Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

Sal wakes the next morning to a bedroom brightened by thin fingers of sunlight. Her nightmare from last night is a mere memory. But what isn’t a mere memory is Luke. Coming to her, holding her like he’d chase away her demons and then some.

For a few minutes, she lies in bed, silently listening as she readies herself to take in the first day of her new life. In the hallway—footsteps. The soft creak of wood floors. Downstairs—coffee, freshly brewed, the rattle of a screen door.

Sal swings her legs off the edge of the bed. She opens the drawer to her nightstand, rifling through its contents. A lone earring. A fifty-cent piece. A tube of lipstick called Pink Petal. A yearly planner. Flipping through it, Sal pauses when she comes to the week before the plane crash.

In the margins, she’s written a single note: Alabama.

Wondering, Sal cocks her head, eyes narrowed, trying to remember.

Her mind blurs to blackness, returns to the present.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Sal shelves the planner and slams shut the nightstand drawer. Then she grabs her cell phone and exits the room.

In the hallway, she pauses, listening. The house is quiet. No sound from Luke or Seth.

Should she snoop? Yeah. She should snoop.

Why shouldn’t she? It’s her house. Even if she can’t remember it.

Jelly brained, she drifts down the hall.

Next door to the master bedroom is a guest room. She pokes her head inside. She wants a better look at this room. With walls painted a soft Robin’s-egg blue, the room is square and sparse, yet still cozy. Overlooking the front yard is a bay window with a stuffed elephant sitting on the cushion. Sal goes to the closet, opens it. All it contains is an old guitar that looks like it’s seen better days, leaning against one wall.

Luke’s.

Kneeling, Sal plucks a string. She smiles at the twang it makes, the vibration thrumming against her fingertips. Rising, she stretches. Arms out, lengthening, relishing the freedom of her body, the sunniness of the morning.

Sal sits in the middle of the bedroom. In her palm is her cell phone. She checks it. She has service; the fours bars tell her so.

With only a slight twinge of guilt, she pulls up the web browser.

After casting a quick glance at the open door, like Luke will pop in and catch her, Sal types, Luke Kincaid, singer.

While she wants to know herself, this morning, she’s more interested in Luke.

That nightmare last night was something else. And there Luke was, by her side, calling her back, keeping her safe. But what about him?

While she’s touched that everything of hers has been kept like she’s still living, she can’t help but wonder if that’s what Luke’s barely been doing. Living.

She wants to know more about the brooding country singer that is her husband.

The first headline that comes up has her raising a hand to her mouth.

Country Superstar Luke Kincaid and Wife in Devastating Plane Crash

Friends and Family Join Hunt for Country Superstar’s Wife.

Wife of Country Music Sensation Luke Kincaid Presumed Dead in Plane Crash.

Sal scowls at the asshole headlines. She has a name.

One she had to work hard to learn.

And there are photos of the plane crash. Hundreds of photos.

Charred wreckage.

Luke and Seth sifting through rubble.

A press conference. Serious faces. Wet eyes.

Clicking on a video link, Sal leans in close. It’s Luke. Being interviewed from his hospital bed. He’s in pain, agonized, his voice cracking and breaking in all the wrong places. “We have to keep looking for Sal. We have to find her. Please. My wife—”

Sal’s heart takes a dip. She turns off the video. Unable to handle Luke’s sadness. It feels wrong to be a voyeur to his grief without first asking him about it.

Now, Sal types, the Brothers Kincaid.

Her eyes scan articles, quotes, photos.

Childhood friends Luke and Seth Kincaid and Jace Taylor have been playing together for longer than they can remember . . .

The Brothers Kincaid are drawn to country and rock influences with a bluegrass foundation . . .

Even after his band, the Brothers Kincaid, became one of the most popular country bands of today, Luke Kincaid keeps a steady head . . .

Twenty minutes later, the sun has shifted and Sal’s still reading.

Noticing the quiet of the house, she pauses, lowers the phone. Glancing down, she traces the tattoo on her palm. Runs a thumb over her bare ring finger, closing her eyes at the absence of her wedding ring.

She thinks of Roy.

Of Luke.

Taking a breath, she stands.

She hasn’t lived her life in so long. Today, she starts.

Six a.m. and Luke carries a cup of hot coffee out onto the back porch. From here, he can see everything special about Wild Antler Farm. The sunrise painting the rolling hills. The sparkle of the river in the distance. The tree line of the silver-green forest. Dandelion fluff floating on the breeze.

