Fifty-three
Sarah
My legs propelled me out of my seat on the bleachers, my hands flying to cover my mouth. Wide-eyed, I watched as the metal gate on the chute swung open, as Giddy-Up-Girl surged into the arena, jumping and kicking her legs.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink, as I watched Peter’s body move like a rag doll.
My jaw hung in disbelief—how had he learned to do that?
He held one hand above his head, the other gripping a short fat rope near his chest. He held his feet high by her shoulders and leaned back as she jumped forward and kicked, over and over again. A laugh, or maybe a scream, built in my throat.
Please don’t fall, I silently begged him. Don’t fall.
My heart wouldn’t survive him tumbling to the ground.
And even though I’d watched dozens of cowboys ride before Peter, I startled at the loud buzzing sound indicating his eight seconds were up. A yell of excitement ripped from my lungs as I jumped and clapped. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called his name.
He leaned forward, slipping his feet out of the stirrups, and jumped off. A shoulder and a knee crashed into the dust as he tucked into a roll then hopped up and jogged toward the fence as two men on horses rushed after Giddy-Up-Girl.
He put his hands on the top rung of the fence and climbed over.
Almost immediately, he was out of sight and a number was called over the loud speaker. I thought it might have been his score, but I was too focused on his whereabouts to even register what number it was.
My gaze scanned the far side of the fence, sweeping the area and trying to locate him again. Swiping my backpack off the bench, I moved closer—through the bleachers, into the aisle, and down to the barrier—desperate to get to the lower path.
There were two fences with a path running between them.
One stood off the ground, separating the elevated seating from the rodeo’s ground level.
And the second fence was on the ground, looping around the actual arena.
At the end of the bleachers were openings with stairs that allowed guests to access the path below.
If I could just talk to him for a minute. As much as his letter, gift, and voicemails had meant to me, I needed to see his face. I needed to watch his eyes when he realized I’d come to see him. Would there be life and fire in them?
My heart thumped as anticipation skittered through my veins. I tried to discourage the way hope broke the horizon in my chest. But his words played in my memory, providing lyrics to a new song beating in my heart.
“We’re going to make it through this night. I believe that.”
My legs urged me down the barrier fence, my gaze scanning the path below as I went.
Weaving between guests that loitered in the walkway, I picked my way toward the opening that led to concessions, doubting the entire time that Peter would emerge from that direction.
Biting back a growl of frustration, I stopped, looking back over my shoulder.
From the opposite direction, Peter rounded the corner of the arena.
Turning on my heel, I pushed toward him, unable to call out as my throat tightened with a blend of countless emotions.
He stalked toward the bleachers, a hand coming out to touch the fence beside him every few steps.
I couldn’t see his face under the rim of his cowboy hat, but there was a pep in his step.
I wanted to laugh—he looked like a cowboy.
He had boots, a flannel shirt, and even a belt.
He got closer, closer.
And the laugh morphed into a desperate sound deep in my throat.
I wanted nothing more than to curl into the crook of his neck and let him hold me. But so much needed to be said. There were real problems that needed to be dealt with before we could pretend everything was okay. But, good gracious, I missed him so much.
Unable to make it to a staircase before he passed me, I stopped, my hands curling around the top of the barrier. He walked, oblivious of my presence directly above the path. I opened my mouth to call his name, but emotion choked me.
When I tried again, a barely audible “wait” lifted from my lips at the exact second he passed me.
Peter halted.
And time seemed to stop, too, as Peter whirled around and lifted his head. He frowned up at the bleachers, confused.
My lungs pressurized as I held my breath.
Stepping closer, he looked up. “Sarah?”
He had heard me?
My voice came, strangled, “It’s me.”
A sharp intake of breath lifted his shoulders as relief softened the features of his face and his mouth dropped open. He said my name on a shaky exhale. “Sarah.” Lurching toward the barrier, he lifted his hand.
Magnetized, I reached down, grazing his hand.
He swam in my vision.
He gripped my fingers, squeezing them, his thumb instantly skimming my knuckles, as if he was making sure it was really me.
I blinked tears away, frantically trying to soak him in.
Dark stubble lined his jaw and his skin was warm and tan.
He shook his head in disbelief. “What—what are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.”
