Staying Home (Roped by the Cowboy Duet Book 2) Page 12

  “Okay…” He waited while she absorbed his confession, curious and fearful of what her response would be. “Well, Nash…” she started, her words striking terror and doubt in him, “since we’re putting it out there, I guess I think I love you too.”

  Nash couldn’t believe his ears. Was he hearing her right? “I’m sorry,” he said with a touch of humor in his voice, “but did we just…agree on something?”

  Vivian couldn’t hide her amusement any more than he could. “It certainly looks that way, cowboy.”

  “So it’s settled then. We both think we might be in love with each other.”

  “Well, you said you were definitely in love with me,” she pointed out, and he agreed. She was right. He’d said that with the utmost certainty, hadn’t he?

  Pushing back into his seat, he kicked up a knee in order to face her properly and slung an arm over the back of the couch. “And you only think you love me?” He scoffed. “Come on, darlin’, you can do a mite better than that.”

  After a bit of hem-hawing that he suspected was all an effort in torturing him, Vivian finally admitted, as she reached up to caress the side of his unshaven cheek, “Yeah, cowboy, I’m definitely falling in love with you.”

  Nash didn’t need anything more than that, and his response was to swoop in and steal a kiss so hot, it blazed through both of their bodies, lighting a fire that rivaled the one he’d built in the hearth.

  It was a kiss that scorched, and it demanded more.

  They pawed at one another like teenagers, a frenzy of need that consumed them. As Nash pushed toward her, she reclined, until she was laid out on her back with Nash covering her. They didn’t bother with undressing, opting to only remove the necessary pieces that barred their way.

  Nash continued the kiss as his hands skimmed down the length of her toned thighs and found the waistband of her—thank God!—stretchy pants, and peeled them down to her knees.

  Making quick work of freeing himself, he hooked the edge of her panties and pulled them aside, pushing his hard length into her tight, warm embrace and setting up a fast rhythm that brought them both to a quick and violent release.

  In the aftermath of their passionate lovemaking, Nash collapsed back onto the couch, drawing Vivian’s sated form to his chest, where she cuddled against him. Although it was still early, they allowed sleep to capture them and dreamed together in the last slice of peace either would find for some time.

  SEVENTEEN

  There was no need for a hospital. Not this time. In an unexpected twist of fate, God had seen fit to call Ms. Gretta home.

  Nash was beside himself. As he sat in the middle of her living room, listening to the comings and goings of the rescue squad and the coroner as they performed the grim job of removing Ms. Gretta’s lifeless body, Nash was wracked with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

  While he’d been absorbing himself in the pleasures of Vivian’s body, Ms. Gretta had passed into the next life. So many questions made loops through his mind, but the one he kept returning to was, had he been there, could he have changed anything? Could he have somehow prevented this?

  They wouldn’t know what the official cause of death was until the coroner had a chance to autopsy her—something Nash couldn’t stomach even thinking about—but with her recently realized medical history, they could guess.

  Had her heart failed her due to the preexisting condition, or had their fight caused so much stress that it just gave out? The truth was, he would never know. That was the thing about guilt: it always had questions but never any answers. At least, none that would help him sleep at night.

  It was a nightmare. Another horror story in Nash’s book that he was stuck trying to figure out. Only this time, he didn’t have Ms. Gretta there to help him make sense of anything. He was left to his own devices, which he’d found considerably lacking.

  What was he going to do now? Nash had no clue.

  “Here you go, sweetheart.” Vivian’s soft voice was filled with concern as she handed him a warm cup of tea and sat beside him, placing what she intended to be a comforting hand on his thigh. It didn’t escape his notice that she’d used a pet name for him, but Nash wasn’t in the right frame of mind to address it, let alone experience the typical feelings one might when the person they were in love with called them one for the first time.

