Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

Hours later, after Luke has given his statement to the police, it’s Sal’s turn.

Her hospital room is chaos squared. Two patrolmen and a solemn-faced detective settle at the foot of her bed. The country boys are there too. Sal wants them there. She senses they won’t leave her for any reason. That they’re ready to protect her with all they have.

Jace stands near the door, quiet but observant, absently stroking his rusty-red muttonchops. He seems like he’s here to mediate. Mediate what, Sal isn’t yet sure.

Seth paces, his face warring between irritation and interest whenever the detective asks Sal a question.

They’re like steadfast sentries, Seth and Jace.

And Luke. Sal’s not sure what to make of him. This tall, bearded cowboy who came to her room only hours ago looking like he’d fight the world for her. Her heart went out to him. He seemed . . . well, so lost.

Sal can relate.

Now, Luke sits beside her bed. Intense. Watchful. But not like a hawk lasered on her every move. Watchful like someone who cares. Who has been worrying a very long time about her. She’s not scared of him, but she feels shy around him. Curious, too. He’s her husband, after all. She must have married him for a reason.

One of which is extremely obvious.

Sal sneaks a quick sideways glance at Luke. He’s brutally handsome. Beautiful, if she really wants to admit it. He’s tall with broad shoulders and warm brown eyes like dark honey. She likes his long, chiseled fingers, his dark brown hair that kicks out in a cute cowlick. The way lean muscles rope his tan arms. Never has a man looked so strong, so steady. He looks like somebody she can trust. She needs that after Roy.

The only thing she’s unsure about is the beard. It’s strange. Why that is, she doesn’t know. It’s like he’s using it to hide his sadness, to hide away from the world.

The detective fires off questions like bullets. They are unflinching and unceasing, and they make Sal wince. They also make her rage. So she sits straight up in bed, rattling answers back at him, determined not to crack.

They ask about her memory. They write down the chain of events that got Sal here. They ask Sal what she remembers. They ask her about Roy Williams.

“He told me he was my husband,” Sal explains. “But he wasn’t.” She rubs her brow. “I don’t even know if that’s his real name.”

“Where does he work, Ms. Kincaid?” The detective looks like Porky Pig in a suit.

“At county corrections,” she says, weary. “He’s a guard there.”

The detective nods. He’s already done his research, vetting her, and Sal doesn’t like it. “There is a man who works there. Roy Williams.” He looks at the patrolman. “Let’s send someone down there to pick him up.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Sal shivers in disgust, thinking of Roy with his buzzed hair and pale face and endless black eyes like pits. She doesn’t tell this detective that she would have gladly killed him if she’d had the chance, but she didn’t think she had the strength to take a swing.

“We’ll question him. Decide if charges should be filed.”

“If,” Seth speaks up. His already deep voice has dropped several octaves and he’s shooting daggers at the detective. “What’s with the fuckin’ if?”

Even Jace, standing calmly all this time, bristles.

Luke leans forward in his chair. A muscle in his angular jaw jumps. “I want this guy in a jail cell.”

“I don’t dispute that, Mr. Kincaid.” Sighing, the detective levels a tired gaze at Sal. “Ma’am, did Mr. Williams ever say you couldn’t leave?”

“What?” Frowning, Sal looks at Luke in confusion. His stance has gone tense and she can tell he’s fighting to control his anger in front of her. She glances back at the detective. “I mean, not outright, but . . .” She rubs her temple. Dizziness beckons, its long fingers wisping their way across the edges of her mind.

“I ask because if you were wounded when he took you from the crash site, force wasn’t used. We can prove a crime if, when you were conscious and aware, you asked to leave and he refused.”

“Are you serious?” Her hands are trembling so badly she wants to raise them to her face and let loose a frustrated scream. That this detective is asking her to prove her captivity, to prove her abuse, to prove that the last nine months were against her will, infuriates her.

“This is bullshit,” Seth mutters. He stares down his brother, who looks back at him, their faces dark, furious as something passes between them.

The room’s a surge of emotions. A palpable anger brews in the air.

Luke’s eyes flash with anger. “Don’t you goddamn dare ask my wife why she didn’t leave. That ain’t the right question. You find this guy and you ask him why he kept her there.” He blows out an irritated breath. “All this time we could have found her . . . all this time we were thinkin’ she was dead.” He rips a hand through his hair and snarls, “So don’t you sell me that line of bullshit.”

The detective continues, whether oblivious to how much Luke wants to take a swing at him or just content being an asshole, Sal doesn’t know. “I understand, Mr. Kincaid. We want to get this guy as much as you. We just have to get it right so the charges stick.”

Sal shudders, feeling victimized and disbelieved. The cop speaks to her as if she is a small child. Sal digs her nails into her palms. She despises him. Despises everything about her situation.

How does she make them understand that she knew? Deep down, if she tried to leave, she knew Roy would kill her. It was in his body language, a snake ready to strike.

They don’t understand because she doesn’t understand. How a man could have taken her and kept her as his own. How she was trapped in a shack in the backwoods of Florida. How if she tried to leave the house, Roy would block the door, so she played meek and quiet until she could run. How she wasn’t raped, but wasn’t it rape being kept there? Being forced to live a lie? They don’t understand how lucky she feels to be out of there, to be done with that life, to know who she is, even though she still ultimately doesn’t know just who in the hell Sal Kincaid is.

She didn’t know any better, but these men don’t either.

