Page 1 of 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?”