Rescued Hearts Novelette Read online

  Rescued Hearts

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Fiona Greene

  Rescued Hearts | Simpson’s Flat

  About the Author

  Paw Prints of Love

  Thank you for reading Rescued Hearts. | If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving an honest review of this book, no matter how short, at the retailer site where you bought your copy or on sites like Goodreads. | This book was published by Gumnut Press. | If you would like to see what else Gumnut Press publishes, visit www.gumnutpress.com

  About the Publisher

  Fiona Greene

  Perth, Western Australia

  Copyright © 2021 Fiona Greene

  Published by Gumnut Press

  Edited by Nas Dean (http://www.nasdean.com)

  Cover design by Carolyn de Ridder

  This novelette originally appeared in the Paw Prints of Love anthology (Gumnut Press 2020)

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or any other device now known or invented hereafter without permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  These forms include, but are not limited to xerography, photocopy, scanning, recording, distributing via internet means, informational storage and retrieval system.

  Rescued Hearts/Gumnut Press

  ISBN: (sc) 978-0-6450865-2-2

  ISBN: (e) 978-0-6450865-3-9

  Contemporary Romance

  Gumnut Press books may be ordered through online booksellers or by contacting Gumnut Press.

  [email protected]

  Rescued Hearts

  Simpson’s Flat

  Before mobile signal, hand-held devices or takeaway coffees

  “Happy New Year, darlin’.” Morton pulled on black leather gloves and picked up his helmet. “Remember, if you’re ever in Stonecrest Bay, come look me up.”

  “You bet,” Beth lied. She grazed her teeth over her bottom lip while watching him tuck his long wavy hair into his helmet. A trip to Western Australia was akin to joining NASA and flying on the shuttle.

  Never going to happen.

  He, and his band of brothers, fired up their bikes and Main Street came alive to the low, throaty roar that had heralded their arrival late yesterday afternoon. Simpson’s Flat was the last place on earth she’d want to spend New Year’s Eve, but the strangers on their cross-country motorbike ride didn’t know that.

  When she’d heard the roar yesterday, she’d run to the front window to watch them pass, the vibration in the glass passing through her hand, down her arm and lodging deep in her core.

  A primal rumble that made it hard to swallow.

  Hard to breathe.

  Strangers.

  Before she knew it, her jeans had come off, and she’d pulled out the sparkly minidress her mother hated so much and the only pair of heels she owned, and she’d hurried over to the pub.

  Normally, the pub was a bit like the town.

  Dead.

  But with the bikers in town, it was standing room only in the bar. The dance floor was a seething mass of bodies, rocking out to heavy metal from the jukebox.

  Half the town were there, welcoming the visitors. Her momentary guilt over ditching Aunty Jean’s annual bonfire and barbeque vanished.

  She’d danced, she’d laughed, she’d drunk champagne for the first time. She met new friends and reconnected with others. As the clock had counted down to midnight, she’d farewelled a year she’d rather forget.

  No looking back.

  And, true to her freshly made resolution to get the most out of life, she’d kept partying long after the few illegal fireworks had lit up the midnight sky.

  Standing on the sidewalk, her strappy heels dangling from her fingers, she smiled at the memory of the best night in her life so far.

  “Bye darlin’.” Morton winked, then flipped down his visor.

  Beth touched her lips, still swollen from his kisses, and stood silently as the convoy snaked its way out of town, heading west.

  She stared at the road long after the last rider disappeared into the cloud of dust at the first bend, until the distant roar faded, and all she could hear was Bear barking behind her, and the birds.

  Morton was gone.

  Taking with him two things she’d never expected to give—her virginity, and a piece of her heart.

  FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

  “Done.” Beth Taranga hung the last of her macramé wall hangings and planters, then grabbed her phone. She backed up and waited for a clear shot, then took a couple of photos. Tied in Knots, Stonecrest Bay’s newest market stall, was officially open for business.

  “Looks good.”

  Beth spun around.

  Wow.

  Was there no end to the beachy cowboy goodness in this town? Chiselled jaw, designer stubble, tight faded denim, boots.

  Eyes up.

  North of the belt buckle, remember?

  But the view above the waist was just as mouth-watering as that below. Black T-shirt, black Akubra, muscled forearms.

  Concentrate.

  “Thanks. Not bad for my first attempt.”

  Her across-the-lane neighbour smiled. “I’m even more impressed.”

  Beth glanced back over her shoulder at her stall, hours and hours of work, and she couldn’t help but grin.

  She’d done it.

  She’d actually done it.

  Her hard work was finally out there. Her heart raced and it took all of her energy not to start skipping in a circle. A wave of giddiness washed over her and she closed her eyes.

  You’ve got this.

  Her flip-flopping stomach disagreed with her.

  Beth forced herself to look past him to his stall. Old wooden crates had been stacked side on in a rough semi-circle, and spaced to form nooks of all different sizes. Each held a different piece of art made from reclaimed scrap; farming supplies, old timber fence posts, wire and branches. They’d been repurposed into instantly recognisable views from the district; farmyard animals, windmills, tractors and huts. “I love these. They’re so Western Australia. Your work?”

