Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology

by Violet Vaughn

  “That’s a nice-looking truck,” Trey murmured, struggling to keep the envy out of his voice.

  Greta bit her lip, fighting back a grin. “I know. That’s what you said when you brought it home. And after every time you wash it, and wax it, and pull it out of the driveway.”

  “That’s mine?” No way. He jumped out of the SUV to get a better look.

  When his dad had run the ranch, they’d had enough money for the essentials but not enough to splurge on massive vehicles. Damn, he must be doing pretty well.

  Or else he was horrible when it came to finances and they were deep in the hole. Please let him be a ranching genius.

  He couldn’t resist walking up to the silver monster and brushing some of the dust off of the emblem with his shirttail.

  “That man and his truck.” Greta laughed.

  Mark chuckled with her. “Hey, I’m going to make a call into the hands. Do you need anything?”

  Trey might have been enthralled with his truck, but he caught the meaningful look Mark leveled at Greta.

  “No. I think we’re okay. You will be by for dinner, right?” There was a quiver in her voice.

  “Sure, sure. I’ll be by in a few.” He held his hand out to Trey. After they shook, Mark pulled him in for a two-slap pat on his uninjured shoulder. “Good to have you back, Hoss.”

  “Good to be back.”

  The statement was true. It was good. He was back on his land with his best friend and a beautiful woman by his side. What more did he need?

  Oh right, his memory.

  “Ready to go inside, or should I give you two some time to get reacquainted?” She looked from him to the truck with a questioning quirk of her brow.

  He liked her sense of humor. “I think she’ll survive without me for a little bit.”

  Trey followed Greta through the garage and into the cool interior of the house. The ground floor was laid out to flow in a circular pattern. He knew that if he turned to his right, the hallway led to the living room. A left in there led down the hall past his office, then onto the dining room, the kitchen, and finally back to the garage. All right. One more memory down. He was on a roll.

  “Feel familiar?” Greta asked when they reached the foyer.

  “Yeah, it does.” And again, it didn’t.

  The white walls and dark wood trim were the same from his childhood, but the furniture was much more modern with leather couches and a flat screen TV. While the room was beautiful, it felt more like a showroom. Cold, informal, and quiet. Museum quiet.

  “I don’t see how we manage to keep the living room looking so nice when it must get destroyed when the hands come over for Monday Night Football.”

  “Ah, yeah. Well, they haven’t done that in a long while. Come on, I’ll show you what we’ve done upstairs since we’ve been married.”

  What? No Monday Night Football? When he was a kid, Monday had been his favorite night of the week, sitting by his dad’s chair, brushing potato chips out of his hair and screaming at the television when those SOB Broncos stopped the Hawks. It had been on a Super Bowl Sunday that he and Mark had their first beer. Boy had his mom been pissed when she found out his dad had been the one to give the eighteen year-olds a bottle to share.

  He frowned at Greta’s back as he followed her up the stairs. Maybe she wasn’t a sports fan and the weekly revelry had moved to one of the bunkhouses. That was the only logical explanation.

  “This is where I work,” Greta said as she ushered him into one of the bedrooms.

  Two long tables with racks of small trays underneath met in the far corner. Beads in various colors and sizes lay scattered across the surface besides pliers and spools of fine wire. Along the opposite wall was a day bed heaped with pillows.

  “I make jewelry.” She gestured with quiet pride to a necklace sitting on display that appeared to be in mid-production. The blue and silver beads sparkled in the sunlight spilling in through the window.

  “That’s beautiful,” he marveled. “Where did you get all of the beads?” He picked up an earring made with blood red teardrops. He imagined Greta wearing the jewelry and nothing else. The image of the bright color lying against her delicate neck made him clear his throat.

  “I make them.” She stood near the door with her hands tucked into her back pockets. She shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Really? Wow. That’s amazing.” The intricate knot work in the wire and the shapes of the pieces of glass showed off her talent. “I’ve never met anyone who’s artistic before. Well, except you, of course.”

