The Ranger and The Rescue
The Ranger and The Rescue
Sue Swift
WHO WAS HE……this sexy but injured amnesiac cowboy who'd sought out her cabin, then staked a claim on her soul? From Stetson to boots, he looked like an upstanding lawman. But was he an enemy from her imprisoning past? Or a sweet, loving rescuer unlocking the chains around her heart?WHO WAS SHE.…this mysterious, flame-haired "Serenity Clare" who'd trustingly taken him in, stirred his senses and made him feel oddly whole? And could he offer her a future without knowing his past? He had to risk it–had to propose–and pray their vows led not to regrets but to remembering…and to sweet, loving rescue.
The stranger was better looking than anyone had a right to be.
Serenity sighed. Though he was inches away, his warmth enveloped her. His distinctive male scent filled her senses. She thrummed with delightful, forbidden longings. The memory of his recent kiss haunted her, branding her soul forever.
A fantasy of making love with him sneaked into her brain. She nearly groaned aloud, passion overtaking her.
Could she?
Would he?
What would be the harm?
Once his memory returned, he’d be leaving, wouldn’t he?
And didn’t they deserve some happiness until they learned who he was…and why he was here?
Dear Reader,
Brr…February’s below-freezing temperatures call for a mug of hot chocolate, a fuzzy afghan and a heartwarming book from Silhouette Romance. Our books will heat you to the tips of your toes with the sizzling sexual tension that courses between our stubborn heroes and the determined heroines who ultimately melt their hardened hearts.
In Judy Christenberry’s Least Likely To Wed, her sinfully sexy cowboy hero has his plans for lifelong bachelorhood foiled by the searing kisses of a spirited single mom. While in Sue Swift’s The Ranger & the Rescue, an amnesiac cowboy stakes a claim on the heart of a flame-haired heroine—but will the fires of passion still burn when he regains his memory?
Tensions reach the boiling point in Raye Morgan’s She’s Having My Baby!—the final installment of the miniseries HAVING THE BOSS’S BABY—when our heroine discovers just who fathered her baby-to-be…. And tempers flare in Rebecca Russell’s Right Where He Belongs, in which our handsome hero must choose between his cold plan for revenge and a woman’s warm and tender love.
Then simmer down with the incredibly romantic heroes in Teresa Southwick’s What If We Fall In Love? and Colleen Faulkner’s A Shocking Request. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll fall in love all over again with these deeply touching stories about widowers who get a second chance at love.
So this February, come in from the cold and warm your heart and spirit with one of these temperature-raising books from Silhouette Romance. Don’t forget the marshmallows!
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
The Ranger & the Rescue
Sue Swift
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The various details of the Texas Rangers
and their operations were the sole creation of the author.
This book is dedicated to my critique partners, Cheryl Vincent Clark
and Janet Shirah, who continued to believe when I didn’t.
I’d like to thank my critique partners and others who helped me with this book:
Judy Dedek, Jackie Hamilton, Celia Zweig and Colin Swift.
My editors, Darlene Winter, Diane Grecco, Kim Nadelson
and Mary-Theresa Hussey, have been enormously helpful.
As always, I depend upon the love and support of my husband.
Books by Sue Swift
Silhouette Romance
His Baby, Her Heart #1539
The Ranger & the Rescue #1574
SUE SWIFT
A criminal defense attorney for twenty years, Sue Swift always sensed a creative wellspring bubbling inside her, but didn’t find her niche until attending a writing class with master teacher Bud Gardner. Within a short time, Sue realized her creative outlet was romance fiction. Since she began writing her first novel in November 1996, she’s sold three books and two short stories.
The 2001 president of the Sacramento Chapter of the Romance Writers of America, Sue credits the RWA, its many wonderful programs and the help of its experienced writers for her new career as a romance novelist. She also lectures to women’s and writers’ groups on various topics relating to the craft of writing.
Her hobbies are hiking, bodysurfing and kenpo karate, in which she’s earned a second-degree black belt. Sue and her real-live hero of a husband maintain homes in northern California and Maui, Hawaii. You may write Sue via e-mail at sue@sue-swift.com (mailto:sue@sue-swift.com) or at P.O. Box 241, Citrus Heights, CA 95611-0241. And please visit Sue’s Web site at www.sue-swift.com (http://www.sue-swift.com). An interview with Sue is featured at the author area of the Harlequin/Silhouette Web site at www.eHarlequin.com (http://www.eHarlequin.com).
Contents
Chapter One (#u893f9dde-4e48-58ba-87f6-d12e353c8701)
Chapter Two (#u14c5de16-3508-5b42-9fef-a1e686bd086d)
Chapter Three (#u61e62738-4392-5d27-a05e-c0c11ffd5abb)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The most beautiful man Serenity Clare had ever seen stood at her door. Tall, lean, and utterly virile, his appearance was as unexpected as the proverbial snowball in you-know-where.
A slender ribbon of desire unfurled deep in Serenity’s body, tingly and warm.
