by Joanna Sims
He ran his hand down her hip, gripped her derriere and pulled her body closer into his.
“Hmm,” she murmured. “You feel so good.”
Their arms and legs intertwined, Savannah buried her face in Bruce’s neck, breathing in that wonderful, familiar scent of his skin. They made love to each other again, their bodies pressed tightly together, their hips falling into a sensual rhythm. By the time her handsome husband growled out a loud, throaty climax that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his soul, they were both drenched in sweat, breathless, hugging each other, and sighing with postcoital satisfaction.
Bruce lay on his back, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He gave a little laugh. “We have always been so very good at that.”
Savannah pushed her damp hair off her forehead before she lay down on her back beside him, using his arm as a pillow.
“We really have,” she agreed with a smile. “Making love with you just keeps on getting better. I bet we’ll still be humping like rabbits when we’re in our eighties.”
“God willing.”
They let their three canine family members into the bedroom and took a quick shower and got ready for bed. Savannah was the first human in bed, while the entire bottom part of the mattress was covered in layers of dogs.
“Really, guys?” Savannah reached forward to pet each animal. “Where am I supposed to put my feet?”
Bruce closed the door behind him and climbed into bed beside her. He loved to spoon her, wrapping her up in his arms as if she were a giant, cuddly teddy bear. Some nights she was too warm to be cocooned by her husband’s usually hot skin, but tonight she couldn’t think of another way she’d rather drift off to sleep.
“Comfortable?” Bruce’s nose was buried in her hair.
“Uh-huh.”
“Good night, sugar.”
“’Night.” She loved the way her husband smelled right out of the shower. “I love you.”
He pulled her even closer to his body and kissed the back of her neck. “I love you more.”
* * *
One of life’s little pleasures on the ranch was to be able to observe her husband from the front porch. She would curl up on one of the two-seater chairs with the dogs and watch her husband do what he loved to do...working in his workshop across the way, or mowing the grass around the house, or fixing fences for the surrounding pastures. Her husband was a Montana rancher to his core, and she loved that about him. She, on the other hand, loved being a Montana woman, born and bred, but she’d had a lot to learn about being married to a rancher at the beginning of her marriage.
Bruce saw her on the porch, said something to the men he had been working with, and then headed her way. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat—on his chest, his stomach and under his arms. For her, Bruce was the most handsome man on the planet. How lucky had she gotten to marry a family-oriented, kind, loyal, sexy cowboy like Bruce Brand? There was a part of her, perhaps more than she was willing to acknowledge, that wanted to know what had led to the divorce. But the part of her that didn’t want to rock the boat, that didn’t want to ruin what was so good with her husband now, was the part that won out time and again. Savannah knew it was wrong, yet she just didn’t trust that the tenuous bond she had forged with Bruce could weather the truth.
“Make some room, guys,” her husband said to the dogs surrounding her.
Buckley moved so Bruce could sit down on a small sliver of the chair.
“How’s it going?” she asked, handing him her glass of sweet tea.
“It’s slow goin’,” the rancher said before he gulped down the rest of her tea. “But we’re getting there.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, comfortable in those moments when neither spoke.
“I thought your sister was coming out today.”
“She woke up feeling like she was catching a cold.”
Her husband nodded, putting the empty glass on the ground next to the chair.
“The vet sent a reminder email.” She rubbed the top of Hound Dog’s head, lifting up his ears and scratching him around the neck. “It’s time to take the gang in for their shots.”
Bruce nodded again and looked as if he was going to get up and go back to work.
“Hey.” Savannah turned her body toward him a bit. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
She hated bringing up Leroy—to her, there was this open wound that was trying to heal, and bringing up the topic of a man she’d been dating while they were going through the divorce was like rubbing dirt in the wound. But she had to tell Bruce; she had put it off long enough.
“You know I went out to lunch with Shayna the other day?”
He nodded to let her know that he was listening, but his attention was on his phone and scrolling through texts and emails.
She poked him on the leg with her foot. “Would you put that down for a second, please? This is important.”
He tucked the phone back into the pocket of his T-shirt, then looked at her.
“Thank you.” Savannah gave a little shake of her head—Bruce had become increasingly addicted to that phone to the point of being annoying. “I don’t even know how to bring this up with you, so I’m just going to tell you. Leroy was at the restaurant.”
Bruce stared at her for a second, then looked away. “How was that?”
“Horrible.”
Her husband looked back as she continued.
“I don’t remember him, or at least I don’t remember my relationship with him.” She crossed her arms in front of her body. “I know he wants me to remember so...”
“...you’ll go back to him.” The muscle in Bruce’s cheek jumped from him clenching his jaw.
He was right—she knew he was right. And it hurt. “I’m glad I don’t remember him. I don’t want to remember.”
Savannah had to tell herself not to hold her breath as she stared at her husband’s profile. Neither of them wanted to have these conversations; it reminded them that, even though their marriage seemed to be back on track, it wasn’t always that way.
Bruce stood up, his eyes shuttered. “I’ve got to get back to it.”