  “I know.” Her chuckle seemed to suggest she was laughing at a private joke. “Come on.” She jerked her head toward the door. She led him to the room at the end of the hall. “And here is the bedroom.”

  He noticed that she hadn’t said “our room,” but he kept his mouth shut.

  A big bed took up the middle of the white-walled room. The worn quilt and the fluffy pillows looked inviting. He was half tempted to ask Greta to take a nap with him, but took another glance around.

  Strong lines, tidy, nothing fancy. The room even smelled familiar. Musky with a hint of the spicy aftershave he’d been wearing since he was in high school.

  In the walk-in closet, his work shirts hung alongside Greta’s sundresses. He liked seeing their clothes together. It made their connection more real.

  Greta gestured to her right. “The bathroom is through there.” She took a position near the door and didn’t seem inclined to venture far from the spot.

  He walked in only to draw up short. “Now this is different.”

  The cream tiled floor and Jacuzzi tub had definitely not been there when this had been his parents’ space. Visions of him and Greta relaxing under the jetted sprays after a long day’s work filled his mind. Trey blinked rapidly to clear his head. Focus, concentrate on the here and now, he reminded his body. They’d make it there eventually.

  As he turned back to the bedroom, something struck him as being all wrong. The manly room was just that. Manly. Where was the jewelry spread across the dresser? Why weren’t there picture frames set out, or makeup littering the bathroom counter? Except for the clothes in the closet, nothing indicated that Greta lived there too.

  He eyed her protective stance near the door and tamped down his frustration. Her eyes darted everywhere as her weight shifted from one hip to the other. Hesitancy he could understand, but she was acting downright fearful. Down the back of his neck his skin tingled with warning, much like the way a horse tensed when sensing a predator approach. The world was not as it should be.

  Well, if he was going to get his memory of her back, now seemed like a good time to start asking questions. “So. This is our room?”

  Her brow crinkled with confusion and she tilted her head. “Yep.” One foot was pointed toward the door as if ready to bolt.

  He nodded and relaxed his stance, measuring his breath in and out, deep and even. He hooked his thumb into his belt loops and lowered his shoulders as if nothing was amiss. She was just like a wild animal and he didn’t want to startle her with any sudden movement. “You’re either very tidy, or you don’t spend a whole lot of time in here.”

  Her breath lodged in her throat and made a small strangling sound. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that for a woman as creative as you, I would think there’d be a more feminine touch in here.”

  She snorted and planted her hands on her hips. “You know how busy it gets around here. Like I have time to decorate.”

  “Your workroom has your personality all over it. That looks like a place you’d spend all of your time in.”

  Her eyes widened before she shut down all expression, but he saw the flinch nonetheless. His oh-shit meter began to climb. “Is that what you do? Spend all day in there? Do you—do you sleep in that tiny bed?”

  “Sometimes.” She shrugged casually, but the way she suddenly found the carpet interesting suggested that it was more often than sometimes.

  �
�That’s just ridiculous.” And entirely unbelievable.

  There was no way in hell he’d allow his woman to sleep in a dinky little bed. Even if she had fallen asleep in her workroom, he would have scooped her up to cuddle with through the night. What did that say about him as a husband to leave her cramped and alone while he slept in a king-sized bed large enough for a lot of lovin’?

  “Trey, it’s no big deal.” She forced a laugh and edged closer to the door. “You know how it is on the ranch. Things happen at all hours of the night. You’re not always home either.”

  Why the hell not? His dad made it home every night, because family was just as important as the land. What kind of a husband was he?

  “Well, that’s changing. This is our home and our bed, and we are going to sleep in it like a normal married couple.”

  “Trey, it’s not important.”

  “It is to me. It’s my job to provide for you, and that means giving you a comfortable bed to rest in.”

  “Trey, really—”

  “No! Damn it, Greta.” He took a step toward her.

