That young Eamon from my memory came back to me, that shy smile he’d had when he appeared at the fence.
He walked ahead, cutting as he went, and we fell into a comfortable silence, working through the morning and then the afternoon with brief spells of conversation that were easier and easier to have. He told me about the first crop he ever harvested here, about building the barn and how he’d bought Callie half-starved at an auction in Asheville. They weren’t so much stories as they were excerpts from a kind of archive. One that made up his life. But when he finally quieted, taking longer to answer my questions, I found I didn’t have much to say. There wasn’t anything I could tell him that he didn’t already know.
The smoke billowed every time we refilled the canisters, and it darkened the air between the tall plants until it looked like dusk. Before I knew it, it was. The temperature cooled and we made it to the last field, my hands black with soot the way Eamon’s always were. My muscles screamed under the weight of the rigging, and when I made it to the end of the final row, Eamon was waiting for me.
I watched as he lifted the end of his shirt, wiping his face with it. Beneath was a plane of sun-gold skin that glistened over the muscles of his back. I could see the indented path I’d traced with the tips of my fingers at the Midsummer Faire.
He took the rig when I reached him, and I stretched my shoulders back, neck aching. The fireflies were awake, floating over the grass, and the house was dark, but the moon was still bright. He hoisted the rig up as I peeled off my gloves and as soon as we reached the barn, he lit the lantern that hung from one of the beams.
He took the lid from the bucket that sat on the chair in the corner, and the light rippled on the water inside. When I looked at him, he tossed me a rag, gesturing toward it. The smell of smoke still permeated the air, the same scent he carried with him into the house each night. It would probably be in my hair for days.
The chirp of the crickets outside was punctuated by Callie’s impatient snorts, and I looked around us, to the empty barn. We’d been working side by side all day, but I hadn’t really felt like we were alone until now.
He unhooked the chains, dumping the ash into the bin against the wall, and I hung both pairs of our gloves on the hook, side by side.
I dipped my sore hands into the water, stretching my fingers beneath the surface. “Can I ask you a question?”
For once, Eamon didn’t stall. “Sure.”
“How did I tell you the truth about me? About where I’d come from?”
He stood from the rigging on the ground, untying the bandana around his neck. “You just told me.”
“When?”
“We were together one night, and you just said out of nowhere that you needed to tell me something. That you couldn’t marry me unless I knew the truth.”
Together one night. The words felt intentionally nondescript.
“I just told you and you believed me?”
He shrugged. “It was too impossible a story not to be true. And it somehow made sense to me. I’d known for some time that there was something strange about you.”
“Like how Nathaniel felt about Susanna?”
“Maybe.” He answered honestly.
I looked around the barn and to the moonlit fields visible through the open door. This man who’d loved me, accepted me, was hanging by a thread. So was this farm. And the weight of responsibility I carried for that was unbearable.
“I want to say—” I breathed, trying to steady my voice. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For ruining your life.”
His brows came together as he studied me. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“Someone has to.” I tossed the rag to him, stepping aside so he could reach the water.
He took a step toward it, turning the cloth over in his hands before he dragged it over the back of his neck and started to wash.
“You’ve been waiting for me to come back, haven’t you?” I said.
The line of his shoulders straightened. He ran both wet hands through his hair, raking it away from his face.
“You believed I was coming back.”
“I did,” he admitted.
He turned toward me, and I didn’t move as he came closer. My eyes followed the curve of his throat to his shoulder, suddenly wanting so badly for him to touch me. To put his arms around me like he had at the Midsummer Faire. I wanted to feel him, like I had in that dream-steeped memory I’d woken to.
I looked up to find him watching me, his gaze fixed. And the way he looked at me was different. Now he was recognizable in a bone-chilling way that made me hold my breath.
A bead of water dripped from his chin, and I watched his mouth, knowing exactly what it would feel like. What it would taste like. But he stopped a few inches away, waiting to see if I’d cross that space.
“You may have ruined my life, June. But first, you gave me one.”
My fingers found the damp fabric of his shirt and I pulled him into me, pressing my lips to his. The fever of it spilled over inside of me, the moment as sharp and precise as the edge of a blade. His mouth opened on mine, his tongue sliding over my bottom lip, and he came low, kissing me more deeply. His fingers moved down the length of me until he had a tight hold on the waist of my jeans. Then he was walking us back, pushing me up and onto the workbench without breaking his mouth from mine. The air around us was already on fire, but now I could feel it inside of me.
He moved between my legs, scooting me close enough so that he could press himself against me, and a helpless sound broke in my chest. His hands went into my hair, unraveling it down my back. He wasn’t being gentle or careful or waiting to see if I would follow him. He was a crack in a dam, a man who’d gone hungry. And I couldn’t pull myself from the all-consuming flood that existed everywhere his skin touched mine. I didn’t want to.
Outside the barn, Callie grunted, and the fence creaked as if she were leaning against it. Eamon went still, breaking away from me.
His eyes were unfocused. The horse was snorting, feet stamping.
Eamon let me go, sliding from my arms. He walked to the door, listening.
“What is it?” I slid down from the bench. “Eamon?”
But he was already walking. He disappeared, and I took the lantern from the beam, following after him. He was headed toward the house, pace quickening as Callie cried out. We moved through the dark with the sounds of night all around us, and when the flash of a light flickered in the window ahead, Eamon broke into a run.
I stopped short, lantern swinging. There was someone in the house.
I ran after him, losing sight of his shadow as the back door slammed closed. I lifted the lantern, hissing when the flame-heated glass burned my arm, and when I came through the door, Eamon was pushing into the bedroom. But movement in the sitting room drew my eye, and I squinted, mouth dropping open when I saw him.
Caleb.
He stared at me from across the house, feet shuffling backward, toward the front door. When Eamon came back into the kitchen, he froze, following my gaze.
Caleb made it out onto the porch, his footsteps pounding on the steps as Eamon followed. But before he reached the door, he took the rifle from the wall.
“Eamon!”
I set the lantern on the counter, nearly toppling it over as I wove around the table, past the sofa. They were almost invisible when I made it outside, Caleb’s white shirt the only movement in the dark.