She blinked, surprised. She’d thought Hank had destroyed her passion for any man. What was different about this guy?
He removed his Stetson, revealing short, sable hair. The pressure of his hat in the searing heat of the New Mexico summer afternoon had stuck his hair to his skull.
Rubbing his scalp, he asked, “Lori Perkins?”
Serenity took the question like a punch to the gut. Pleasure fled, blown away like dust in the desert wind. She shrank back, craving the solidity of the doorpost behind her.
She hadn’t used that name in close to a year and didn’t want to hear it now. She gazed at him while breathing deeply to recapture a calm state of mind. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Excuse me.”
She tried to close the door, but he stuck his booted toe in the way. “You’re Lori Perkins. I’ve seen a picture of you.”
Resignation filled her chest, a frightful, leaden weight. “Who are you?” she managed to whisper.
He hesitated. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Bambi-brown eyes looked too gentle for his craggy face. He shifted from side to side; his heels crunched on the gravelly stoop.
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am.” His twang reminded her of home.
A tremor ran through her body. Texas was the past, something she wanted to forget. This was getting worse and worse. “You don’t know what?”
“My name. I was hoping you could help me.” He swayed slightly. “I…I woke up in the desert, and I remembered your name and address.”
The icy fingers of fear clawed at her wits. Serenity sucked in a deep breath, commanding her body to quit trembling and her mind to begin functioning. She had to discover who this man was and how he had found her. “Do you have an ID?”
“Huh?” He stared, glassy-eyed.
“Turn around.”
He did. Hmm, she thought. The left back quarter of his jeans showed a lean, shapely buttock. A faded square marked the place in the back pocket where ninety-five out of one hundred men kept their wallets. Vanished, it would provide no answers, reveal no secrets.
“Why do you know my name, but not your own?”
Turning to face her, he opened his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Bend down. Maybe you took a whack to the head.”
“I do have a headache.”
He obliged, leaning over from the waist.
Serenity gingerly ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, catching his male, musky scent while she parted the locks. He jerked as she contacted sticky wetness.
“Oh, my.” At his temple, a lump the size of a half-dollar oozed blood. It looked bad.
She released him, then regarded him thoughtfully as he swayed, obviously ill, on her doorstep. If she sent him away, he could die. In his current weakened condition, without remembering the reason he’d been sent to find her, she was sure she could keep him under control.
“Hmm. You know me, but I don’t know you…and you don’t know you. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Serenity opened the door wider, inviting him inside.
“How’s that? Do you know me?”
Her mind raced. What could she tell him? “Um, no, but I’m a psychic. Don’t worry about a thing—the cards see all, know all, and have all the answers. And if the cards don’t tell us what we want to know, we can always try the crystal ball or the Ouija board. Don’t worry—something will work.”
He gulped. That Adam’s apple again. He was positively edible, this amnesiac cowboy who’d turned up on her doorstep like a tumbleweed.
Serenity reminded herself that he couldn’t be the only person who knew the location of Lori Perkins. Feeling exposed while standing outside, she retreated into her home.
Her stomach clenched and twisted. How had this stranger found her? She bet he’d been sent to check her out and to report back to—back to—
Her mind flinched away from the thought of Hank.
Until she figured out what to do, she’d keep this stranger close. In his befuddled condition, she was sure she’d remain safe…at least for a while.
He remembered to duck as he entered Lori Perkins’s house, but that was about all he remembered. That, and the woman. But the black-and-white photo he recalled bore only a slight resemblance to this flame-haired sprite. Maybe the snapshot was old; in any event, he remembered it only through a haze of pain and confusion.
“Give me your hat.” She hung the battered Stetson, dirty with grime and a splotch or two of blood, on a wooden coatrack near the door.
“Come.” Lori led the way through a whitewashed living room sparsely furnished with a futon-style couch and a couple of cushions in turquoise and coral. A braided rag rug in the same tones covered part of the wooden floor. A row of shiny, multicolored crystals sat on a narrow mantel above the curved adobe fireplace.
“Sit.” In the kitchen, she indicated one of four ladder-back chairs drawn up to a farmhouse table. After wringing out a worn-looking towel in steamy water, she applied it to his head. She seemed nice, wincing in empathy as she dabbed at the bump on his scalp, first with hot soapy water, then with ice.
While she brewed tea, he had a chance to look at his hostess and her home. Lori’s graceful movements reflected her simple speech. The white cotton dress she wore, brightly embroidered, harmonized with the Mexican-influenced decor. She lived modestly, but had a feminine knack for making this plain place a home. The small stuccoed, whitewashed house was typical of that part of New Mexico—and from where did that strange bit of information come? he silently asked himself.
The lack of appliances struck him. No television or radio, no dishwasher. He could hear wind chimes faintly tinkling in the quiet. He had a vision of pretty Lori Perkins washing her clothes on rocks in a stream. Was there even a phone?
She stood at the kitchen counter, dripping honey into a glass of iced tea. Her back was turned.