  She backed up so fast she bounced against the wall. Her body trembled, her eyes widened with fear, yet she was braced for violence that she seemed to expect.

  Trey stopped short as an icy wave washed over him. Good God.

  No. No. It wasn’t possible. His throat seized but he forced out the words. “Jesus, Greta. Have I hurt you?”

  Greta’s jaw dropped. “What? No.” She shook her head. “No. You’ve never hit me.”

  You’ve never hit me. But he had hurt her. The shaking, the protective stance, the rapid breathing, all screamed it. The knowledge that he had caused this woman harm twisted in his chest like a hot branding iron.

  “I’m sorry, Greta. I didn’t mean to come at you. I’m not going to hurt you.” Hurting a woman, any woman, went against everything he had ever been taught to believe about what it meant to be a man.

  “It’s not that, Trey–” She stopped and pressed her face into her hands. He gave her all the time she needed to pull her thoughts together. She kept her hands folded in front of her mouth as she looked up at him with those big brown eyes filled with regret, sympathy, and a whole lot of confusion. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” With agitated hands she brushed the loose tendrils of hair off her face. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act or what to expect of you. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about the bed. I just, I just don’t know what to do.”

  She looked as helpless as he felt. How do you pick up a life you knew nothing about? “Don’t be afraid of me. Please, just don’t be afraid.” The plea came out low and rough.

  The tension seeped from her shoulders as she took a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I sincerely hope not, Greta.” He spread out his arms to encompass the room. “This just all feels strange to me, and I know you’re just as lost too. What am I missing? What’s the biggest thing I’m forgetting that I need to know now? I can’t stumble around blind like this. I don’t want to hurt you by saying something insensitive on accident. Please, help me out.”

  Greta sucked in a breath as if he’d punched her in the stomach. Her eyes clouded with grief as she blinked back tears.

  “Um.” She swallowed twice and looked everywhere but at him.

  Trey felt his breathing escalate along with hers as she struggled against an imaginary panic and his oh-shit meter rang again.

  She had to clear her throat before she found the voice to answer, and even then the sound was rough. “We had a son. His name was Luke. He passed away over a year ago. He was two.”

  4

  “Fuck,” exploded from Trey’s lips. He swayed on his feet and braced a hand on the nearby dresser at the news that rocked him to the core.

  Just brand the word Asshole across his forehead right now. First, he couldn’t remember his wife, then his own child? A child who had passed away?

  And Greta. Poor Greta had to live the loss all over again in order to remind him.

  “Jesus, Greta. I’m sorry. I didn’t—ah, fuck.” He clenched and unclenched his fists then clutched at his shirt as if he could physically keep his racing heart from leaping out of his chest.

  “No, Trey, no.” She placed a soothing hand on his bicep. “I figured you might not…” She swallowed again. “I probably should have told you sooner, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Please. I understand. It’s—it’s uh”—another swallow—“you’ve had a lot to deal with lately.”

  Her sympathy was appreciated, but it didn’t stop him from feeling like the shittiest man on the planet. Forgetting your own child was unforgivable. Absolutely no excuse.

  Now the root of Greta’s anxiety was clear. Any minute, she must have expected him to remember Luke or be faced with the moment when she’d have to remind him. No wonder she’d been so damn cagey.

  A million questions flooded his mind. How did their son die? Oh God, did he play a part?

  Did he want to know the answers?

  The sorrow on her face ate at his gut. She lived with the pain of losing a child every day. He’d only had four minutes. Was he ready to rip open a wound he hadn’t known existed until that moment? Did he want to force Greta to tell the tale when they were still on shaky ground?

  To drop the subject might be a cowardly move, but he wasn’t ready to listen, and it appeared as if she wasn’t ready to talk. Later. Later he’d ask. But his wife needed him now.

  “I’m so sorry, Greta.” This time he didn’t hesitate to take her hand. “I’m going to remember. You and Luke.” Luke. He liked that name. “I will remember,” he vowed. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I can stay somewhere else. Maybe in one of the bunkhouses.”