Sal glares at the detective. Her lips tremble, but she forces the words from her mouth. “No,” she says, interrupting his bullshit attempt to pacify Luke. “No, you don’t understand at all.”

All eyes swivel to her. Luke’s especially are extra pained, his brow creased, his dark eyes pinned on her face. Gripping the rail bars, she pulls herself tall and pushes her voice to the ceiling.

Loud, louder. They have to hear her.

“So, what you’re telling me is that the man who found me, who pretended to be my husband when I have no memory, who choked me when I tried to leave, you can’t do anything to? You won’t?”

Sal breaks off in vocal fry. The police in the room look awkward and uncomfortable. Though her eyes fill with hot tears, she wills herself not to cry. Not to give this asshole detective a glimpse of her pain.

Then the world’s blurring around her, and Sal feels herself sway.

Thankfully, Luke comes to her rescue. He’s beside her instantly, gripping her elbow and helping lower her back into the pillows. Exhausted, Sal sags down into the cool comfort of the bed. His touch is tender as he brushes a hand across her brow, smoothing her hair back.

Their eyes lock, in a way Sal’s never experienced. She sees the silent question Luke’s asking: Are you okay?

She gives a small nod.

After a second of hesitation, Luke tears his concerned eyes from Sal’s face and turns to the room.

“I think that’s enough, Detective,” Luke says, standing tall over Sal, using his lean, muscled body like a shield. “You find this guy. But we ain’t stickin’ around here. I’m taking my wife home as soon as she’s well enough to travel.”

The detective considers it, then nods his assent. “That’s fine. We don’t want to overwhelm Mrs. Kincaid any more than necessary. We’ll do whatever we can not to put her through a trial.”

Luke gives a curt nod. “I’d appreciate that.”

As Luke ushers everyone out of the room, a sense of determination fills Sal like nothing she’s ever known.

Sure, she’s been down for the count for a few long months. But she’s not beaten. Or broken. And the one thing Sal knows for certain? She will never live a lie again.

Jace whistles as the men gather together in the hallway. “That was, uh, intense.”

“That’s because Sal isn’t real,” Seth says, scowling at the back of the detective as he disappears around the corner. “She’s made of miracles and nine fuckin’ lives.”

“That’s the damn truth.” Luke’s still marveling over the strength of his wife, keeping it together when all he wanted to do was deck that son of a bitch detective. The pain and sorrow in Sal’s eyes. How they asked her to share her truth, her pain, while simultaneously burying her alive with their questions.

“So?” Seth rubs his hands together. He’s almost as eager as Luke is to roll and get the hell out of Florida. “How’re we gettin’ Sal home?”

Luke gives a fierce shake of his head. “No way in hell I’m puttin’ her on a plane.”

Mort, leaning back against the wall, glances up from his phone. “Already on it. I got us a tour bus ready to go when you say so. It’ll be a long drive, keep Sal comfy.” His rotund belly quivers as he chuckles. “Also, I have Emmy Lou and Martha over at your house right now getting it pretty and sparkling. I hope you like tuna noodle casseroles, because your fridge is stocked.”

A boatload of gratitude fills Luke. He has to choke down a rock in his throat the size of Texas. Their country music family is a hell of a wonder. Jumping into task mode. Coming together when Luke needs them the most.

Jace snorts and holds up his phone. “Emmy Lou says you should be ashamed of yourself.” He flashes a text from his wife. The attached picture shows her plugging her nose as she throws away crusty pizza boxes.

Groaning, Luke smears his face in shame.

The house. He’d forgotten how shitty he had kept it. How shitty he’d been keeping himself. How deep and dark he had sunk. But now, Sal’s back, and damn if Luke ain’t getting himself back together for her.

He looks at Mort. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“You do.” Mort grins. “Don’t forget I plan on cashing in when we get home.” He claps Luke on the shoulder. “We’re family, son. We want our girl safe.”

Seth laughs. “I take it this means he’s rehired?”

Luke nods absentmindedly. All he can think about is Sal. Whatever Mort wants, he’ll give it—he just has to wait until Sal is settled.

Jace speaks up. “We have to call Lacey.”

Seth scowls. “Fuckin’ great.”

Luke grits his teeth, agreeing with Seth, but he knows Jace is right. He also knows that dealing with Sal’s sister is an exercise in being driven slowly insane. He’s not sure if he and Lacey can overcome their already-strained relationship, but for Sal’s sake, they’ll have to try.

“And listen . . .” Luke rubs his brow, hating himself, hating what he’s about to say. “Nothin’ about the baby or Alabama.” He levels an even gaze at his brother and best friend. “You hear me?”

Jace nods slow. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Luke admits, running a hand down his beard. “I hate keepin’ it from her. All I know is what the doctor said. I ain’t overwhelmin’ her with too much. At least, not right away.” He glances back at the closed door where Sal sleeps. “We get her home and take care of her.”

That’s all Luke’s focused on—getting Sal better. Keeping her safe and protected until she’s healthy enough to learn about the past.

“Damn straight,” Seth swears. “Anything. Anything for Sal.”

Turning to face Sal’s room door, Luke presses his palm against the window. Inside, Sal sleeps easy. Her breathing light, her hair damp against her brow. She looks so fragile, so raw; Luke’s eyes suddenly fill with tears.

He has to tell her the truth again. About Alabama, about the night he was off and gone, putting a song before his wife. Only this time, like last time, he doesn’t know if she’ll believe him.

Luke closes his eyes. She has to. He can’t lose her.

Not again.