“I will,” she promised, as she vowed to never take advantage of him again.
She waited until the sound of his boots across the tile faded and the front door shut with a soft click before returning to work on the waiting vegetables. She rolled the big Walla Walla onion onto the cutting board and deftly sliced through the center. The sweet fumes rose up and stung her eyes, but she didn’t shed a tear.
15
Trey reeled away from the sight of Mark staring at Greta as if he’d sweep her up into his arms and ride off into the sunset. He managed to stumble out the back door and sat with a hard bounce on the top step.
“Holy shit,” he breathed out through lungs tight with shock.
His best friend was in love with his wife.
His brain exploded into a million pieces then rushed back to form one mind-numbing ball of mush.
His best friend was in love with his wife.
What the fuck?
How the hell had he missed that? It all made sense, though. Mark seemed to be rather familiar with her routine, her moods, her thoughts.
Shit, was this what Greta didn’t want him to remember? Dear God, did she love Mark back? The thought made his stomach cramp and sent a sharp shooting pain over his right eye.
He climbed back to his feet on shaky limbs and searched the horizon for clarity. The pissed-off husband part of him wanted to storm in there and demand answers, while the chicken-shit part wanted to slink into the darkness of the barn and pretend he didn’t know anything.
A crazed, tittering laugh escaped from his lips. He didn’t know anything, that’s why he felt like a kite twisting in the wind, ready to snap and sail into oblivion. Was it even possible to face either of them and pretend he hadn’t been a witness to that exchange?
Hell no. One thing you learned while living on a ranch was that sooner or later you were gonna step in some shit. Chances were that if he kept quiet, he’d invariably end up ankle deep in a steaming pile of more lies. No matter how painful it might be, he needed to know exactly what was going on. The time for secrets was over, but first, he had questions for his best friend.
A peek through the glass revealed Greta alone in the kitchen, back at work cooking supper. Trey snuck past the window and rounded the side of the house.
Mark stood on the porch, staring into the distance in much the same way Trey had done just a moment before. Loss was etched into every line of his face and drew his shoulders down. He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath through his mouth. He slapped his hat against his thigh before jerking it onto his head and gliding down the stairs.
Trey ran after him, without a clue as to what to say. He reined in the furious emotions rioting inside him and tried to remain calm. This was going to require finesse and it wouldn’t do to go off half cocked.
“You’re in love with my wife,” he shouted. Damn, that was smooth.
Mark froze mid-step as his shoulders formed a tense line. It seemed like an eternity passed before he turned around.
He raised his strong chin and looked Trey dead in the eye. “Yep.”
Several seconds of silence slid by, and Trey felt like an ass as he waited for more. He knew better than to expect Mark to elaborate.
“Does she love you back?” Just asking the question burned his throat.
Mark’s big shoulders slumped, but his dark gaze never wavered. “Greta has never treated me as anything other than a friend. She loves you.”
The weight crushing Trey’s chest eased enough to allow him to breathe. Relief filled him so fast, he became light headed. “Why was she crying?”
“I don’t know,” Mark ground out. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“She won’t tell me. She doesn’t talk to me like she does you. Why won’t she?”
Mark bit off a curse. “Maybe it’s because you won’t talk to her. Goddamn it,” he snapped as his body trembled with restrained annoyance. “You know, I was okay losing her to you, because you treated her like she was the stars and moon combined. But when Luke died, we might as well have buried you next to him. You didn’t just push everyone away. You either ignored us or treated us like we were nothing but property. Just more tools to keep the ranch running. And I had to stand by and watch a beautiful, passionate woman become a shell of herself under your coldness. If you want to fucking know what’s wrong with your wife, go fucking ask her!” He pivoted on his dusty black boot and stalked away. He jerked a lighter out of his front jeans pocket and searched frantically through the rest of his clothes.
“Damn it!” he shouted when he came up empty, then threw the lighter into the field.
Four angry strides later he cursed again and jumped the fence. Retrieving his lighter from the dry grass, he jammed it back into his pocket then stomped back down the road.
As Trey watched him, his mind raced over the three things he had just learned.
His best friend was in love with his wife.
Greta was still hiding something from him.
And he was never going to get his clean slate do-over.
The pressure to regain his memory landed on him like a two-ton bull. No way was he going to be able to move forward without understanding his past. He needed answers and he needed them now. Talking to Greta was out of the question. She was far too upset at the moment and might retreat if she thought he was pushing her.
He saw Mark disappear into the motor shed. Seconds later, the roar of a dirt bike tore through the quiet summer air before Mark shot out like a bat out of hell, disappearing into a grove of ponderosa pines.
Trey ached for his friend despite what just occurred. Greta was an easy woman to love, and Mark had met her first. That must have been a bitter pill to swallow, having her choose Trey over him. How difficult had it been to stand by and watch another man love her, and then toss her away? If Trey ever saw anyone mistreat her, they wouldn’t be breathing for very long.
Was that how he got hurt? Had Mark finally become fed up with his behavior and tried to take him out? No, he instantly rejected that idea. Mark might be pissed at him, but he would never try to kill him. He hoped.