  He nodded. “Yep.” He stepped closer to her then turned back to his display. A subtle whiff of tangy aftershave, and wood shavings hit her. And something else that turned her mouth dry and her insides to mush.

  Beth risked another peek. Sun-bleached locks, a few shades lighter than the hint of stubble that shadowed his jaw, peeked out from under the Akubra.

  Focus on the art.

  Her gaze drifted to the faded denim encased buttocks hovering in her peripheral vision.

  The actual art.

  “You’ve created some awesome pieces.” She squashed the urge to go over and look a little closer, maybe find something for her new place. Today was about making money, not spending it.

  “You’re new in town?” He grinned, and his gaze lingered on her.

  Beth smoothed her hair, ran her tongue over her lips.

  Maybe, today wasn’t only going to be about the money?

  “How’d you know?”

  “It’s WA, not Western Australia.” He grinned. “Nick.” He held out his hand. “Nick Morton.”

  Morton?

  She gave his hand a quick shake, and an inky haze clouded her vision. She locked her knees and blinked rapidly as her insta-mush stomach flipped its last flop. She drew
in a huge breath, then blew it out again.

  Woah. Déjà vu.

  Could it be him? What were the chances after all these years?

  Pushing her sunnies up on the bridge of her nose, she tried not to be obvious as she stared a little closer.

  No, her Morton was first name Morton. Last name, unknown. And he’d been inked on his forearm.

  She snuck another look.

  Nick’s forearms were smooth, and muscly. Tanned and sexy. He’d never been inked.

  It wasn’t him.

  Her shoulders dropped and she pressed her lips together.

  Stop being ridiculous.

  She wasn’t ever going to run into chrome and leather bad-boy Morton.

  Logically, she knew that. A thorough search of social media when she’d arrived had turned up no-one even close. She gave herself a mental shake.

  “Beth Taranga, new in the bay, ex the middle of nowhere, New South Wales.” Until she’d moved over from the east coast, she hadn’t realised the subtle differences between east and west.

  She’d expected red dirt and mining.

  She hadn’t expected boutique wineries, cheese makers and crafters. Stonecrest Bay was as much about an experience for the senses as it was a place to get more provisions before heading out prospecting, or to work in the mines.

  “Big move.” Nick commented.

  “Yeah.” The drive across the Nullarbor, with only what she could fit in her car, was still fresh in her mind. “Simpson’s Flat is a triangular shaped town at the intersection of three roads, population five hundred and falling. It’s an ex-mining town, but the ground’s been picked clean. Not a real lot left for the young ones now.”

  “Listen to you.” Nick laughed. “The young ones.”

  “I used to work at the pub. I reckon it aged me double,” she laughed.

  And then some.

  He skimmed his gaze over her. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”

  Beth’s skin tingled. She was used to working at the pub, used to being subject to lewd gazes, used to wanting to wrap herself in a blanket to stop the unwanted attention.

  But that wasn’t the vibe she was getting from Nick.

  Was he interested? In her?

  The idea was so ludicrous, she dismissed it out of hand. “Uh, thanks. What about you? Lived here long?”

  “All my adult life. Did fly in, fly out for a while. But I’m doing this now.” He gestured to his stall. “Want to do a bit of cross promo?”

  “Okay.” It was hard to feel like the new kid on the block with Nick.

  He pointed to one of the hangers in her stall. “May I?”

  She nodded.

  Nick went to get the hanger off its hook, but it tangled with its neighbour. Beth leapt into action, knowing full well what could happen when the long tails on the macramé tangled. Their fingers touched, sending a tingle of awareness up her arm. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “No worries. I’ve got this.” Nick smiled, freed the hanger and returned to his stall. He went behind the wall of crates and grabbed a small wooden pot surround, hollowed out from a log. Then he grabbed a small potted fern off the display.

  Seconds later, plant and pot surround were in the hanger and hanging from his stall.

  “Right, now yours.” He eyed off the wall hanging she’d only completed yesterday. The foundation was a branch, almost an inch thick, with an interesting curve. Hanging from it, the cord was knotted in two waves, with the loose ends left hanging. He took a good look at the piece then returned to his stall. He bent, and Beth’s mouth dried as she caught another glimpse of firm male buttocks in faded denim before he straightened with one of his windmills.

  He set it down below her wall hanging, then inched it to the left. “Perfect. The key is to plant it in the minds of our customers that we’re not in competition, our works are complementary. That way, it’s two sales.”

  “Or no sales?” The forced economy that came from living in a drought-stricken, dying town raised its ugly head.

  “It should be a great day. There’s a bus tour coming in off one of the cruise ships. Always a good day when the cruisers are in town.”

  “Nice.” The tiny spiral bound notebook in her pocket detailing all of her ex’s debts nearly vibrated in celebration.

  Dog walking. House sitting. Hospitality. Babysitting. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do now. Her ex’s name might be mud in Simpson’s Flat, but hers wasn’t going to be. She’d pay every single person back.

  Eventually.

