Page 3 of Wild Return (Wild Heart Mountain: Wild Rider’s MC #15)
SYDNEY
T he aroma of fried garlic hits me as soon as I open the door to Nate’s place. I shrug off my coat and hang it on a hook in the corridor. The sounds of kids’ laughter comes from the kitchen, and I push open the door.
Dora holds a wooden spoon in the air as she marches around the kitchen island with Maisie trailing behind.
Nate is at the stovetop sauteing onions, and Freya has her arms wrapped around his waist. Nate turns from the stove, and Freya steps back. His arms shoot around her, like they can’t bear not to be touching each other.
“Auntie Syd!” Maisie breaks from formation and races toward me. She barrels into my legs, and I scoop her up into a hug.
“You want to be in our marching band?”
Her wide eyes stare at me hopefully, and usually I love messing around with my nieces, but tonight all I want to do is get to the sanctuary of my room.
“Another time.”
I set her down, and Maisie frowns at me. Dora marches past and bops her on the butt with the wooden spoon. Maisie spins around, her frown focused on her sister.
“Hey,” says Nate, “we’ve got to stir the dinner with that spoon. No butts.”
The girls break into peals of laughter, and Dora holds the spoon in the air, declaring it the Butt Spoon.
They race off into the living room, leaving Freya and Nate laughing.
I’ve been living with my brother since I came back to Wild Heart Mountain. He’s never made me feel like I don’t belong here, but with his two girls and a new wife, I’ve been thinking about my next move. I can’t live with him forever.
“You joining us for dinner tonight?” Nate asks.
Most nights we eat all together, but I don’t feel like company tonight.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie. “I’ll grab a snack later.”
Nate narrows his eyes at me. Damn sibling perception. He can tell I’m not myself, and he must guess why.
Nate was deployed when Viking left me, so he didn’t see the worst of it. When my brother came back on leave, he was the one who encouraged me to still go traveling without Viking. But he says nothing.
“You want a glass of wine?” Freya grabs a bottle from the fridge and tops up her and Nate’s glasses.
“No thanks. It’s been a long day. I’m going to head upstairs.”
If I drink tonight, I might get sentimental, and that’s the last thing I want.
I grab a water glass and fill it from the high-tech water filter Nate has installed on the faucet. While I wait for my glass to fill, I watch Nate and Freya together.
He sets down his glass of wine and slides his hand around her waist. They shuffle-dance to the pop music blaring from the speaker, which I’m guessing is Dora’s choice. Freya leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes.
It must feel nice to have someone solid, someone you can rely on, someone to come home to after a shitty day.
I grab my water and head upstairs. That kind of easy love just isn’t for me.
Once Freya and Nate got together, I moved into the turret suite where Freya was staying when she was the nanny, before she became the wife.
I slide my purse off my shoulder and dump it by the two-seater, then set my glass on the coffee table. I unzip my knee-high boots and slide my feet out of them. The carpet is soft under my feet, and I wiggle my toes.
My neck is stiff, so I rub the back of it, trying to ease the tension. Damn Viking for coming back and disturbing my equilibrium. It took me four years to find peace after he ditched me. It took that long to stop missing him every day, and more importantly to learn to love myself again.
Now he’s back, wanting to talk about the past and disturb my hard-won peace.
In the corner of my room is my large backpack. For four years it held all my possessions in the world as I backpacked around the globe until I stopped in Australia to work.
What was supposed to be a six-week gig working in a bar ended up with me running the place for two years.
It was only when the owner offered to sell it to me that I realized I wanted to come home.
I missed the mountains. So I packed up my belongings and set off for a final adventure, arriving on Wild Heart Mountain just before Christmas.
I crouch beside my backpack and lift up a worn strap.
There’s dirt woven into the fibers, and the fabric is threadbare near the zipper.
I tug it open and reach into a side pocket and pull out a bundle of letters held together with twine.
They’re blue airmail paper, and the scrawl across the front is barely legible.
My name with Nate’s address. I refused to give Viking a forwarding address, but Nate forwarded on all his letters whenever I stopped long enough to have an address.
I finger the string that ties them together. It’s been a long time since I looked at his letters. My fingertips hover over the top one.
No. Not tonight. I chuck the letters back into the backpack. I’ve wasted enough time thinking about Viking today. I will not let him invade my peace any more than he has already.
I take a seat at my craft table and click on the desk lamp.
A half-finished figurine awaits on my painting station. She’s a warrior with a wild red braid and gleaming armor. I select a fine-tipped paintbrush and a teal color for the outline of her shield.
As my brush moves, my breathing steadies. But thoughts of Viking invade my mind. The way he pulled my hair like we were kids, the tingle I felt down my spine when his fingers brushed against my back, the way my skin prickled when he called me cupcake.
I squint at the figurine, focusing harder as I switch colors and apply the paint to another highlight.
After an hour of crafting, my mind is clear, and my head aches from concentrating so hard.
I set the warrior down to dry.
Tomorrow I’ll ignore the letters, ignore him , and get on with work and the inventory audit. I’ve crafted my own peace, and I won’t let a man disrupt it.