His expression was so soft, so eager for me, as his other hand came up, offering for my left hand. So we stood there, holding each other’s hands, with my torso bent over the barrier.
My gaze darted to the dark, thick band on his ring finger. “You’re wearing your wedding ring.”
“I haven’t taken it off,” he whispered.
“I miss mine.” My words choked off. “Can I—have it back?”
Emotion stormed his eyes, and his fingers flexed over mine. “We can arrange that.”
I laughed through my tears. “I’m actually wearing my suns.”
His hand slid up my right wrist, fingers toying with the charms that represented so many years of love. Peter wasn’t a heart-on-his-sleeve guy, but a tear trickled onto his cheek as he lifted my hand to kiss my wrist.
A thousand butterflies erupted in my stomach.
I rushed to say everything I’d planned. “You said in your letter that you wanted a redo of our week together at Meadowbrook. Remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Can we do that? Have a redo?”
A deep swallow pulled at his throat. “There is nothing I would love more.”
A relieved smile lifted my cheeks. “Okay.”
“Stay right here, alright? Don’t move a muscle.” His soft tone morphed, turning business-like. “I need to go to the judge’s box to forfeit my next ride, but I’ll be right back.”
“Forfeit? Why?”
“Because I want to be with you.”
Oh, what those words did to my heart. My knees nearly collapsed with relief. “Don’t forfeit. You were amazing. I’ll sit right here—”
He cut me off, shaking his head. “I don’t want to anymore.”
“I promise I’ll wait right here.”
“All this”—he pointed behind him—“has been me killing time until I get to be with you. Now that you’re here, I don’t care about any of it.” He turned his face down the bleacher. “You know what? Just go to the box with me. How do we get you down here?”
“There’s an opening at the end.”
He nodded. “Alright. I’ll follow you.”
Reluctantly, I let go of his hand and pushed toward the opening.
My heart beat in my throat and my limbs trembled.
Looking down, I saw Peter following a step behind me.
His head was tipped toward the ground, but the brackets on his cheeks proved he was smiling.
The realization made an instant smile bloom on my cheeks, too.
At the staircase, I turned and flew down the stairs.
He waited at the bottom, his palm upward in front of him, waiting to hold my hand again.
Face to face, I fought the urge to wrap myself around his neck.
Every molecule in my body wanted to, but I’d just filed to divorce this man.
We had a lot to talk through, and I had questions to ask. So much, so many.
But I couldn’t deny the truth—the light in his eyes already held so many answers. His heart was open and free. And his cage of darkness was nowhere to be found.
My Peter was back.
He pressed his lips together, thinking for a moment. “Can I hug you?”
“Please,” I whispered.
There, at the bottom of the steps, I dropped my backpack as my husband pulled me into his arms. I went to my tiptoes, looping my arms around his neck as his arms banded around my waist. Together, we both exhaled with relief, tension slipping from our bodies.
The entire world around me faded into oblivion—the overhead speakers, the cheers of the crowd, the chilly wind whipping around us. I was only aware of Peter. His breath, his warmth, his heartbeat.
He dipped his face into the curve of my neck, murmuring my name.
His hands were open, flat, pressing me flush against him as he explored the length of my back, trailing up my spine and down to my hips.
Oh, those hands—I missed them so much. Every inch they moved made me feel crazed, desperate to work out our issues.
A thousand hugs from the past wrapped around me as I remembered all the times Peter’s love had healed me.
All the times I ran to his open arms because there weren’t any at home.
All the times his hands anchored me when life left me unmoored.
All the times he encouraged me to cry, and I let go as he pressed me against his heart.
I blinked back tears, wanting to let go right now, but knowing this wasn’t the place.
But my warm feelings screeched to a halt as his fingers skimmed the back of my neck, sinking into the base of my hair.
He froze in surprise. Then his fingers continued, running up until they gently kneaded the back of my head, the short strands brushing against his palm.
Pulling back just a little, he whispered over my ear, “You cut your hair?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said bitterly.
“You regret it?”
“Immensely.”
“It’ll grow back.” His fingers scraped against my scalp a bit more firmly, and I had to fight to keep from buckling at the knees. “For what it’s worth, I like the way it feels.”