When the diggers churned meadow to mud for the house’s foundation, Ren and I kissed with our boots in the freshly tilled dirt beneath the moon.
When we weren’t overseeing the builders creating our house, we were helping Cassie with her own construction. She’d taken her land and run with it—designing a larger barn, stables, arena, and round pen for her new equine venture.
As I’d been part of the conception and brain storming phase, Cassie asked if I’d help manage it with her. To become her partner, if I wanted, or an employee, if I preferred.
Her eyes gave another offer, too. An offer that said I’d forever have work and a way to support myself…even when Ren wasn’t there with me.
We’d hugged with tears streaming and broke apart when Ren appeared with a heavy sack of horse feed over his shoulder.
He constantly worked.
He never stopped.
He made me nervous.
Yes, his body was stable.
But, surely, he shouldn’t over-do it?
By the time I noticed what was cooking inside me, the foundations of our house were poured, the framework was up, and Ren was site foreman as well as farm overseer, cracking the whip every day to ensure things ran smoothly.
Watching him stride across pastures in faded, scuffed jeans and a white t-shirt stained with toil and tractor grease, I’d never been more in love with him. When he showered away sweat and grime from a long day working, I’d never been more in lust with him.
Just because I knew an end was coming, didn’t mean I could stop loving him. And I fell even deeper when our first income poured in from a smaller paddock that we’d sold as free-standing hay—not having the time to cut and bale ourselves.
The money was more than enough to pay our mortgage payment for the next four months.
Holding that income, Ren had gone quiet, pensive, his thoughts going to that dark place where I couldn’t follow.
The place of urgency to create a world for me before it was too late.
I’d left him to his thoughts, and he’d found me as I finished riding Cassie’s warmblood Mighty Mo, then merely took my hand, and guided me to find John dozing on the deck of his farmhouse.
Ren didn’t wake him up, just merely tucked an envelope of cash into his plaid shirt pocket and smiled at me.
Ren was a proud man as well as selfless and kind-hearted.
And that pride would always be a little bruised at accepting two-fifths of Cherry River Farm.
Thanks to earning money from that gifted land, his principals meant he had to pay John his dues—a rent, a tax…a thank you.
*
“We’ll put the crib here. And we’ll paint the walls a light green, don’t you think? So he feels at home in the greenness of the forest before we take him there?” Ren spun to face me. “Good idea?”
His health.
His happiness.
His wonderment.
I laughed gently. “Great idea.”
His gaze fell on my belly that had finally shown what was camping inside it.
Six months pregnant and everything was perfect.
Finally, after seventeen weeks of being utterly oblivious to what we’d created together, I’d stood naked before Ren after a shared shower, and he’d frowned at my lower belly. Dripping wet with a towel wrapped around narrow hips, he’d prodded me gently, his eyebrows knitting together at the firmness.
I’d winced as something sharp responded. Something that didn’t feel like me.
I shifted backward from his touch, only for him to fall to his knees. He ran his hands over the area of my stomach that had hardened almost overnight. “Della, a-are you pregnant?”
Funny that he was the one to question first.
We’d made an appointment to see a family doctor the next day, and—thanks to identification and insurance—it was the easiest thing in the world to be seen, have an ultra sound, and be checked over.
According to the doctor, it wasn’t unusual for first time mothers not to show for a while. I was physically active with strong stomach muscles and good posture. I already ate healthy and had a vivacious appetite.
I’d been giving my body exactly what it needed with no need for any natural nudges for better.
That had been two and a half months ago. My stomach had stayed flat for as long as it could, but now, it could no longer contain the steadily growing baby bump.
Ren came toward me, running his fingertips around my belly button. “How is he today?”
“Active.” I rolled my eyes. “Your son thinks he’s a footballer.”
He chuckled. “I’ve never played sport in my life.”
“Yes, but you do have a habit of kicking things.”
“I also have a habit of loving you. For the past two decades.”
“And you better not stop anytime soon, seeing as it’s your spawn I’m carrying.”
“Never, Ribbon. It’s physically impossible to stop loving you.” His lips spread into a smile as he bent to kiss me.
I leaned in to him, allowing his tongue to enter my mouth and flatten against mine in a sensual dance of hello and welcome.
I loved this man with every part of my heart.
He was my luck.
My wishing star.
My ever after.
I was pregnant with his child.
His son.
We’d blended ourselves.
We’d beat time at its own game, and instead of death, we’d claimed life.
And we’d keep claiming it.
Again.
And again.
For as long as possible.
*
Amazing how fast time could skip ahead.
Incredible how easy routine became when you were doing something you loved with the person you belonged to.
My life before—with its stress of loving Ren in secret, going to school, and pretending student friendships—was no longer on my radar.
At eight and a half months pregnant, life had never been so good.
Ren pampered me every night—even though he still worked every hour of sunlight and beyond. He rubbed my back, kissed my belly, brushed my hair, and slipped on my boots, seeing as I could no longer see past my fat stomach.
Jacob wasn’t even in the world yet, but his father absolutely adored him.
Ren read articles online on how babies could hear in the womb, and often stayed up late talking to him.
On those nights, when Ren fell asleep whispering stories and telling tales, I’d listen to him in the dark.
For as long as I could remember, Ren was a bad sleeper. He’d toss and turn, pace in the night, and get up before dawn, just to avoid struggling with sleep that wouldn’t come.
I was used to it.
It had always been that way.
Yet now, Ren had overtaken me in the sleep awards.
When his head hit the pillow, he was out.
His eyes flickering with dreams, his breath rattling with memory of what lived inside him, his body overly warm with circulation that ran just a little too hot.
Normally, I’d believe it was thanks to his long day at work.
But…I’d read up on his condition, and I knew the symptoms in and out.
Night sweats and fatigue.
Those were the ones I and only I knew that Ren had.
In everyday life, he was the poster boy of good health.
But when it was just us in bed, a scary little beast would sit on my pillow and whisper falsities about what Ren projected.
I didn’t trust that he wasn’t hiding how he truly felt.
I didn’t believe he was as pain free as he made us think.
Instead of suffering silently, I should have spoken up—and I did, of course I did; it wasn’t a matter to brush aside. I told Rick Mackenzie at Ren’s last check-up, even as Ren glared at me as if I’d betrayed his confidence.
But the oncologist had just smiled and nodded and, in a bedside manner that I didn’t appreciate—either stress or pregnancy snappiness—said unfortunately, it was to be expected.
Ren was stable, but he was still sick.
His body was fighting the good fight, so of course, he would sleep soundly.
His system was hoarding rest like a starving man hoarded food.
And I got that…but it didn’t make it any easier.
The past eight and a bit months had made me believe in a fairy-tale.
The knowledge of what existed in our future was muted somehow beneath summer sun and lazy Sundays around the pond.
I’d stupidly allowed time to fuzz the urgency inside me, and I cursed myself to the depths of hell when, a few days later, my worries were vindicated in the worst possible way.