  “Trey. Stop it.” The strength in her voice shocked him. “This is your home. You’ve been hurt and need to heal. This is where you belong. Let’s not worry about the past. Concentrate on now.”

  One step, then another brought her flush against him. She was so soft, so lush. He could hold her all day. Trey held every muscle still, waiting to see what she’d do next.

  Her arms came up slowly to encircle his neck. As her head rested against his chest, the breath he held came out in a rush, ruffling her hair.

  Trey wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight. Probably tighter than he should, but she felt so good in his embrace. Soft, woman, home. She was his only real link to his past. His anchor. They were connected, bonded. He knew it, he felt it. Like the warm solid beat in his chest, he knew in his heart that she belonged to him.

  Her fingers threaded through his hair. He knew the gesture was meant to comfort, but it had his nerves vibrating on so many different levels it made him shake. Her breath hitched when she felt the row of stitches that ran down the back of his scalp. “I’m sorry you got hurt.” The softly spoken words wobbled. “I never wanted—I—” she broke off and pressed closer, burying her face into his shirt.

  “Hey, hey,” he soothed. “I’m okay. Nothing that time won’t fix.” Moisture pooled in his own eyes, and he blinked it away.

  This overwhelming uncertainty was so fucking frustrating. He was a bubbling volcano of want. He wanted to take the solace she offered, wanted to kiss those lips until they turned dark pink with desire, wanted to stay just like they were until their legs gave out and they fell to the floor. Want, want, want. Take, take, take.

  He might be her husband, but it didn’t sit right with him to take such liberties. No matter how fierce the need was to remember their past and pick up where they might have left off, he’d just have to reconcile himself to the fact that his brain would not be rushed. Until that time came, he would have to do his best to do right by Greta.

  “I’m sorry I got angry about the bed,” he murmured into her neck. “I don’t like the thought that you ever felt like you couldn’t sleep in your own bed. My wife should be happy.”

  “I understand.” Her sigh carried the weight of the world. Some of the rigidity returned to her spine
as she visibly braced herself and said, “Sometimes we don’t always see eye to eye. We may fight big, but we love big too. We’re not the most perfect couple,” she admitted with a tiny chuckle. “I know you have so much on your mind, Trey. Please, don’t force it. We just need to adjust. Remember, one day at a time. We’ve been through worse.”

  Like the death of their son. Trey didn’t think that anything would ever make up for him not being able to remember his child.

  When her body shifted to step back, he tightened his hold. He felt her cheek bunch against his chest as she smiled in response.

  “I’m going to let you have some privacy. I need to check on dinner, too.”

  Trey didn’t want to let her go, but he knew she was right. They both probably needed a moment alone. She gave him a tremulous smile and brushed her thumb over his cheek before she left him on his own with one of her signature shy smiles. The sensation of her touch lingered long after she’d gone.

  In the wake of her absence, a deafening silence rolled into the empty room. A terrible, thrown-into-a raging-river sensation of helplessness swamped over him like a tidal wave.

  “Damn it,” he muttered as he ran his hands through his hair.

  He had to fix this. Somehow, he was going to have to try to make up for the last few days and chase the cloud of pain from Greta’s eyes. Try to be her husband.

  No.

  Determination straightened his spine. He was her husband. There would be no trying about it. All he had to do was suck it up and be the husband he knew he could be.

  She said they weren’t the perfect couple. Well, who was? He had to stop worrying about the past. Focus on the present and everything would fall into place.

  “Right.” He pulled on his cuffs and stood taller. “You can do this.”

  The air conditioner kicked on, blasting out a cold stream of air that reminded him a bit too much of his time in the hospital. Fresh air and hard-packed earth under his boots was just what he needed to get his bearings.

  As he headed toward the stairs, he passed the door of what he knew had been his room as a child. Greta hadn’t shown him inside, and he wondered if it was decorated with the same blue and tan gingham of his youth or if it had been converted into a guest room.