  Nash stared into the mug between his hands, heating his skin to uncomfortable levels, but all he could think was that he didn’t want hot tea. It didn’t hold any appeal. He had an urge for the ice cold tea that Ms. Gretta always made.

  “How are you doing?”

  Nash couldn’t summon an answer for that. It should be obvious that he was devastated, and he let his silence speak for itself. Vivian’s grip tightened, again in her attempt to offer some form of solace. While he appreciated her effort to be a source of support, his gut reaction was to want to go someplace and be alone.

  It took everything in him to remain there and in the moment. The fact was, while Vivian may appear the pillar of strength, he could feel her sorrow too. She was beside herself, but somehow, maybe out of the same shock and grief that was swamping him, she was holding herself together.

  Neither of them had yet to shed a single tear, which maybe made them more alike than he’d originally thought. But one thing was certain: when it finally did set it, and it would, they were going to be a hot mess. He just hoped they’d be able to get through it—together.

  If there was one thing about life he’s witnessed throughout his, it was that when life dealt its blows, it either brought people together or tore them apart. There was no in between.

  “I just can’t believe this is happening. I mean, I knew it was going to happen, but not today.”

  Breaking free of his self-imposed negative thoughts, Nash had the presence of mind to place his hand over hers and give it a squeeze. He understood those dark thoughts, the confusion, and the hurt much too well.

  Her breath hitched as the medics wheeled the gurney past the living room and through the foyer, the wheels on the hardwood floors obscenely loud.

  The black bag containing Ms. Gretta’s body looked much too small, even more so than her tiny, stout frame. Nash couldn’t help recalling the day he’d witnessed Carlene wheeled away in a bag just like it and making comparisons.

  Ms. Gretta’s death, while it tore him apart inside, didn’t even come close to the crippling despair he’d experienced before. This was…manageable, he realized.

  In that moment, as Ms. Gretta exited the house for the final time, he understood he could make it through this. If the good Lord had seen fit to take away the very being who breathed light into his life and he’d survived, then the Lord calling his mother figure home after giving him so many good years with her in which he’d learned so much was acceptable. He didn’t have to like it, but he could find a way to accept it.

  “She’s with Pete now,” he found himself saying. Just like one day he would see Carlene again, whole and well, waiting for him.

  Which, if things worked out well for him and Vivian, would certainly be a problem when he got there. Two wives in the same space? God certainly did have a sense of humor, didn’t He? And he had no doubt that Ms. Gretta would be standing front and center to complicate it further.

  “Yes, she is.” She hiccupped and then held her breath, catching Nash’s attention.

  She was crying.

  “Oh, darlin’.” Transferring his hand to her slumped shoulders, Nash pulled Vivian against him and held her tight, finding the strength he didn’t imagine having before that moment to be there for her as she’d been trying to be there for him.

  “I’m sorry,” she snuffled into his shirt, wiping at her eyes in a vain attempt to dry them. “I’m supposed to be comforting you, not the other way around.”

  Nash shushed her. “It’s okay to cry, darlin’. She was a mother to both of us. And call me crazy, but I think she’d be offended if ya didn’t bawl your eyes out at least once.”

 
This got a strained laugh from her, and then Vivian was drawing away, drying her eyes again, and visibly pulling herself together. Her effort was both impressive and admirable. Nash was filled with pride for this strong woman before him that he was beginning to think of as his.

  Once Ms. Gretta was loaded up and ready to go and Nash had a chance to speak to the coroner and relayed the funeral home she would be transported to—the same as Pete, per her request the day they sat together in the funeral parlor and arranged for his burial—Nash and Vivian packed up an overnight bag and returned to his house, as she didn’t feel comfortable staying in the home now that Ms. Gretta had passed.

  Nash had never understood the fear of death some people held, despite no one wanting to face it. But he’d never had any apprehension about staying in his home when Carlene had died. Maybe it was because he didn’t have any psychological trauma tied to his home—just memories.

