Page 198 of Heartbeats & Highways

“Unsettled.”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I’m trying.”

“Trying to do what?”

“Trying to move forward, but all I want to do is fight or ride because the guilt is eating me alive. And I can’t do either of those things. That’s the old Savage. The old Savage who got us into this mess. Who got Acid . . . I’m trapped too, Evie. Trapped between the old version of myself and wanting to be better. But not knowing if I can.”

I reached over and cradled his cheek in my hand. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and he had stubble.

He kissed my palm, and I dropped my hand. He then started the car, and we got back on the road.

The endless, unceasing road.

“You didn’t tell me you draw.”

“I don’t really,” I said. “I was doodling at Three Kings one day. Not sure if I’m any good.”

“You’re good,” he said. “You’re a natural. Do something for me?”

“Anything.”

He smiled. “Draw me something. And I’ll get it inked on me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’d like to have something of you with me, always.”

I sighed. “Savage.”

“Love you, babe.”

“I love you too.”

Nodding he said, “Everything else, I can figure out. As long as I have you.”

Chapter 52

“We could stay here,”Savage murmured against my rounded belly. The babies were currently napping, but earlier they’d been active, kicking me in the ribs and doing cartwheels inside me.

“Stay here. In this bed?” I quipped.

“In this bed, in this cabin.”

I traced his lips with my finger.

He was beautiful in the low lamplight. The sheets were tangled around us, and it was one of those perfect moments—but reality intruded.

“If we stayed it would mean we ran away,” I said softly. “Ran away from everything we didn’t want to face.”

“It’s been so calm here.I’vebeen calm here.”

When we first arrived in Idaho two months ago, a three-day snowstorm had dumped over two feet of snow. It had covered everything in white and ice.

Savage had lit a fire in the wood stove while I cooked. We’d made love and reconnected. Our days were slow, our nights filled with passion. He’d taken me to Coeur d’Alene, and I’d found an OB to see. She was nice, but she wasn’t Doc. A stranger had been the one to tell us the sex of our babies.

The little town of Huckleberry Hill was something out of a nostalgic postcard. It was quiet and calm, with cowboys and ranches dotting the mountainsides.

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