  Maybe then she’d be able to walk down the street in her hometown again.

  Maybe.

  Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.

  She gave herself a little shake. “That looks awesome. Thank you.” She checked her watch. “We open at seven? I set up early so I’d have plenty of time to watch the sunrise over the ocean before the crowds came, then I realised there is no sunrise over the ocean here.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “I’d only been to the beach once before moving here, and the sunrises were exceptional.”

  “We’ve got the sunsets, and that’s even better. You can’t sit on the beach with a glass of wine and watch the sunrise now, can you?”

  The thought of sitting on a picnic blanket with Nick, sipping wine and watching the sunset made her heart skip a beat, then flutter a million miles an hour.

  Then her imagination went rogue.

  Lying back.

  Snuggling under a blanket.

  Skin on skin.

  Stop that. There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t be thinking about Nick Morton that way.

  NICK COULDN’T STOP watching Beth Taranga, the dynamo with the pixie haircut and the fringed vest. As she moved, straightening her works, the vest literally came alive as her movement rippled through the variegated cord. Painstaking design or luck, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he was having trouble looking away. Or staying away. Normally, he didn’t leave the stall but today he kept gravitating over towards Beth.

  “Listen, I’d die for a coffee. You want one?”

  Beth stilled and turned. “Sounds like heaven, but is there anywhere here to get one? I don’t want to leave all this.”

  “Coffee van’s up near the entrance. Make you a deal. You watch mine and I’ll get us a coffee.”

  “Okay.” She dug into the knotted purse sitting on her hip. “I’ll have a cappuccino. One sugar.”

  “My shout.” He waved her money away and watched her graze her teeth over her lip, waves of uncertainty washing off her.

  “You can get the next one,” he reassured her before he strode off towards the food vans.

  His timing couldn’t have been better. No sooner had he returned with their coffees, then the cruise ship delivered several busloads of tourists to the seafront oval.

  Peak hour had arrived at the market.

  His half-formed plan for a quiet ‘sit and get to know you’ with Beth went out the window, along with any chance of drinking his coffee while it was hot. It wasn’t just the tourists. Beth’s stall attracted locals in droves, and before long he wondered how many wall hangings and planters Beth had made, as he watched tourists and locals of all ages leaving with them.

  Apparently, macramé was in.

  Who knew?

  And it wasn’t just Beth doing a roaring trade. His pieces were flying off his shelves as well. A retired nurse from Ohio fell in love with the combination of Beth’s wall hanging and his windmill. They also boxed up the plant pot and hanger for three siblings from Texas who’d pooled their pocket money to buy their mom a birthday present.

  As the clock inched toward midday, their sales became fewer and fewer, and just before twelve the mass exodus to the buses began.

  “That,” Beth pointed to the departing tourists, “was awesome.”

  “Best day I’ve had in a while.” His phone beeped, and he excused himself and checked the message. “Hey, want an old-fashioned lemonade? Old Mr and Mrs Russo have the farm out on Beach Ro
ad, and they make and sell home-made lemonade. Mrs Russo’s grandmother’s recipe. Got some friends picking me up one.”

  “Oh, sounds fabulous. I’m parched.” Beth licked her lips and it was as if she’d crashed through his armour and punched him in the chest. Beth Taranga with her big brown eyes and pixie cut, was beautiful. He stared at her and took a few deep breaths. It was a very long time since a woman had affected his senses in this way.

  Way too long.

  He was all thumbs as he replied to Dee’s text.

  A few minutes later Dee and Abbey came wandering down Artisan’s Way, Abbey carrying a tray of lemonades in old fashioned glass tankards with striped straws, and Dee pulling a covered garden cart. They were both in jeans and boots, Stonecrest Bay’s unofficial weekend uniform. Abbey was rocking a straw cowboy hat, her long blond hair in a single plait over her shoulder. Dee’s hair was loose, the chestnut strands whipping around her face as she walked. She changed arms every few metres as she pulled the cart.

  Nick turned to Beth and said, “Be right back. That wagon’s heavy.”

  He smiled as he walked over to his friends. He liked that Dee had found a good friend in Abbey, her new groomer at the salon. He and Dee had been mates since primary school, and she’d been friends with Gemma before she’d died.

  And Paul.

  A shiver worked its way down his spine at the memory of his brother and his wife, both taken in the one accident.

  Gone too soon.

  He closed his eyes at the memory.

  He and Dee had grieved together. And it had brought them closer together as friends.

  Mrs Russo, with her wizened face and her ‘free’ lemonades had been there the whole time, a friend when they’d needed it most. He hated thinking about those days, but every time he came to the markets, he had a lemonade. Even if it was a struggle to get Mrs Russo to accept any money.

  He stopped in front of Dee. “I’ll take that.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  “That’s right, help her, you ungrateful yob,” Abbey teased as he took control of the wagon. “It’s not like these are light?” The tankards of lemonade wobbled precariously.

  Dee roared with laughter and helped herself to one of the drinks. “Everything’s good back there,” she gestured to the wagon. “Dad’s happy with everyone, including mumma, and he’s vaccinated the pups again this morning.”