Forty-seven
Peter
The smell of garlic wafted toward my nose as I climbed the porch steps for dinner.
Despite the afternoon’s grueling workload, I’d had a pep in my step all day.
Every moment of the day, I marveled at my new-found confidence, noting the ease in which I went through my day.
How quickly I found the tools I needed, how I kept tabs on my surroundings without having to try too hard, how I bantered with the cowboys all day long, and how I was actually starting to enjoy my life again.
Even though my ranch beginnings were sour, I had to admit a truth to myself: I had needed this time at Meadowbrook.
When Tag threw me into work, it felt like torture at the time—a slap in the face almost. But it was tough love—the kind I never could’ve found in Colorado where my existence was too protected, too padded by people who loved me and just wanted to help.
Crazy to think only a few weeks ago, I was laying in bed, contemplating the worth of my life.
But now, here I was, surrounded by men I respected and doing honest work.
Even Chip was trying to find some new clients for me.
As soon as I could get my hands on my tech, I planned to start working remotely for the firm again.
I knew I could do it this time. My muscles were stronger, my head was higher, and my resolve was deeper than ever before.
And my desire for Sarah burned like a flame.
Tomorrow, there’d be a floral delivery at the sports club where she worked.
All the other days of the week she worked in client’s homes, and according to the grapevine, Sarah wasn’t spending much time at home, so it seemed like delivering to her workplace was the best option to make sure the flowers weren’t just left on our doorstep.
I didn’t know if my excitement could handle waiting for two more days.
The urge to just get on a plane and wait for her in the driveway…
I’d considered it multiple times.
But I forced myself to slow down and take one step at a time. Flowers first, then hopefully a phone call, then maybe she’d be open to meeting with me. I would stay at my parent’s house if need be. I’d get my own apartment or stay at a hotel. It literally didn’t matter.
All I wanted was to hold her hand and talk to her.
Halfway through our meal of spaghetti, garlic bread, and broccoli, Bea spoke up. “Tag, the Sheriff just pulled in.”
Utensils stopped scrapping plates and someone stood—Tag.
“Uh oh.” Harlan’s voice held a note of mock fear. “Coop, what’d you do this time?”
Cooper didn’t laugh.
Tag said, “He’s probably just here about the Lazy L fence.” Walking down the porch, he called out over the railing, “Evenin’ Sheriff. Did Landry lose some cattle again?”
The Sheriff’s voice, distant from where I sat at the far corner of the picnic table, barely penetrated my scope of awareness. “Welp, not this time, Tag. I’m actually looking for a…Peter Thompson?”
My stomach bolted into my throat.
Sarah.
“I was told he was staying here temporarily.”
Panic gripped me. Fumbling for my cane, I shot out of my seat and threw my leg over the side of the picnic bench. By the time Tag turned to call my name, I was halfway there—my heart wrecking havoc in my chest. Something terrible happened. What if she was hurt? Or in trouble?
Or dead?
My lungs turned to steel, my steps faltering. Why else would the Sheriff be asking for me? I had my phone with me all day. Wouldn’t they have called me if something bad happened?
When my cane echoed off the railing, I skipped introductions, demanding, “Is my wife okay?”
“Are you Peter?”
“I am. Is Sarah alright?”
“She’s fine. She’s fine. Um…” His already gentle tone grew even more so. “You want to step down here and talk to me for a minute?”
Blood roared in my ears. I tried to swallow but couldn’t.
Please, please, please be okay.
Gripping my cane like it was the only thing holding me to earth, I followed the long section of railing to the stairs, and the Sheriff met me at the bottom. “I’m Sheriff Riggs, by the way. Good folk you’re staying with. You a guest here?”
Frustrated he wanted to make small talk, I snapped, “Bea Taggart is my sister.”
“Ah. We love the Taggarts.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Uh…I’ve got legal papers from the District Court of Denver, Colorado. I came to serve them to you.”
My brain trudged through the following pause, fighting to understand. Was I in some sort of trouble? “Legal papers. For what exactly?”
He lowered his voice. “They’re divorce papers, son.”