Page 32 of Not Our First Rodeo
Just the sight of him has relief barreling through me with so much strength that it makes my knees feel weak. I have to grip the edge of the kitchen counter to keep my balance.
“What the actual hell were you doing out there?” I ask, hating the way my voice sounds brittle. I’m so cold I can’t think straight.
A smile tugs at the corners of Beau’s lips. The fire crackling in the stone hearth casts him in a warm glow, illuminating his tired grin. “Miss me?”
I take a deep breath, some of the adrenaline finally seeping from my body, and shove his shoulder, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, Beau. Where’s your truck?”
He sighs and kicks off his boots. Even from here, I can see his socks and the legs of his jeans are soaked through. He has to be freezing. “About a mile down the road in a snowdrift.”
My jaw falls open, and I stare at him. Images of him running off the road, his tires stuck in snow that’s much too deep, fill my head, making me sick to my stomach. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did,” he says, confusion creasing the lines between his eyes. “How else did you know I was out there?”
“Shit,” I breathe, and dive for where I left my phone charging on the kitchen counter. Sure enough, there’s a missed call from Beau. And a text explaining what happened. It also says that I shouldn’t come after him under any circumstances, but that if he wasn’t home in an hour, I should call 911.
I scan the text a second time, incredulity filling up all the places that were filled with concern just a minute ago. Visions of him stranded in the snow race through my mind, making my heartbeat quicken, my throat go tight. The thought that I could have lost him lodges somewhere deep in my stomach, and I feelsick.
My eyes snag on his. He’s standing here in the middle of the living room, when he so easily could have beengone. Because he was reckless and stubborn. A white-hot anger replaces the chill that’s seeped into my bones, burning through me until I’m sure I’m going to explode.
“You cannot be serious,” I say, waving my phone at him. “You walkeda milein a snowstorm and wanted me to just call 911 if you weren’t home in an hour?”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t want my pregnant wife to come hiking through the snow to get me.”
He says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I have the overwhelming urge to chuck my phone at his stupid, chivalrous head.
“Screw you.”
“You’re going to have to ask nicer than that,” he says, placing his hands on his narrow hips, his voice like a caress in the dark. He doesn’t look cold at all. No, he looks warm, inviting, adangerous smirk lifting the corner of his lips. “You know how I like it when you beg.”
I stare at him for a long moment, horrified that I’m too speechless to come up with an appropriate comeback. I finally land on, “I’m going to bed. Don’t leave a puddle on my floor.”
“That didn’t sound like an invitation,” he calls out.
I glare at him over my shoulder, brimming with anger but still unable to leave without taking one final look, without making sure he’s okay. “It wasn’t.”
And then I slam the bedroom door closed, hating that I can be so relieved that he’s home and feel so safe while also wanting to knock him on his ass. Still, I wait up after climbing in bed until I hear the sound of the shower kicking on. And then I tiptoe back out to the living room and turn the heat up. He might be ridiculous, but he’s not going to be cold.
Iwakeuptothe sound of a hacking cough in the room across the hall. I lie there for a moment, waiting to see if I imagined it, but when Beau coughs again, I push the covers off and pad across the icy wood floors to the guest room.
The door is closed, and for a moment, I hesitate. I shouldn’t feel weird going into his room. We’remarried, after all, but I feel it, nonetheless. I know what he will look like wrapped in flannel sheets, with messy hair and pillow-creased cheeks. I know how he will feel—soft, overheated skin, coated in a sheen of perspiration. I know how he will smell—like musk and leather. I know everything about him except whether he will want me in that room.
My hands shake as I knock on the door, and the coughing inside stops. Time stops, really. I can hear my breathing and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.
They’re so loud, I’m surprised I’m able to make out the rough voice on the other side of the door.
“Elsie?”
It sounds sleepy, husky, and it has that particular quality that Beau has when he’s sick. Almost boyish and as close to fragile as he ever sounds. It always makes my heart soften, and this time is no different.
“Can I come in?” I ask, and hold my breath as I wait for his response.
“Yeah, Els, you can come in.”
The bedside lamp flicks on as I open the door, illuminating the room in a warm, golden glow. It makes everything feel soft, hazy. Beau is propped against the headboard, his hair in disarray, the blankets twisted around his legs. He’s always been a heavy sleeper, barely moving at all, while I’ll toss and turn all night. I wonder if he doesn’t sleep as well without me either.
“Did my coughing wake you?” he asks, his voice like sandpaper.
My heart squeezes in my chest. Just a few hours ago, he literally walked through a snowstorm to get home to me, and now he’s coughing in bed because of it.