Pressing the ice pack to his temple with one hand, he poked at a pile of papers on the table with the other. Was he ordinarily a snoop? Maybe his rudeness was the result of the bump on his head. He hoped so, but in the meantime the bills he examined showed that his Ms. Perkins used a different name. A very different name. Serenity Clare. What kind of a wacky name was Serenity Clare?
He caught himself frowning, then consciously smoothed out his expression. Who was he to judge anyone else? He could be a Stetson-wearing version of Ted Bundy for all he knew.
Aha. A cellular phone bill in the name of Serenity Clare. Civilization did extend into the New Mexican desert wilderness.
A hand with short, buffed nails plucked the papers from his grasp. “Well, we know something about you,” she said. “You’re nosy.”
He actually became hot with embarrassment. Then, when she smiled, his temperature rose even more. She had a gorgeous smile, one that could coax the sun out from behind a cloud.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer for a moment, then spread out her hands. “You know my name. Lori Perkins.” Placing the glass nearby, she sat across from him at the farmhouse table. Her fingers fiddled with the yellow gingham cloth. Between them, in the center of the table, stood a blue earthenware pitcher filled with a tangle of wild grasses. Their subtle fragrance perfumed the air.
“Who’s Serenity Clare?” He put down the ice pack.
“I’m Serenity. I’m a psychic, remember? Lori Perkins is, well, just a little too mundane for your friendly neighborhood fortune-teller. So please, call me Serenity.”
“Serenity.” He tasted the name on his tongue, deciding he liked it. It matched the small, friendly woman who sat before him, matched her open face, guileless smile, and calm green eyes. He noticed a small scar, pale and almost invisible, cutting through one brow. “You’re a psychic? I thought all that stuff was a scam.”
Her eyes widened.
Damn, he’d probably blown it. The woman had rescued him, taken him into her home, and he’d insulted her. “I’m sorry.”
She held up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m used to skeptics. We all are.”
“‘We’?”.
“Are you familiar with Lost Creek? This town is a vortex site.”
“A vor—what?”
“A vortex site.” Lori—no, Serenity, he reminded himself—grew animated, waving her hands in the air. “See, the Native Americans used to gather here. You can see their ancient trails in the arroyos. This place is full of mystical energy.” She leaned toward him over the table, her gaze intense. “Can’t you feel it?”
Only to humor her, he closed his eyes and tried. His headache throbbed as though a road repair crew with twenty jackhammers had moved into his skull.
He sensed the dampness of condensation on the sides of the cool glass of iced tea in his hand. He opened his eyes and took a swallow. Cold and tasty, the tea had a flavor he couldn’t define. “Hey, this is great. What’s in it?”
“It’s a blend of my own. Sage is a general tonic. I also put in chamomile, to ease your pain, and valerian to promote healing and rest. It’s very healthful, much better for you than that nasty caffeinated stuff.”
“Well, thanks, Serenity.” He sipped some more, then set the glass on the table. “I’d love to stay here and shoot the breeze, but I s’pose I should be on my way. Do you know where the police department or the sheriff’s office is in this town?”
“Oh, uh, er, it’s the weekend.” Serenity ran a hand through her short red hair, tousling it into untidy spikes. “Nobody’s there right now.”
“No one? No one’s in authority here?”
“Lost Creek is a very small town. There are fewer than three hundred permanent residents. We don’t have full-time law enforcement,” she explained. “There’s no crime.”
“It sounds as though I’ve landed in Paradise.” With effort, he stood, managing to smile at her. “But I can’t take advantage of your hospitality any longer, ma’am.”
“Of course you can.”
“What?” Already he’d discovered that Serenity made the most surprising statements. Heck, he wanted to stay just to hear her talk about the vortex thing. He’d bet that every crystal in the living room had its own story.
“I mean, I’m the only link you have with your past, huh? I’d feel bad if you were to leave with no money, nowhere to go and no idea of who you are, with that bump on your head and—and all.”
He sat, relieved. Dog-tired, hungry, and dirty, he really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere. Despite the healing tea, his head hurt so much that he couldn’t move or speak without waves of pain reverberating through his brain.
She’d offered, and he found that he wouldn’t mind imposing on pretty Serenity Clare for a while longer. “Maybe you’re right.”
“If you left, where would you go?” Serenity asked.
“I don’t know.” He touched the bump on his head. It seemed to have gone down a tad, but not much. Still hurt like the dickens.
“You’d better stay here.” She sounded definite. “I’ll call a friend of mine. Mairen is an expert at psycho-spiritual integration. And that’s got to be the solution.”
“What?” This woman said the damnedest things. Maybe he was a reporter, or a scout for one of them TV talk shows, and he’d been sent to interview Serenity Clare.
“The blow to your head caused a psycho-spiritual rift. That’s why you can’t remember anything. Heal the rift and your memory returns.” She patted his hand.
The slight touch of Serenity’s delicate fingers made his flesh ripple and heat. He squelched his desire along with his growing interest in her, hoping her talents of tarot reading and crystal ball gazing didn’t extend to clairvoyance. Otherwise, she’d throw him out of her house.
