He took her gently, closed her in his arms and rocked. Relief coursed through him when her arms finally came up from her sides and circled him.
"I hurt you. I'm sorry. I didn't even know I could." Ashamed, he pressed his lips to her hair. "I thought it was all me. It's gotten so huge I didn't think anybody else could feel like this. Let me plead insanity."
"It doesn't matter." She thought she would have crawled inside him if she could. "It doesn't matter now."
"Let me tell you again." Gently he tipped her head back, looked into those dark, damp eyes. "I love you, Savannah. I'm so desperately in love with you." He touched his lips to hers, felt the tremor. "So helplessly in love with you. It takes my breath away every time I see you."
She couldn't speak. This was how she had once dreamed he would look at her, with violent love in his eyes. These were words she'd refused to let herself dream of hearing. She threw her arms around his neck and clung for her life.
"You're trembling," he murmured. "You're cold."
"No. No. Oh, I love you. I don't know how else to say it."
"That'll do. Storm's passing." He could hear the thunder rolling away. "We're going to have a good farmer's rain. A soaker. The kind that means something." He hooked an arm under her knees, lifted her. "I want to make love with you and listen to the rain."
He was so gentle, it seared her heart. Kissing her cheek, her throat, as he carried her to the room they shared. When the door was closed, he walked through the shadows and laid her down.
She heard the hiss of a match, then candlelight flickered. He peeled off her damp clothes, stroked his hand over her skin. And suddenly she felt fragile and nervous.
She knelt on the bed to unbutton his shirt, and her fingers were clumsy. He took them, pressed them one by one to his lips.
There was the smell of rain and wet earth, the whisper of thunder moving off, the give of the mattress beneath her.
Then there was only him. Murmurs and sighs drifted through the sound of pattering rain. He was so tender with her, so gentle, her body seemed to flow through his hands like fragrant heated wax. Each time their lips met, it was deeper and truer. Each time their bodies pressed, it was softer and wanner.
A brush of fingertips, the trail of quiet kisses, and flesh quivered. Dazed with love, they watched each other, listened to the quickening rhythm of hearts.
He slid into her silkily, his sigh merging with hers, his body rising and falling with hers. His lips meeting hers.
He felt her crest sweep through him, a long, slow, undulating wave that carried him off in its wake.
Chapter Nine
Bryan loved spending time on the farm. The animals, the men, the open air. He still remembered the confusion and confinement of cities—the places where they had moved and lived in small rooms where the windows always seemed to pulse with noise and the walls were so thin you could hear every laugh or curse from the people next door.
He hadn't minded the city, really. There had always been something to do, somewhere to go. And his mother had taken him to parks and playgrounds— whenever she wasn't working.
He had vague memories of times when she had worked late into the night, or late into the morning. Times when she'd been tired a lot, and sad, too. Though he hadn't really understood why.
He remembered New Orleans, with the pulsing music and the slow-talking people. He remembered his mother had kept a pot of red flowers on the windowsill.
Sometimes he'd sat at his mother's feet, playing cars or reading picture books while she painted things, painted people who'd come by to sit in a little folding chair while she sketched their faces on big sheets of paper with charcoal or colored chalk.
That was when things had changed. Things had gotten better. She'd stopped working at night, and that sad, tired look had left her eyes.
Now, this was best of all. Having a house, the way she'd always promised. Having a yard and friends who could stay your friends because you were staying, too. Friends like Connor. Who was definitely cool, even though some of the kids at school teased him and said rotten things about his old man.
Maybe, Bryan sometimes thought, it was because they didn't know what it was like to have no father at all. The way he did.
But Mom was enough. She always made things work out, always made sure they were a team. As moms went, he figured, she was the coolest.
Like the way she'd asked him if he wanted to live in the cabin in the woods. She hadn't just told him they would live there, the way he knew some parents did things. Then, when they had the cabin—which was in his opinion the best place in the whole world—she'd let him pick out the stuff for his room. The neat bunk beds, the posters for the walls, the big wood chest for his toys.
Now he got to visit the farm whenever he wanted. Mostly.
Shane was great. He never minded if Bryan wanted to hang out and ask question about things. Devin was okay, too, even if he was the sheriff. He liked Rafe, and the way Rafe would sometimes plunk himself down and wrestle with the dogs.