  He supposed Vivian was discomfited because Ms. Gretta passed within the home. Maybe she had a fear of ghosts? He didn’t doubt that if there was an afterlife and if Ms. Gretta could pull it off, she’d haunt the both of them. And no boundary or amount of distance would stop her.

  He was going to miss that ornery woman.

  It was growing late by the time they returned to his place. Nash took the stairs to the second floor without a word, and Vivian followed. Neither were in a mood for conversation. What could they talk about anyway? The single most traumatic thing that could have happened had, and now they were in the aftermath of shock, focused on trying to regather the pieces to a broke puzzle and fit them back together.

  The air felt oppressive, as if they were cocooned in a bubble designed just for them. The invisible weight on Nash’s chest was real as he brought Vivian’s bag into the master bedroom and laid it down on the end of the bed.

  When he turned to kick off his shoes and start getting ready for bed, he saw that she had stopped in the doorway, her expression wary.

  “What’s wrong?” Did she see ghosts here too? Nash surprised himself. At least his thoughts still held a sense of humor, light as they may be.

  Vivian twisted her hands together. “I, uh…I can stay in the guest room, if you want.”

  Nash’s brows pulled together. “Why would you do that?”

  Her gaze traveled around the room, and for a moment, Nash wondered what she could be seeing that he wasn’t.

  “Nash…” She sighed. “How many women have you had here, in this house? In this room?”

  He didn’t even have to think about it. “Just one.” Her.

  She nodded her understanding. “Are you sure it’s okay? Are you ready for this?”

  Again, he was stricken with a moment of confusion, doubt. What was she getting at? “I think I missed somethin’, darlin’.”

  He approached slowly, as one might do a frightened alley cat.

  “I just don’t want to be disrespectful.”

  “To who? Me? Because I can assure ya, I don’t feel that way.”

  “I talked to Gretta.” She waved her hand and rolled her eyes, as if exasperated with herself. “Before. A while back. Anyway, she told me some about you and Carlene and all of that.” Her gaze roamed again, and understanding began to sink in as Nash considered this.

  “You’re worried you’re going to upset my dead wife?”

  She grimaced. “Kind of? That probably sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  Nash smiled and fit his hand around the back of her neck, massaging the tense muscles. “A little bit, but I appreciate your concern. And I’d be lyin’ if I said that I hadn’t already considered all of that.”

  “And?”

  He met her hopeful eyes. “And while I don’t think Carlene would be ecstatic to see me move on, I know she wouldn’t hold me back from tryin’ to be happy. And I think she’d approve of ya.”

  “But her house…”

  “My house, darlin’.” She looked away, her gaze dropping to the floor, and Nash sensed there was more. “What is it? Talk to me.”

  Pursing her lips, she took a few moments to collect her thoughts and gather her courage before speaking again. “I can’t help but notice all the personal touches around here. I mean, unless you have a sharp eye for interior decorating, she’s everywhere.”

  It was Nash’s turn to look around, to attempt to see what she saw. Carlene had in fact decorated the house. From the paint on the walls to the furniture to the knickknacks, right down to the little decorative soaps shaped like miniature roses, the house held her personal touches. It’s what had made it a home.

  “And that makes you uncomfortable,” he surmised.

  “Not before. But right now…a little.” She looked away again, and Nash got the sense that she was ashamed of herself.

  Hooking a finger under her chin, he brought her face back up so he could look into her eyes. “It’s just decorations. It doesn’t mean anythin’.”

  “It’s her. Her memory is everywhere. And I’m not asking you to erase that,” she rushed to assure him. “I’m just saying that I don’t want to trample on that by sharing your martial bed.”

  “That bed has been cold a long time. You wouldn’t be tramplin’ on anythin’. But if it would make you feel better, we can sleep in one of the other rooms.” He didn’t wait for her answer. Turning, he retrieved her bag and set off to the last room down the hall, the farthest away from the master and the most masculine one of the three.