He wanted to stay. This sexy, screwball little sorceress was the only link to his identity.
“How long has it been since you ate?” Standing, she went to the refrigerator.
“I don’t know.”
“I have some nice tofu lasagna from last night, if you don’t mind leftovers.” She took a rectangular pan from the fridge and put it on the tiled counter.
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.” He realized he wasn’t merely hungry, but famished. He’d never heard of tofu lasagna, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. The clock above her microwave indicated four-thirty. He guessed he hadn’t eaten since the day before, possibly longer.
Serenity cut two chunks of food from the pan, her knife scraping on the metal bottom. She placed each portion on a plate. After covering them with waxed paper, she put them in the microwave and punched some buttons.
The machine hummed. “So you have some modern conveniences,” he said.
She smiled. “Did you suppose I used kerosene lamps and cooked food over an open fire?”
“I can’t see a TV or a radio.”
“I live simply, not stupidly. With electricity, I have the modern conveniences I choose. I don’t want mass media.” She refilled his glass with tea. “The outside world is…disturbing to my meditations.”
“What do you mean?”
Serenity shrugged. “The news seems to consist of foreign wars and local crime. TV and movies are full of car crashes and shootings. Why distress myself with such violence?” Forks and napkins in hand, Serenity set the table.
“Do you get a newspaper?” The enticing aromas of oregano and garlic began to fill the kitchen. His mouth watered.
Amnesia sure was crazy. He remembered that he liked lasagna but didn’t know his own name. Crazy.
“Not a daily. There’s a weekly paper that covers local matters. That’s enough for me.” The microwave buzzed. She took out the food. “Lost Creek is my little world.” She removed the wrap from the plates, releasing a fragrant, steamy cloud.
He sniffed appreciatively. “Most people have broader interests, don’t they?”
Serenity handed him his meal, then sat opposite him. “Do they?” Her eyes held a quizzical gleam.
He dug into the tofu lasagna. The piping-hot square of pasta, oozing spicy-smelling red sauce, didn’t look unusual. But how would he know? He blew on his bite before hesitantly placing it on his tongue. It tasted as good as it smelled, maybe better. He chewed and swallowed, then said, “Lordy, but this is good. Whatever else you might be, you’re one heck of a good cook.”
“Thank you.”
Why did Serenity go all red? “You act as though nobody ever complimented your cooking.”
Her gaze dropped to her plate. “I’m surprised you appreciate natural food. Few men do.” Serenity toyed with her fork before eating a bite.
“What’s so natural about it?”
“The pasta is whole wheat and the sauce is made from organic tomatoes and herbs. Instead of meat, I used crumbled tofu.”
“Tastes like normal lasagna, maybe a little better than most.” He took another hearty, yummy mouthful.
“That’s what’s great about tofu.” Serenity’s eyes sparkled. She waved her fork in the air for emphasis as she warmed to her subject. “It’s practically flavorless. If you put it in salsa it tastes Mexican and makes a great taco filling. With tomatoes, garlic and oregano, it’s Italian. And no fat whatsoever. Tofu’s the best protein around.”
Was she the kind of woman he usually dated? He hoped so. He’d hate to regain his memory only to discover he detested this charming, likable person. But was that how amnesia worked? He frowned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m…thinking.” He ate another bite of lasagna while considering the situation.
Who was Serenity? She must be the key to his identity, he realized. Why else could he remember only her?
She must know who I am. But why won’t she tell me? What’s her game?
He glanced up from his plate. Serenity sat, calmly eating her supper. She didn’t look like a person with secrets. But why would she welcome a stranger into her home?
Maybe she was just friendly. “Are you sure you don’t know me?”
She looked up. “Never seen you before in my life.” After finishing her portion, Serenity carried her plate to the sink and poured him more iced tea. She filled another glass with water.
“You don’t want tea?” He gestured with the glass. “It’s delicious.”
“No. It’s a healing tea, remember? I don’t need it. You do.”
Replete, he leaned back into his chair with a satisfied sigh. “That was great. Thanks, Serenity. I think you saved my life.”
Her answering smile was ready, yet nervous. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, I think I should go to town and maybe try to contact the authorities.”
Reaching across the table for his empty plate, her nose crinkled. “Uh, um, do you want to clean up a little before we go? You might cause some comment if you don’t.”
“Do I really look so bad?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Come with me.”
He followed Serenity through the living room, then down a narrow hallway to a bathroom. Upon seeing his strange image in the mirror, he couldn’t restrain a shocked gasp.
Short, black hair stuck up in filthy spikes on top of his head. The gash on his temple needed rinsing. Bloodshot brown eyes. A two-day beard. “Oh, man. I could scare a prison gang right out of their tattoos.” No wonder she didn’t tell him anything. He looked like a pretty tough customer. “Why’d you let me in your house, lady?”
“Your aura is pure.” Serenity smiled at his reflection. “Do you recognize yourself?”
“I’m not sure.” He watched the mirror as the unfamiliar mouth, narrow and a little mean-looking, scowled. “I don’t know if I like my appearance.”