Damn, what a complete and utter fuckfest.
Trey turned back to the house, feeling older than ever. The windows of the upper story stared down at him like wise, all-knowing eyes. This was the house he was born in. It was where every event in his life happened. Happy or sad, ecstatic to downright devastating, the house had seen it all. He looked at the building, hoping that somehow all of the answers would spill out the front door.
An idea struck him like lightning. He sucked in a sharp breath and his heart began to pound so fast and so hard he thought he’d really been electrocuted.
There was one person who might be the key to unlocking his past.
He raced back to the house and tore up the stairs before he thought twice and pussed out. At the top of the landing he came to a screeching halt in front of the first door on the left. For five minutes, he stared at the white-painted wood, his hand on the doorknob, feeling more like an idiot with each passing second.
What was there to be afraid of? It was just him, the door, and the overwhelming urge to turn around and walk away.
“It’s just a room,” he scolded his shaking hand. “Get your head out of your ass and get inside.”
He took a deep steadying breath, closed his eyes and twisted the knob with a jerk. Within seconds, he was inside the room, his back braced against the door. He waited for the rushing in his ears to fade and his pulse to slow before slowly opening his eyes.
A billowy soft maroon comforter covered the queen-sized bed. A dresser and a nightstand in a matching pale wood stain completed the furnishings in the sparsely decorated room. The only suggestion it had once been a nursery was the light blue paint on the walls.
Minutes passed as Trey waited for his memories to hit him over the head like a frying pan. When nothing happened, alarm began to set in. He was running out of options. This room was the key. He felt it in his gut. Luke h
ad to be the answer to what was holding his memories back. There had to be something in the room to help him.
The closet door opened on silent hinges, exposing its secrets. The crib, disassembled and leaning against the back wall, had his heart racing. Besides the photo he found in his office, the crib was the only other item he’d seen that indicated a child had once lived there. Stacked on the closet floor were three unmarked boxes. Somehow Trey knew that was all that remained of Luke Armstrong.
“Please let this work. Please let this work,” Trey whispered, half hopeful and half afraid it would. The way his hand now shook made the earlier trembling out in the hallway look steady enough to perform brain surgery.
A stuffed bear, a tiny football, and some very worn T-shirts lay inside the first box. Trey pulled a shirt out and smiled. On the white cotton was a silhouette of a cowboy, with tomato stains decorating the front. He held it up to his nose and inhaled. Laundry soap and clean baby skin. In his mind, he suddenly saw big, round, laughing blue eyes filled with mischief smiling up at him. Spaghetti stuck all over chubby cheeks and in his dark hair. Hysterical giggling preceded a well-aimed toss of more pasta on the wall.
The images that flooded Trey’s mind brought him to his knees. He reached out a hand, his fingertips digging at the wall for support. He took in great gulps of air as it all came rushing back.
Luke.
He remembered Luke. The day he was born, just like Greta had described. The way he smelled, like baby lotion and sour milk. The light in his eyes when he caused trouble. It was all there.
And that horrible day when that light had gone out.
Trey had been out in the far pasture with Ben when Colby called his cell. Greta was screaming for help from Luke’s bedroom. The three of them jumped on their dirt bikes and raced back to the house. The sound of their bikes had been drowned out by the roaring blades of the medivac as it touched down in the huge driveway.
He hadn’t even brought the bike to a complete stop before he leaped off and ran into the house and up the stairs. The panic that gripped him made him stumble several times along the way. His heart had beat so hard, his eyeballs throbbed.
Greta’s cries echoed down the hall. She had never made that sound before. It looped around his throat and strangled him with terror. The door stood opened, but momentum had him bursting into the room. He froze in the face of the nightmare that waited.
Luke was laid out in the floor, and Greta was holding his hand. Deep wrenching grief poured from her despite her efforts to hold it together and remain calm. Mark was bent over, performing CPR on the limp little body on the carpet.
Shock held him immobile as all of the color leeched from his vision. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was only two, for Christ’s sake. What the hell happened? The paramedics shoved him out of the way as they entered. He bounced off the wall and would have fallen if Ben hadn’t been there to catch him. Mark scrambled out of their way, but Greta held on. She refused to let go for one second.
It had been too late. Luke was gone and there was nothing Trey could have done to save him.
As he huddled in the closet, all of the pain, anger and helplessness he felt that day resurfaced. Blood filled his mouth as he bit his lip to keep the sobs inside. Tears fell like rain to wet the shirt still clutched in his hands.
This was why he had pushed everyone away. This burning, tortuous ache of loss and failure that covered him like a dark, suffocating blanket.
He had been terrified that everyone else he loved would die, too. His mom, dad, Luke, even his former horse had all been taken too early. And Greta. If Greta was taken from him, he wouldn’t be able to go on. That was why he stopped touching her. What if they had another child who suffered Luke’s fate or, God forbid, Greta died in childbirth? The possibilities ate at him until he went mad with the constant worrying. He stopped sleeping, stopped eating. The paranoia had grown and grown until it had become too much to bear. He didn’t want to hurt anymore. He didn’t want to feel. So he stopped.