“Okay.” She felt sick in her stomach.
He was on his way down the steps when she stopped him. “Hey—where’s my kiss, Brand?”
The rancher stopped, turned and pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up with one finger. Wordlessly, he returned to her, bent down and kissed her on the lips.
Savannah grabbed his fingers and held on. “We can’t shut down on each other.”
“You’re right,” he agreed with her. “That’s not going to help.”
* * *
Bruce returned to work, swallowing back acid that had started to churn in his stomach the minute Leroy’s name came out of his wife’s mouth. During the separation and the divorce process, whenever Savannah had talked about Leroy, or he saw the two of them in town holding hands, he wanted to punch the young cowboy in the throat. He knew that Savannah hadn’t recovered any of those memories of her relationship with Leroy, but he remembered it all too well. To see his wife, a woman he still very much loved, with another man had made him feel helpless and furious. He’d often found it hard to concentrate on his work or sleep thinking about them. And hearing Leroy’s name come out of Savannah’s mouth unearthed all of those feelings he had been trying to bury for the sake of salvaging his marriage.
He threw himself into work, the familiar routine of replacing fence boards, a task that relied on muscle memory rather than thinking, giving him a chance to ponder his mother’s advice. The relationship between Savannah and himself, on the surface at least, seemed to be stronger than ever, yet he felt like he was standing on shifting sand. Just as Savannah had been worried about telling him about her innocent enco
unter with Leroy, he too had been worried about opening a Pandora’s box by discussing the tragedy that had led to their separation in the first place.
“Coward,” Bruce muttered to himself, unmindful of the fact that his brother could hear him.
“What was that?” Colton was a couple of feet down the line, yanking on a stubborn board that wouldn’t dislodge from the fence post.
“Nothing,” he dodged. Colton, of all people, was the last person he wanted to talk to about his marriage.
But it wasn’t “nothing”; he was being a coward. He and Savannah couldn’t live in this fantasy bubble forever. They needed to face their past, and because Savannah was happy to leave it “forgotten,” Bruce knew that they were heading for trouble. Their past—their mutual tragedy—couldn’t be avoided forever. It was inevitable—one day, someone was going to mention Sammy to Savannah. It was just a matter of time, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.
He had to be the one to tell Savannah about her son; he had to be the one to tell her about their dear, sweet baby boy, Sammy.
* * *
Bruce cut out of work early; he knew that he couldn’t spend one more night with his wife without making a plan to face their past. He wasn’t sure how to best tackle the subject. Should they be with Dr. Kind? Should they be with Savannah’s family? Or should this be a private moment between husband and wife? If there was a right way to handle this, he sure as heck didn’t know what it was.
He walked through the door, expecting to be greeted with music and the scent of something cooking in the kitchen. Savannah was on a cooking jag, of which he had been a happy beneficiary. But as he shut the door behind him, greeted by his three faithful dogs, the feeling in the house was off. It was quiet—no music playing—and the kitchen was empty and cold.
Bruce put his hat on the hook, showed each dog some attention, before he called out to his wife. That sick feeling returned to his stomach when Savannah didn’t respond. He followed the dogs down the hallway toward the bedroom; he found his wife in the office, sitting at his desk, with an enlarged picture of Sammy in Savannah’s lap, his chubby arms around her neck. They were both smiling so broadly, so happy to be with each other; in the picture, Savannah’s eyes were sparkling with joy at the simple pleasure of holding their son in her arms.
Fear, pure, stripped-down fear, sent a cold shiver across his body. His heart was pounding, and he was stuck in his spot, unable to speak, unable to move.
Savannah turned in the swivel chair so she could face him.
“Who is this little boy?” she asked him. He could tell by the confusion in her eyes that she recognized that this child in the picture was someone important, but she couldn’t remember why. This moment was exactly what he had feared—now there wasn’t any way to break the news gently to Savannah. The bandage had just been ripped off without any finesse to minimize the pain she would assuredly feel.
“Samuel.” Bruce had to swallow several times before he was able to say his son’s name out loud to Savannah after so many years. “Our son, Samuel.”
* * *
Why she had picked that day to be curious, Savannah couldn’t figure. She had sat down at the computer to find a recipe for dinner, but had decided to click on the photo album instead. Bruce had never hidden the photo album—there wasn’t a password lock on the computer. She could have looked at the pictures at any time. Until now—until today—she hadn’t wanted to look. It had been her choice.
Savannah felt the color drain from her face, felt her stomach clench, when Bruce said the name “Samuel.” Somewhere, deep in the forgotten memories of her mind, that name reverberated in the tissue of her body—that name reverberated in her soul.
“Our son...”
She turned back to the picture, one of the few she had found featuring this little boy. Savannah reached out and touched the screen with her fingertips. In a whisper, she said, “We called him Sammy.”
“Yes.” Bruce’s voice sounded choked. “We did. Do you...remember him?”
Savannah pressed her hand to her mouth, the salty taste of her fresh tears on her tongue. She shook her head again and again, unable to speak. All she could think was “our son” over and over, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand.