  Navy blue and gold plaid covered the bed, heavy blue curtains draped the single window that overlooked the backyard, and heavy walnut furniture made up the rest. This was the room Carlene had started but hadn’t had the chance to finish, and Nash thought if he could only detect a hint of her here, then hopefully Vivian would be comfortable sharing it with him.

  “How does this one work out?”

  Vivian stepped inside and paused to soak it in. Finally, she tipped her head and said, “This is good. I like it. It’s very…”

  “Plain?”

  “I was going to say man cave-ish.”

  Nash chuckled. “Like I said, plain.” If he had been in charge of the decorating, every room in the house would probably look very similar to this one. Nash wasn’t into the fussy stuff and he didn’t much pay attention to the finer details. He was ashamed to admit that much of Carlene’s hard work turning the house into a home had gone unnoticed—until she was gone. Then he’d often spot little things, like the antique doorstoppers he recalled her special ordering from Ebay so they’d match the house just right, and the ornate doorknobs she’d meticulously stripped of layers of chipped paint, restoring them to their original copper finish. If anyone should be ashamed, it was him, because he hadn’t truly appreciated those things until she was gone. It was those little things that would catch him off guard, making the loss fresh again.

  Vivian was right to want a different room. Nash needed to put some distance between him and Carlene’s memory, too, if he had any hope of truly moving on and finding happiness again. Maybe Vivian was on to something when she said she wasn’t comfortable in Ms. Gretta’s home anymore. Maybe she was trying to escape her ghost as much as Nash maybe needed to escape Carlene’s.

  Reaching past her to close the bedroom door, Nash imagined that the room was their escape from the rest of the world, even if just for tonight. “It’s late. What do ya say we ditch these clothes and catch some shut-eye.”

  “I’d say that sounds perfect.” Vivian yawned then, her mouth stretching wide and her petite nose scrunching in a way that Nash found adorable. And contagious. Nash ended up yawning himself.

  Stripping down to their underwear, they climbed beneath the blankets and rolled into each other, arms wrapping and legs tangling, until there was no distinction from where one began and the other ended. And that’s how they fell asleep and stayed until the morning came knocking once again.

  EIGHTEEN

  Planning a funeral was never easy. At least Nash had a bit of experience in picking out caskets and flowers and t
he usual fare for such an event. You’d think it would get easier, but death was never easy and losing a loved one was even harder. The cruelest part about life was that saying goodbye was never enough, but it had to be.

  He only regretted that he hadn’t had the chance. Their last words had been spoken in anger, both of them too stubborn to find common ground. Had he known it would be the last time he’d see her, Nash would have said something else.

  Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. He’d been a hothead, and when Nash was in that frame of mind, he tended to behave unreasonably. But Ms. Gretta knew he loved her, and he knew she loved him. That was the only slice of comfort he could hold onto as he made the arrangements with the funeral director that day to put her in the ground, her final resting place beside her late husband and his surrogate father.

  “There are so many choices. How does anyone pick the right one?”

  Vivian was helping him look through a booklet of casket choices. But they were all too plain and all very expensive. While Ms. Gretta had a plot already bought and paid for, she hadn’t had the money set aside for the actual burial, leaving it to him to absorb the financial end of things. Nash was torn between sending her off in style and breaking the bank in the process, or being sensible and hoping it was enough.

  “What about this one?” Vivian had stopped on a page adorned with pictures of caskets ranging in a number of colors, her finger pointing to a shiny wood lacquered one with a carved flower applique on the sides. It was simple, elegant, and within his budget.

  “That’s perfect.”

  “That’s what I was thinking too. Not too fancy, not too plain. Just like her.”

  “This is the one,” Nash said, pointing it out to the director, who had been sitting patiently and silently while they made their decision. He was a short, thin man with a shiny pate, thin lips and hawkish nose, and dark, beady eyes that unsettled Nash, but he had a calming disposition that made him perfect for the job.