Epilogue
Sutton
Athin wisp of gray smoke drifted up the wooden staircase, carrying the bitter scent of burning butter.
I paused on the bottom step, adjusting the hem of my sweater as I listened to the frantic hiss of the stovetop.
In the farmhouse kitchen, Hayes stood over the hot cast-iron skillet, a spatula gripped tight in his hand.
He wore a faded gray T-shirt and a canvas baby carrier strapped across his chest. Inside the carrier, our daughter was fast asleep, her small head resting flush against his collarbone, undisturbed by the culinary disaster unfolding around her.
I walked across the linoleum, leaning against the butcher block island to observe the mess. “You are going to set off the smoke detector again, Hayes.”
He jumped, twisting his head toward me. Grease hit the grate with a loud pop. “The temperature on these old gas burners is impossible to gauge. I looked away to check her pacifier for two seconds.”
“The edges are black,” I pointed out, gesturing to the ruined breakfast.
He frowned, digging the edge of the spatula under the batter. He managed to flip one pancake, but it folded over itself in a sticky mess, the charred bottom exposed to the morning light. “I can scrape the burnt parts off. It is salvageable.”
“It is charcoal,” I said, stepping around the island and moving into his space.
A wide dusting of flour coated the front of his shirt, smeared near the buckles of the baby carrier.
I reached out, pressing my fingers flat against the center of his chest. The fine flour clung to my fingertips as I dragged them across his shirt to brush the mess away.
The sweet, milky scent of the baby mixed with the acrid smoke lingering in the air.
Hayes froze, his grip on the spatula loosening. He looked down at my hand. I kept my palm flat against him, tracing the worn cotton while staring up at the line of his jaw.
We moved through the days like a synchronized machine now.
We traded off midnight diaper changes, tracked wholesale invoices, and handled the grueling agricultural schedules without dropping a single ball.
He was an incredible father, dedicated to proving his worth in the dirt every single morning.
But looking at the exhaustion lining his eyes, I realized I did not just want my reliable farmhand today.
I wanted my husband, without the schedules and the lists standing between us.
The back door rattled in its frame, breaking the quiet spell in the kitchen. Ruby stepped into the mudroom, kicking off her boots with a thud. She tossed her coat onto the wall hook, the hardware clattering against the wood.
“I could smell that ruined batter from the end of the driveway,” Ruby called out, marching into the kitchen.
Hayes pulled back from my touch, scraping the folded pancake onto a plate. He moved the hot skillet off the flame, dropping the spatula into the sink. “It is just a little well-done on the edges, Ruby. I can salvage the center for us.”
Ruby ignored the plate, zeroing in on the flour smeared across his shirt and the sleeping infant strapped to his chest. She walked up to him, reaching for the buckles on his shoulders.
“I’ve got the little angel until dinner, Hayes,” Ruby said, squeezing the top harness clips until they snapped open. “Take your wife somewhere that doesn’t have a diaper pail, and don’t come back until the sun goes down.”
Hayes hovered his hands over the canvas straps, defensive of his cargo. “The west irrigation line is losing pressure again, Ruby, and somebody still needs to check the afternoon wholesale shipment. I can disappear tomorrow when the farm isn’t trying to fall apart.”
Ruby swatted his hands out of the way. She unlatched the bottom buckles, unspooling the straps from his waist. She scooped our sleeping daughter against her shoulder, securing her hold.
“The farm survived just fine before you appointed yourself head of every agricultural emergency,” I said. I stepped closer, sliding my hand over his wrist to pull his arms down. “I think it can handle six hours without you hovering over the water lines.”
Hayes looked from the empty carrier hanging loose around his waist, down to my fingers curled around his arm. His shoulders dropped.
“Good, because I wasn’t asking for permission from either of you,” Ruby said, turning her back on us to bounce the baby against her shoulder. “Pack a lunch and get out before I find actual grunt work for you to do.”
I pulled a basket down from the top of the refrigerator, dusting a thin layer of flour off the rim. Moving through the quiet kitchen, I shoved a quilt into the bottom of the basket and loaded two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper on top.
“Grab the strawberries off the counter,” I told Hayes, tossing a bottle of lemonade into the basket. “Before Ruby realizes she left them behind and comes back for a snack.”
