Page 91 of The Unmaking of June Farrow

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. 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 feeling 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 lanternfrom 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.

“Eamon!”