This view—he’s seen it a thousand times, and yet, it’s still a scene he can’t get enough of.

Unfurling the paper, scooped from the front porch, he scowls at the headline—Country Superstar Luke Kincaid Brings ‘Dead’ Wife Home!—and trashes it.

Fucking vultures.

The crack of the door has Luke turning, expecting to see Seth. Instead, he finds Sal. Barefoot, her dark hair kinked from sleep, wearing his T-shirt and sweats. “Hey, good mornin’,” he says, facing her, his back braced by the porch railing.

“Mornin’.”

Luke smiles, amused to see his wife up this early. Sal was always a voracious sleeper.

“You sleep okay?”

“I did.”

Sal moves closer to Luke, her light footsteps whisking across the deck. She barely turns her head. Her delicate features resolute and absolutely steady. There’s no mention of the nightmare. Any trace of the vulnerable woman he had held in his arms last night has been chased away by the morning sun. In her place is a grimly determined Sal who will face the day.

A soft gasp comes from Sal. She’s gazing out at the river.

As she takes in the view, a finger of golden sunlight falls across her face. Her luminous green eyes shine like sea glass, her full lips pulled into a sunny smile.

Luke can’t tear his gaze away. She’s so damn beautiful.

A tilt of her head and Sal’s asking, “What is it?”

Luke shakes himself awake.

Shit. She’s caught him staring.

“It’s just . . .” His throat bobs. “That view.”

“Yeah.” She smiles faintly. “That view.”

Then, noticing her light shiver, he extends an arm. “Should we go inside? There’s coffee.”

The magic words have Sal brightening.

Inside, all Luke can do is watch. The pad of Sal’s soft footsteps around the kitchen—their kitchen—hits him like a shot of whiskey. He can’t get enough, drunk on her mere presence. He should get down on his knees and thank his goddamn lucky stars above.

He never thought he’d get this again. His wife in the kitchen with her coffee. He always loved the messy chaos that filled their mornings. Sal late, always late, running out the door, bagel in her mouth, mismatched socks.

In that instant, Luke knows he’s saved. Sal’s saved him by coming back. Admitting it shames him, won’t make him a better man, but goddamn if it ain’t true.

Cabinets clatter as Sal searches for the mugs. Luke watches as she opens cabinet after cabinet to no avail. Finally, he points at the cabinet above her. “You’re close, darlin’.”

Sal nods, a bit sadly, and joins him at the counter. The mugs in her hands. “Smells good,” she says as he pours them each a steaming cup.

“It should be.” Luke grins. “You picked it out.”

She pauses, the cup to her lips. “How did I take it?”

He’s confused at first, then understands. “Black. Exactly like that.”

This time her smile is bright. A beam. “At least I got something right.” She blows on the surface of the coffee and takes a deep sip.

“You’re in there, Sal,” Luke says, determination coursing through him. “We’ll find you. I promise.”

The grateful smile she gives him has him unsteady on his feet. “You keep saying that, I’ll believe you.”

“That’s the idea.” He sets his coffee down. “Why don’t you have a seat?” When she tilts her head, he says, “Big breakfast, remember?”

Sal laughs softly. She pulls up a seat at the breakfast bar and sits cross-legged in the high-backed chair, wrapping a palm around the coffee mug. “And you’re not gonna forget it.”

“Nope.” Luke tosses a dishtowel over his shoulder and eyes Sal. “You hungry?”

“I could definitely eat.” Sal leans over the counter. She’s so close he can smell her familiar scent, magnolia and honeysuckle. “You want some help?”

“All you gotta do is sit back and relax.”

Luke hunts around for a frying pan, silently saying a word of thanks that Martha and Emmy Lou cleaned up the house and stocked the kitchen. Though he was always the cook at the end of the day, depending on what Sal ended up burning, it’s been so long since things have been normal, he’s forgotten where all the gadgets are stashed.

Finally, he finds the frying pan. He gives it a spin and Sal laughs. “I take my craft very seriously,” he tells her.

Her mouth curves around the coffee cup as he ties an apron around his waist. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Absolutely. Bacon, eggs and toast?” Luke eyes her with concern. Sal’s angular face, her sharp cheekbones pain him. She’s too damn thin. And he plans to keep her fed and full.

“Sounds great.”