Hayes picked up the plastic clamshell, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum as he closed the gap between us. He dropped the fruit into the basket and took the handle from my grip.
We left the farmhouse through the back mudroom, stepping out into the bright afternoon sun.
We walked past the sprawling, commercial greenhouses, leaving the gravel driveway behind.
I led him far beyond the active cultivation rows, charting a path toward the wild, untamed edge of the property line where the coastal trees blocked the wind.
“Watch your step right here,” Hayes warned, his voice low. “The earth gets incredibly soft near the tree line. The drainage pipe empties into that gully.”
The ground sloped, the damp soil compressing beneath my boots.
As my foot slipped on a slick patch of wet grass, his hand shot out, settling flat against the small of my back to steady me.
The immediate, steady heat of his palm sank through my sweater.
He did not drop his hand when I regained my footing.
He slid his arm the rest of the way around my waist, pulling me flush against his side as we navigated the uneven terrain.
I leaned my weight into his hip, matching his slow, deliberate pace.
I covered his rough, work-calloused knuckles with my own palm, pressing his grip tighter against my sweater.
Months of hauling irrigation lines and mucking stalls had stripped the soft, polished actor away, leaving behind rough skin and split cuticles.
But the scrape of his hands was nothing compared to the quiet, unyielding focus in his eyes.
In Los Angeles, he was always looking past me, bracing for the next handler or the next camera.
Out here in the quiet field, surrounded by the low buzz of insects working through the stems, his attention was anchored on me.
We stopped near a sprawling patch of pink and yellow wildflowers. I had planted them last year when I first arrived at Driftwood Blooms, kneeling in the mud while trying to build a new life.
Hayes turned his head, burying his face in the curve of my neck. He kissed the sensitive skin below my ear, his mouth dragging hot and wet over the frantic beat of my pulse.
“Ruby thinks we’ve forgotten how to be married,” Hayes murmured, his weight settling against my shoulder. “I think we’ve just forgotten what being alone actually feels like.”
I turned around in his hold, stepping directly into his space. I hooked my fingers into his messy hair, pulling his mouth down to mine for a long, bruising kiss.
“We’re alone out here right now, and you’re still talking about Ruby,” I whispered, my lips brushing against his jaw. “You’re wasting a very rare, very useful opportunity, Hayes.”
He groaned, wrapping his free arm around my lower back to pull my hips against his thighs. “I’m trying to behave because you finally look rested for the first time in months. But looking at you in this sunlight is making that plan increasingly difficult.”
“Then stop behaving for a while,” I said. “I didn’t bring you this far out into the fields just to discuss the irrigation pressure.”
Catching his hand, I pulled him away from the maintained rows and led him deep into the tall summer grass.
The wild stalks brushed against my bare shins as we waded deeper into the field.
Wildflowers bent under our boots. Hayes stopped near a dense cluster of tall weeds, dropping the woven basket onto the ground.
He pulled the quilt from inside and snapped it open.
The fabric fluttered in the warm breeze before settling over the ground.
“Sit down,” he murmured, kicking his boots off. “Before you step on a bee.”
I dropped onto the quilt, crossing my legs. He sat facing me, the basket resting between his knees. He popped the clamshell open with a sharp crack. Plucking a ripe strawberry by the green stem, he leaned forward.
“Open up,” he said.
I leaned in and took a bite. The sweet, acidic juice burst on my tongue, the crisp fruit snapping against my teeth. A stray drop of juice escaped the corner of my mouth.
Hayes reached out. His calloused thumb caught the juice, smearing it along my jawline. He stared at my mouth, the playful mood suddenly gone.
He tossed the remaining half of the berry into the grass. His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head up. He closed the gap and kissed me.
We shared the taste of sugar, his mouth opening over mine. His weight shifted forward, pressing me down until my spine hit the ground. The hard, uneven earth pressed into my shoulders through my knit sweater.
He abandoned patience. His hands gripped the hem of my shirt. He pulled the garment up and over my head, tossing it aside.
He reached for the button of my denim shorts. The zipper rasped in the quiet field as he dragged the denim down my hips. He threw the denim into the weeds, leaving me bare under the afternoon sun.