He stopped feeling.
No more taking meals with the rest of the family. The office was moved into the barn to stay away from the temptation of being near Greta. A fence went up around his heart. He could see out, but nothing and no one was allowed in.
Greta had been so hurt and confused by his withdrawal. She gave him time to grieve, but there was only so much distance she allowed. She tried to talk to him, yelled at him, cajoled him. She even asked him to seek counseling, but he kept avoiding her. Finally, she had given up. They coexisted in the same house, with no love, no sharing, but he knew she was safe. He had thought that the arrangement was going well until the day she left him.
Holy shit. He fell back on his ass as he remembered the day of his injury.
“She left me.”
16
The day had begun the same as the last four hundred and eighty-two. It was four in the morning and the dawn was hours away, leaving Trey in the near dark of the empty kitchen.
He scraped the last of the bran flakes out of his bowl before placing it in the dishwasher. The light above the stove illuminated the ingredients Greta had left out on the counter. It looked as though she was planning on making waffles for the men that morning. Trey’s stomach grumbled in protest at having been subjected to mushy cereal. He didn’t blame it. Greta’s waffles were the best.
His sigh of longing came out of nowhere and surprised him. Sure, he hadn’t shared a meal with anyone in a long while, but that was how he wanted it. Mealtime was when most of the talking occurred. When everyone shared parts of their day or interesting things they learned. It was a time to bond, and he didn’t want to bond with anyone any more than he had to.
No, he thought as he turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness. It was better this way.
The office was exactly as he had left it the night before. His weights were where he set them, and the book he had finished rested on top of the others he had read that week. Of course, he hadn’t expected any different. Mark was the only one who ventured in from time to time, mostly to check if Trey was still breathing. Otherwise, he was left alone.
Only an hour had passed when he found himself staring at the ceiling and tapping his foot in agitation. Bills were paid. All of the reports were updated. He already read all of the books stacked around him. The men had been given their assignments for the day the night before. Unless he wanted to join them, there was nothing left for him to do in his office. The thought of taking another online computer course or playing a video game made him want to go back to bed. His lonely bed. Hell, he could probably take apart his computer and put it back together in a few hours if he really wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He wasn’t meant to be chained to a desk. He was supposed to be outside, working the land, watching over the livestock. It was still early and probably safe to go out in the field without running into anyone.
Sunlight had barely edged over the horizon by the time he saddled up Lucky in the barn. Pink and yellow fingers of light fought to break in through the cracks in the wood. Usually, they used dirt bikes to cover large areas, but Trey wanted to take his time. Plus, it had been a few weeks since he’d taken Lucky out. The exercise would do them both good.
A breeze stirred up, blowing the grass into an ocean of rolling green waves. Every blade was trimmed to his specifications, and only a few sections of fence needed mending. All in all, the ranch was in perfect condition. Trey surveyed his small kingdom with pride. He poured all of his sweat and time into the land. There was not one inch he hadn’t explored and analyzed to get the most out of the resources. The land was all he had.
The land was all he had.
What would happen once he was too old to take care of the ranch? What would happen to him? There were people he trusted, like Mark and Ben, who could take over without any difficulty. Maybe one of them would have a child they could pass it on to. But where would that leave Trey?
This self-imposed exile was becoming impossible to m
aintain. Especially when he saw the strain it put on Greta. He hadn’t spoken more than a word or two to her in weeks, and she had begun sleeping in her workroom. She no longer gifted him with her smiles, not that he did anything to earn them. In fact, the whole crew had long ago stopped trying to engage him in any conversation that wasn’t absolutely necessary. They learned he was no longer the carefree, fun-loving man he once was. That Trey was long gone, swallowed up by the pain of loss. Caring hurt too damn much.
God, he felt old. Was this what isolation did to you? Made your bones ache and your head hurt? Made your lungs feel like lead weights and your blood sluggish as it tried to keep the heart that you no longer acknowledged you had pumping?
Birds chirped in the trees and the bright sunshine mocked the mental darkness he resided in. He couldn’t stay cooped up all of the time, yet the cheer of the outdoors reminded him of all that he rejected. How much longer could he keep this up?
It was after two in the afternoon when he returned to the barn. Eight more hours to occupy himself until he could go to sleep and another day would be over.
Out in the driveway, the open tailgate of the SUV and the sight of Greta loading boxes into the back caught his attention. Frowning, Trey wondered what she was doing. Didn’t she attend an art fair last week? He hated it when she left. He worried about her safety when she was off the ranch, and he hated the fact that he still worried. Greta was capable of taking care of herself. But what if she found herself in a situation that was out of her control and he wasn’t there to help her?
If he failed…
It would kill him, if he failed her like he had Luke.
Greta slid a suitcase into the backseat, filling the car to bursting. None of the hands were around, which really had Trey wondering what she was up to. Usually, one of the men went with her to help set up her booth.
His curiosity got the better of him and he strolled across the gravel. “Going somewhere?” he asked as he came up behind her.
Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology Page 126