“Where is he?” she asked, her voice muffled behind her hand. “Why isn’t he here with us?”
When Bruce didn’t respond right away, Savannah stood up, her face wet with tears pouring from her stricken eyes.
She put her hand on her heart. “How can I not know that I have a son? How can I not know this?”
He crossed the divide between them, pulled her into his arms, ignoring her resistance, wrapped her in his arms, his chin on the top of her head.
“Where is my son?” Savannah demanded, her tears wetting the front of Bruce’s shirt. “Why isn’t he here with us?”
As if he wanted to stop her from running away from him, her husband tightened his grip on her body. And then he said the words she knew were coming—she couldn’t remember it, but she could feel it, in her heart, in her gut.
“God, please help me say it.” She felt Bruce’s tears fall into her hair. “He died, Savannah. Our son’s gone.”
Savannah pushed on his chest and twisted her body to make him let her go. She backed away from her husband; the shock and pain and horror felt like a knife slicing at her skin. No words... No words... There were no words.
With a moan of anguish, Savannah pushed past her husband and ran to the bathroom. She slammed the door shut behind her, locked it, and then landed on her knees in front of the commode, retching. Clutching her stomach, she flushed the toilet and stumbled to the sink. The water was ice-cold from the faucet—she rinsed out her mouth and washed the tears from her face.
“Savannah.” Bruce knocked on the door and rattled the knob. “Please, let me in.”
“Go away,” she told him in a raspy voice.
She had a son—a darling little boy with her dimples and Bruce’s incredible blue eyes. And she couldn’t remember him. He had been erased from her brain—erased from her life; it was a cruelty that she couldn’t handle. It was a cruelty she couldn’t comprehend.
Why can’t I remember? How could I not have known?
Savannah stared at her reflection in the mirror—her cheeks and her nose were red, her eyes bloodshot with puffy lids. She put her hands on her breasts—they had changed; she had noticed that. They were a little larger, a little saggier, but it had never occurred to her that it was anything more than fluctuating weight and gravity. Had Samuel suckled them? Had she breastfed her son even though she had never been interested in breastfeeding?
Still looking at her reflection, Savannah lifted up her shirt and pushed down the waistband of her jeans. There were some stretch marks on her stomach, on her hips—hairline, barely noticeable, white marks on her skin. Her hands pressed into her abdomen; she had gotten pregnant, carried a child, given birth to a child, and held that child in her arms. She knew that now. But she couldn’t remember the scent of his skin; she couldn’t remember what it felt like to hold that chubby body in her arms.
“What kind of mother would forget her own son?” Savannah frowned at her reflection with the smallest shake of the head.
“Savannah.” Bruce’s voice cut through the door and cut through her own dark thoughts. “Let me in.”
All of the emotions she had been feeling seemed to be pulled out of her body, leaving a gaping, empty, numb hole in their place. Slowly, stiffly, like a robot, Savannah unlocked the bathroom door, turned the handle, and pulled the door open.
On the other side of the door, her husband and her dogs waited for her. Hound Dog was whimpering, his worried eyes on her face. They were so intuitive; they knew, without understanding the words, that something was very wrong in their house.
“Savannah.” Her husba
nd’s face was ashen. “I’m so sorry. There was no easy way...”
She slipped past him, wordlessly, and went to the kitchen. There, she picked up her keys, her phone and her wallet.
“Where are you going?”
Savannah had trouble looking at him, so instead she looked past him. “I need time.”
She was hurting him—she saw the pain in his eyes in her peripheral vision—but she couldn’t handle his pain right now. Not right now.
“You said that we can’t shut each other out.” For the first time, Bruce sounded angry. “That’s what you said not two hours ago.”
Now she looked him directly in the eyes, her own anger bubbling to the top like magma bubbling up from a volcano. “You don’t have a right to dictate how I feel or how I react to this, Bruce. Do you get that? You don’t have the right.”
Chapter Ten
The very thing he was afraid of had indeed come home to roost. He had waited too long to tell her, to soften the blow of Savannah finding out about their son. Perhaps he had hoped, in a way, that her memories of sweet Sammy would return on their own, saving him from the horrible task of telling Savannah that she was a mother and that their son was gone.
Watching his wife leave their home was reliving a scene from his past that he had suppressed for so long. Savannah had walked out on him before, and he hadn’t put up a fight. He had been too emotionally raw himself, drowning in his own guilt, that he hadn’t believed that he had a right to fight for his marriage. But this time, he was going to be different. He was going to put up one hell of a fight for his marriage.
He spent several hours reaching out to Savannah’s parents, her sisters and her friends. None of them had heard from her, but they all promised to call him right away if they did. It was a relief to have all of them on his side—this time around.
Bruce called her phone, sent her texts, tried to reach her by video chat. Savannah could be stubborn to a fault, and he finally had to accept that he would have to wait for her to return to him in her own way, in her own time. Tired of pacing, tired of not being able to concentrate on any one thing, Bruce finally decided to take a seat on the porch and wait for his wife to come home.