“You can keep this one,” Richard said.
He folded his hands behind his head. She was aware of him watching her. The kids were in their rooms, their windows shut to keep the cooled air inside, their curtains closed. In the storm’s flashes, she saw his profile, the fringe of his eyelashes, his lips.
When he reached out and rested his hand against her cheek, she turned toward him and slipped her arms around his neck.
“The kids,” he whispered. “We can’t go inside. Come with me to the barn?”
She nodded her head against his chest. Standing, he pulled her to her feet.
“Do we need to tell them?” she asked.
“No. They know that’s where I’ll be if I’m not here.”
He led her past the pool and down the dirt path toward the barn, Gulliver in his ThunderShirt trotting at their heels.
“Be careful!” she said. “Snakes! This is when they’re out at night.”
But he had already reached the barn door. He opened it and half pulled her through, down the aisle past Morning Glory’s stall and into the office where he kissed her again. “There’s a cot,” he said. “I can open it for us.”
“Chair!” She pushed him into the dusty recliner in the corner, slid her hands upward under his shirt then down to his belt. She undid his zipper, straddled him.
He pushed against her. “Take your shorts off. I want to be inside you. God, Billie,” he groaned.
She stripped then hovered above him, hardly moving. She heard a horse shuffle around in its stall, another horse snort, and Richard’s sharp intake of breath as he entered her.
She wanted to look at him as he moved inside her, but in the dark barn office, she could barely see him, only feel his hands on her hips, her breasts, then on the sides of her face, his fingers in her hair.
Afterward, he stroked her back as they listened to the storm. Thunder crashed closer and closer, and lightning sailed through the night sky. Gulliver whimpered.
Billie felt Richard’s fingertips exploring.
“What’s this?” he asked
She pulled away from him. “Nothing.”
“I want to see.”
He reached over and flicked on the overhead light. She watched him discover the network of thin, straight scars intermingled with a Morse code of small round bumps covering her hips, lower belly, and upper thighs.
“What is this?”
“It was a long time ago, Richard. No big deal.”
“You did this to yourself?”
“Some of it. I had some pretty hard years as a kid.”
“Some of it?”
She shrugged, stood, and reached for her shorts. She zipped the fly, gave each leg a downward tug, and almost unconsciously ran her fingertips around the hem, checking her flesh for the telltale ridges of her scars. Finding one, she tugged the fabric again to cover it. When she pulled her tank top over her head, she sensed Richard staring at the filigree of white lines on the tender skin of her inner arms.
“You really did a number on yourself,” he said.
She shrugged. “Ancient history.”
He reached for his own clothes and slowly pulled his T-shirt over his head. “What about the scars you didn’t put there?”
She turned to him, palms up in a STOP gesture. “Like I said. I had some rough times, okay? No more questions.”
The wind picked up. Branches shrieked along the sides of the barn. Sand and pebbles struck the rattling windows. Looking out, Billie saw lights come on in the kitchen windows of the house. The kids were in there, looking for their father.
“I have to get back,” Richard said beside her. “But someday I want you to tell me what happened.”
She stiffened. “Maybe there should be a scar rule for people, like you have for your horses. A limit on what’s allowed to show.”
Wind blew open the barn door and pelted the floor with blown dirt and pebbles.
“Let’s get back to the house before this storm gets any worse.”
Richard grabbed her hand and half-dragged her to the open door. Together they leaned against it to force it closed. Billie scooped up Gulliver, then chased Richard through stiletto rain that soaked their hair and clothes, turned the ground to slippery mud, and formed itself into hail that pelted them as they reached the kitchen door.
Billie rubbed her hair dry with the towel Richard tossed her from a folded pile of laundry stacked on the kitchen counter. She pulled her shirt away from her skin and slipped the towel underneath, using the same towel on Gulliver when she was done. Richard handed her a blue polo shirt from the laundry pile. She ducked into the pantry closet, closed the door, and changed among cans of beans, tomatoes, and bags of hamburger and hot dog buns.
When she opened the door, Sylvie was facing her father across the kitchen island. Alice Dean sat on the floor, a toy horse in her pudgy hand. The toy horse trailer lay on its side in front of her. Sylvie and Richard were obviously arguing, but Billie could barely hear them over the pounding hail.
“That’s Bo’s shirt,” Sylvie snapped.
“We got soaked,” Richard explained. Sylvie glared at him, but he ignored it. “You and I will finish this discussion later, all right?”
Another thunder crash muted whatever Sylvie said in return. She stalked to the refrigerator, opened the freezer door, and pulled out a gallon of rocky road ice cream.
“Isn’t this a great storm, Alice Dean?” Richard asked.
“Daddy, I don’t feel good.” She coughed and stretched her arms up toward him.
He lifted her and set her on his hip.
“What’s the matter, baby? You have a tummy ache?”
Billie felt a pang of loss that she would never have a child of her own to cradle and comfort.
Alice Dean coughed again. “No. My throat hurts.” She pronounced it froat.
Richard felt her forehead. “You’re kind of warm, sweetheart. Sylvie, get the thermometer from my bathroom, okay?”
Sylvie pressed her palm to her little sister’s brow then offered her a spoonful of ice cream. Alice Dean turned away. Sylvie set the ice cream on the counter and left—to