“The soul is what matters, and yours is a sweet one if your energy is any indication.”
“Uh, well, thank you kindly.” I guess.
“Why don’t you shower? Cleanse the outer body to match the inner spirit. Meanwhile, I’ll wash your clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, figuring that he’d now learn if she used the rocks-in-the-stream method of laundry.
The bathroom door opened a slit and the stranger’s sinewy arm, dusted with dark hair, thrust out a bundle of dirty clothes.
“You can use my razor. It’s in the shower.” Serenity grinned, wondering what he’d make of her pink-flowered shaver. “And there’s a new toothbrush and some antiseptic under the sink.”
She took the clothes to the laundry room. Located off the kitchen, it contained an old-fashioned washer and a broken dryer that Serenity’s cheap landlord refused to fix. Anyway, Serenity preferred the scent of clothes dried on the line in the desert sun and wind.
Fingering the heavy jeans, she chuckled to herself as she tugged his leather belt free. The pants would take all night and part of the next day to dry, at least. Another day keeping the stranger in her home away from the authorities—such as they were—in Lost Creek. The next day, Sunday, would find the Lost Creek Police Department deserted. Two days of security gained. Two more precious days during which she’d decide what to do about the threat posed by the amnesiac cowboy.
Lucky for her, she’d decided to major in psychology when she’d attended college. She didn’t know much about amnesia, but recalled that no certain cure existed. The likelihood of the stranger recovering his memory soon was slight.
She pulled a flimsy scrap of leopard-print cloth out of the jeans, then tossed the pants into the washer with detergent and set the water to the hottest setting. After vainly checking for a label in the shirt, she added it to the washer with the socks.
Coming to the underwear, she stopped. Leopard-print thongs seemed out of character for her cowboy. Were they silk? She poked at the fabric. Searching for the label, she thought they were the kind of sexy underclothing that a man might receive as a gift from a lover.
Her teeth ground together. She took a deep breath, seeking calmness, before putting the underwear into the wash with his other clothes. She told herself that she cared if he had a girlfriend only because a lover would miss him and, perhaps, search for him. Otherwise, Serenity decided, she wasn’t concerned at all. Letting a man into her life wasn’t an option for her.
She dropped the lid over the churning, bubbly wash and went to the kitchen to clean up the remains of their supper. Nice of him to flatter her cooking. Hank never had. She washed the plates and stacked them in the drainer to drip dry.
She sniffed at the dregs of his iced tea before rinsing his glass. The tea should promote sleepiness, if her Healing Herbs book was to be believed. She doubted its efficacy. She doubted everything.
He’d drunk close to three glasses. If the stuff worked, he should be so woozy that he’d fall asleep in the shower.
Walking down the hall, she listened as the sound of the water stopped. The glass door creaked, then slammed. She guessed that he’d stepped out and was drying off.
She imagined a taut, muscular body gleaming with wetness as he rubbed one of her towels across his chest. Her feminine, peach-colored linens would be a spine-tingling contrast with his developed pecs and furry, masculine chest.
Leaning against the doorpost of the guest room, she mopped her damp brow with the sleeve of her dress before squelching those wild thoughts. She hadn’t dared to dream about any man since shortly after she’d married.
She couldn’t be attracted to him. That was just plain stupid, and she hadn’t survived by being stupid. Chances were that Hank had sent him. She’d been lucky that this stranger had lost his memory.
The usual treatment for amnesia was to place the sufferer back into his normal environment. There, surrounded by the familiar, each reminder of who he was would trigger a flood of memories. But that remedy wasn’t an option for the stranger. In her home, she could keep him comfortable but ignorant.
Who had said keep your friends close but your enemies closer? That was her plan, though deep down, big men still frightened her.
She’d have to get over it.
Serenity opened the door to the guest bedroom. She generally used the room for craft projects—stringing crystal necklaces and the like. Since she was a naturally tidy person, no evidence of her work littered the desk. Her unexpected visitor would dwarf the narrow, single bed, but she couldn’t change either the size of the bed or the stature of the stranger.
Besides, she wouldn’t want to change him. She liked his stature just fine.
Serenity parted the beige drapes, then slid open the screened window to let the warm, sage-scented desert breeze into the room. She adjusted the black-and-white Mexican serape covering the bed, then fluffed the pillow. A rustle warned her of his presence. She turned.
He filled the doorway, tall and lean and powerful, with only a small peach towel covering his narrow hips. Droplets of water sparkled in his hair. A curly, dark masculine fluff dusted solid-looking pecs.
Blood roared in her ears as a long-dormant need awakened. Seminude, he looked better than she’d imagined. Where undecorated by hair, his amber skin looked satiny, touchable. She’d love to give him a massage, have a legitimate excuse to explore that body without fear. He wasn’t so big as to be intimidating, she realized. Not a giant. Just a man, though a very good-looking one.
She remembered to breathe. “Excuse me.” She had to get out of there fast, before she hyperventilated.