Soon, the air is scented with bacon. Sal’s content to sip her coffee and watch him cook. Luke heats butter in the pan and cracks in three eggs. The bacon splatters in a skillet while he cuts hunks of crusty French bread.

Luke’s so engrossed in whipping up breakfast that Sal’s voice startles him.

“So what did we do? Me and you. On the daily?” Sal has her chin propped in her palm. A teasing smile on her face, a spark of wry humor in her eyes. “Wrangle cows?”

Luke smiles at the small glimpse of his wife. It’s all Sal. Banter that could break balls or break hearts.

Then, looking like she suddenly regrets the question, Sal crinkles her nose. “I’m sorry. This is weird, right?” She holds her elbows in her palms, curling inward. “I mean, I’m your wife, who can’t remember you or our life together. It’s fucking weird.”

“It is,” Luke counters. “But hell if it ain’t a good time to be weird.”

Sal smiles in relief.

With a slow nod, Luke scrapes eggs onto a plate. “We did wrangle cows from time to time. And when we weren’t wranglin’ cows, you were wranglin’ lives.”

“And you wrangled a guitar?”

He winces.

As if sensing his hesitation, she stretches a hand toward him. Searchingly. “You don’t sing anymore?”

Luke rubs a hand over his dark beard, trying to decide how to pick apart the pieces of his life without her.

Hell if he’s gonna tell Sal how much his life stopped when she died. That he could barely function without her. She doesn’t deserve that burden. His goal is to get her healthy, get her whole, get her mind back, and not lay his bullshit on her.

“Luke?” Sal asks, dipping her head. Her eyes searching out the cracks he’s been trying to hide.

He sets a plate stacked with bacon and eggs in front of Sal. “I make guitars now. That little shop you saw out back, there’s where I work.” He holds out a fork, silently urging her to eat.

“Oh.” Sal takes the fork, her face contemplative. Then, like she’s deciding whether or not to buy his bullshit, she gives a little shrug. “That’s a shame,” she says. “I listened to some of your songs this morning. You boys are good.”

Luke arches a brow. “Checkin’ up on me, are you?”

She flashes a mischievous grin. “I had to. You are my husband after all.” She pops a piece of bread into her mouth.

Husband.

The word rockets through Luke. Sucker punches every fiber of his heart and sends it sparking.

Being Sal’s husband is a gift, and now that she’s back, he has to do everything in his power to prove that.

Silently, letting Sal eat, Luke reaches up to reshelve the box of coffee filters.

A pack of cigarettes falls from the top shelf. A hiding spot from Seth’s searching eyes.

Luke lets out a frustrated groan and swipes up the smokes in one quick motion.

But Sal, eagle-eyed, spies it.

She glances sidelong at him. “You smoke?”

He did. Luke had a two-pack-a-day habit before he met Sal, then cut it down to one stick a day after they started dating. Then, six years ago, a doctor found precancerous nodules that threatened his voice. His health. His career. It scared Sal so damn bad, Luke quit cold that night.

It was hard as hell, but damn if he couldn’t do it for her. For them both.

Luke crumples the pack in his hand. “Not anymore.”

He’s tossing it in the trash when Seth enters the kitchen. Seth raises a brow but keeps quiet.

Lifting his coffee cup, Luke drawls, “Nice of you to join us.”

Seth offers him a crooked smile. “Hey, man, not everyone can get up at the ass crack of dawn like you.”

“Can’t spend all day loafin’ in bed either.”

Seth rolls his eyes at Luke’s big-brother harassment, then makes for Sal. “Mornin’,” he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to drop a kiss on her cheek. “You save me some coffee?”

Her mouth turns up. She holds out her coffee mug. “Only if you get me a refill.”

Seth barks out a laugh but gladly swipes the mug from her hand. “Givin’ orders already, are we? God knows Luke could use some of that bossin’ around.” As he pours coffee in a steady stream, his eyes move between Sal and Luke, a shit-eating on his lips. “So, what’s on the ol’ agenda today?”

“Hell. You got me.” Luke drags a hand through his hair, realizing he and Sal have been talking for near on an hour. He hasn’t thought beyond breakfast.

Then, like the same thought’s occurred to her, Sal glances at Luke. Her eyes curious, eager for their plans. She opens her mouth. “I don’t—”

But whatever she was going to say is broken by a frantic, violent pounding on the front door.