharp hiss as the coffeemaker finishes its timed brew. Careful not to let the kitchen cabinets squeak too much, as they’re apt to do—particularly when the house is quiet and everyone is sleeping—I grab a clean mug and pad across the cool floors to fill it.