“Uh, Serenity, where are my clothes?”
“In the washer. They were filthy.”
He grinned, eyes twinkling at some unknown joke.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothin’. Hey, what am I supposed to do, run around nekkid?”
Not a bad idea. She swallowed. “Aren’t you sleepy?” Given the amount of tea he’d drunk, he ought to collapse.
Blinking, he stretched his arms over his head. His triceps bulged. The towel slid.
Sweating, she averted her eyes. A regular at the local clothing-optional swimming hole, she wasn’t body-shy. But this unknown stranger aroused a feminine passion she hadn’t felt for a long time, and one she didn’t want to feel now.
She peeked. His stretch made him look like a lean, powerful cougar, golden and sleek. He rolled back his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles. “I do believe you’re right, ma’am. After that delicious supper and nice, relaxing shower, bed would feel fine.” He winked at her.
On fire, she fled for the door. She didn’t want to think about, much less see, his entire body as he dropped the towel and slid between the sheets. “I’ll…I’ll get you another cold compress.” But she was the one who needed to chill out, though a little bitty compress wouldn’t cool the sudden fire he’d ignited.
She probably needed the entire North Pole.
Chapter Two
He ran through the darkness, fleeing a nameless, shapeless foe. Clinging sand conspired with the sharp desert wind in his face to slow him down.
He rolled over the side of an arroyo, hoping to find cover to wait out the threat. Easier to run on the firm-packed bottomland, but dangerous. The fitful moonlight concealed as much as it revealed, distorting the path. Any shadow could be a leg-breaking, ankle-wrenching pothole. With his pursuers gaining, a fall would be disastrous.
Rising, he sprinted down one twisting, turning cleft, then risked a look over his shoulder. His eyes confirmed what his ears already knew: they were closer.
Subterfuge, then. He dodged behind a boulder and crawled, wishing that the slight concealment would shadow his movements as he turned ninety degrees into a branch of the arroyo.
Bad move into a dead end. Dead end. He’d always hated that turn of phrase.
He checked for a cave at the back of the cleft, hope warring with his knowledge of the desert.
Nothing. Unless he could climb out fast, he was a goner.
His nose twitched, scenting an aroma different than the ordinary smells of sage and sand that perfumed the desert at midnight.
It was warm, with good associations, yet burning. Not wood smoke.
Coffee?
He opened his eyes. Early dawn light, pearly and pink, snuck through beige curtains at the window. Skin sweaty and muscles tense, he shifted his legs in a too short, too narrow bed, untangling himself from the twisted sheets.
Where was he? Who was he? Had his dream been a memory? Who had been chasing him? Why?
He remembered where he was. Safe. Relief flowed through his body like a cooling tide. He was safe in the guest room of the mysterious Lori Perkins, aka Serenity Clare, fortune-teller and organic cook.
His heartbeat tripped, then slowed. He stretched his body as much as he could in the tiny bed, taking inventory. His head hurt, but only at the site of the injury. The headache had gone, he realized with a sigh of relief.
Rising, he didn’t see his clothing. He chuckled. He didn’t mind going au naturel if nakedness got the reaction he wanted from pretty Serenity. He bet she had a trim little body underneath her loose, hippie-style clothes.
Guilt gnawed at the edges of his conscience. Serenity had generously welcomed him into her home and showed him nothing but kindness. She didn’t deserve a needy male getting fresh with her.
Besides, she might have a lover. Though he hadn’t seen a ring on her left hand, a woman as cute and nice as sweet little Serenity probably attracted men the way water drew horses after a long day’s ride.
He sniffed again. Coffee. How natural was coffee? Knowing Serenity, the coffee had probably been organically grown, roasted over an open fire, then ground by holy-spirited Tibetan monks. She’d brew it with Evian or some other kind of fancy, pure water, in a hand-blown, glass coffeepot that was free from hazardous chemicals.
He laughed out loud. He was doggone cynical, wasn’t he? Wrapping the now-dry towel around his midsection, he went in search of Serenity Clare and her magic coffee.
After striding into the living room, he stopped, arrested by the spectacle that met his surprised eyes.
The curtain on a wide picture window was open, giving a view of dawn over the desert. In front of the glass, an enormous, curved chunk of amethyst stood on a wooden holder. Ambient light caught and refracted through the lavender crystals studding the rock.
Before this display, Serenity sat, cross-legged, on a mat. Clothed in a gauzy robe that clung to her lithe body, her arrow-straight back was silhouetted by the first pale rays of dawn.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He sucked in a breath.
She emitted a hum. “Ommmmmm…” Her chant grew in volume as the sun rose.
A sunbeam, pure and sharp as a blade, knifed over the horizon and struck the amethyst. Split by the crystal into a thousand disparate rays, rainbows bounced around the room.
Serenity leaped to her feet, hands flung above her head, stretching her slender body as though she wanted to touch the sky. She arched back, her body bowing, then forward, slapping both palms on the ground.
He was confronted by her upturned bottom, outlined by her enveloping robe. Lust whipped through him, elemental and violent as lightning.
Shame immediately followed. How could he even think of repaying Serenity’s kindness with a pass during her morning meditation?
He crashed down the hall to the bathroom, scrabbling for control. Turning the shower on full-blast, he jumped in, punishing himself in the stinging, icy spray.
He hated not knowing who he was, but did he really want to find out? What kind of jerk was he? He hoped he didn’t react like a caveman every time he laid eyes on a woman. Sure, Serenity was pretty and nice, but he’d better learn to control himself around her. Or he’d have to leave, and he had no idea where to go or how to seek his past.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he heard her singing. Not “om,” but something lively and charming about a hard-knock life. Tentatively touching the healing bump on his head, he found that the song struck a chord with him.
He walked through the living room, now blessedly vacant of the resident dawn worshiper. At the kitchen door, he spied Serenity, dressed and seated at the table, earthenware mug nearby.
She looked up, her smile sunny as the newborn day. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Uh, I guess,” he answered, remembering his nightmare.
“What’s wrong?” She rose, approaching to press a palm to his forehead.
“I’m okay. I had some odd dreams, that’s all.”
Her smile faded. A concerned little pleat appeared between her eyebrows.
Before she could say anything, he asked, “Are my clothes dry?”
“I’ll check.” She left the kitchen through a door he hadn’t yet investigated. The yellow skirt of her loose, summery dress swished around her calves.
When he followed, he found a room full of ancient appliances. One was a washer, so his question was answered.
Serenity walked through a door that opened onto a small patio. The broken concrete adjoined an expanse of scrubby grass lined with desperate-looking succulents. A vine, leaves limp from neglect, hesitantly twined halfway up the back fence. The ground beneath it looked parched and cracked.
Next to the door stood two chairs, similar to those in the kitchen. One had a broken rung. A clothesline, hung with his apparel, dominated the tiny yard.
Holding on to his towel, he rubbed his heavy denim jeans between two fingers. Still damp and unwearable. His blue chambray shirt could also use more time in the sun. Only a minuscule scrap of leopard-print silk had dried.
He didn’t remember taking off underwear. He must have pulled down the thongs when removing the jeans. Fingering the silk, he stared at Serenity. She wore a small, ironic smile, the mate of the cynical grin he’d already seen on his own face when he’d looked in the mirror.
“These are mine?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“None other.” Her smile broadened. “Leopard-print thongs just aren’t my style.”
He couldn’t resist. “So what is your style?”
She went pink, a good color with her yellow dress and lightly suntanned skin.
He discovered that he loved to flirt, at least with Serenity Clare. He dangled the thong in her face by one thin strap. “Not natural enough?” he asked with a wink.
She chuckled. “Not unless spun by organic silk-worms on a communally owned farm.”
He guffawed. Serenity, the New Age priestess, had kept her sense of humor.
“Coffee?” She stepped back into the house.
After she’d gone, he draped the towel over the line and donned the skimpy underwear, feeling like an idiot. Once again he wondered what kind of a man he could be. He didn’t much like the thong. Was he a Chippendale dancer or something?
Seated at the farmhouse table, Serenity watched as the stranger entered the kitchen, clothed only in the scantiest scrap of silk she’d ever seen. She envied the fabric clinging to his body. How would his warm, satiny skin feel, caressed by her hand?
Tearing her mind away from that forbidden thought, she poured herself more coffee. “Paper?” She offered him the sports section of the Lost Creek weekly. Hank had always read the sports first.
What am I doing? Serenity angrily asked herself. I don’t have to please him. I don’t have to please any man. I have to please myself!
She dropped the paper onto the table and stood to fill his coffee mug.
He sat, sipped, and nodded. “Ma’am, I don’t know about organic java, but this sure is good.”
Serenity found herself beaming at his cheerful approval. She wanted to please him, but in a different way than she’d groveled to Hank. This stranger made her feel good and worthy, like the rest of her friends in Lost Creek, who also praised her cooking and enjoyed her company. She relaxed as much as she could in the presence of six feet of potent, sexy male, a man who might be threat…or seductive promise.
“When are we going into town?” He picked up the sports section and began reading it. A puzzled look stole over his face.
“When your clothes are dry.”
“When do you s’pose?”
She shrugged. “Maybe this afternoon.” Ignoring his frown, she asked, “Granola?”
“Uh, I guess. You know, I don’t recognize any of the names here.” He waved the paper. “Who are the Dallas Cowboys, and why would anyone care about their player trades?”
Serenity grinned. Here was the perfect man: a stud with no memories and no love of football. If it weren’t for his mysterious origins, she’d keep him forever. “While we’re waiting, why don’t we try a traditional path to knowledge. How about a tarot reading?”
After breakfast, Serenity sat on the floor of the living room and spread out the cards with assurance. Though a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, she knew she had a gift with the tarots. Time and again, customers returned to tell her that her readings had come true with uncanny accuracy.
Her life had delivered so many knocks that she didn’t believe in much. Not in the love of a husband or in the support of parents, and absolutely not in the kindness of fortune. Odd, but the tarots had never let her down.
Too bad she couldn’t use them to foretell her own fate, but the cards didn’t work that way. Otherwise, there’d be tarot readers winning the lottery and betting on the horses in every town. A pity.
Clearing her throat, Serenity flipped cards over onto the polished surface of her wooden coffee table. “The Hermit.” She raised her gaze to meet the stranger’s brown eyes.
He sat on the couch opposite her. His gaze still held a befuddled mistiness. Good.
“You seek higher knowledge,” she said.
His eyebrows pulled together. “Huh?”
“You are opposed by forces symbolized by the Seven of Cups. This is typical. We often become sidetracked by the things of the outer world—gold, riches, and so forth.” She looked up. The stranger had donned his blue chambray shirt. Half open, it exposed a set of sinewy pecs furred enticingly by a mat of dark, masculine hair.
She wanted to run her fingers through that sexy, virile pelt. Would it feel silky or rough against her hand? Shoving away the fantasy, Serenity shifted her attention to his face.
The stranger quirked his narrow, well-shaped lips. “Does that mean I have a lot of money?”
“Not necessarily. It means you want a lot of money, power, whatever.” She turned another card. “This symbolizes you. Hmm. Justice. That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
Serenity couldn’t tell him what she thought, but she guessed now that he was one of her ex-husband’s employees who’d gotten cold feet. She’d bet he’d tried to cross Hank. When Hank had found out about the stranger’s treachery, he’d been whacked on the head and left in the desert for dead.
After drawing in a breath, she let it out slowly. Stay calm. “Well, Mr. Justice, this card has an obvious meaning. You are a fair person, trustworthy and just.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” His eyes took on a hopeful, puppy-dog look.
She couldn’t help smiling, even though his arrival at her home meant complete disaster for her. “Of course.” She flipped over another card, then another. “These next cards predict the future.” Her gut clenching, she gulped.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Knight of Swords portends danger and violence. But it’s followed by The Lovers.” She stared at him.
His craggy, handsome face revealed nothing.
“Well, Mr. Justice, you’re in for a bad time.” Serenity swallowed hard. As she divined the meaning of the cards, her armpits grew damp and sweaty with tension. “But it looks as though everything is going to turn out all right for you.” Though not for her.
Sure as the sun rose in the east, Hank was going to come and get her. The reading favored the stranger, but the mere presence of The Lovers said nothing about her fate. The card could refer to his joyful reunion with his wife. Serenity loathed the notion.
Surprised by her jealousy, she stood, then shuffled the tarots together, even shakier than before.
The stranger grabbed her hand. “Wait. There has to be more than that.”
Serenity jerked away. The cards flew out of her chilled, stiff fingers. “There isn’t. I predict that you will recover your memories, but it will be a difficult process.”
“What are you so scared of?”
“I’m n-not scared.” She knelt to gather the cards, cursing them, the stranger, and Hank. Why couldn’t the world let her alone? Hadn’t she suffered enough?
“You’re terrified. Your hands are trembling and ice-cold. When I touched you, you pulled away as though I’d slapped you. What’s going on, Serenity?”
“Nothing’s going on. I just don’t like being touched, that’s all.” Standing, she put the cards on the table.
“You let me into your home. You saved my life. You obviously trust me. I’m…I’m Mr. Justice, right? Why can’t I touch you?”
Serenity fought back sobs. This was something that Hank, that beast, had done to her. Her throat threatened to close with unshed tears. “I can touch you. You can’t touch me. That’s just the way it is.” She ran to her room, overwhelmed.
Flinging herself onto her bed, Serenity rolled into a tiny ball, wanting to shut out the world. She’d cry herself to sleep even though it was only nine in the morning.
She wanted him, but she could never have him. What good would it do? She’d freeze up, just like the other times.
He stared after her. What the hell had just happened? Generally, Serenity Clare resembled the name she’d picked for herself. She reflected a clear, calm joy in living that he found very compelling, even attractive.
Now, a crack appeared in her tranquil facade. Walking down the hall, he contemplated the door she’d slammed then locked behind her, as though she were hurt or afraid.
Fear he could understand. Without a memory, he was scared himself. He couldn’t intrude, not even to comfort her. Nor could he probe further about her strange behavior.
What did her extreme reaction to the card reading mean? She obviously believed in the message of the tarots. Dumb to think that pieces of paper could predict anything, but Serenity wasn’t a dumb woman.
She’d been truly distressed by the Knight of Swords and The Lovers, and hadn’t wanted him to touch her.
Skittish. Was she on the run?
Returning to the living room, he picked up the cards and studied the Knight of Swords. A fearsome figure clad in full armor, his lips were skinned back from his teeth in a feral grin. This warrior relished the battle. Sword upraised as if to strike, he rode a racing warhorse through a barren landscape topped by a wind-whipped, stormy sky.
He shuddered. If the tarots told the truth, he was a killer.
Was Serenity his prey? Had unknown masters sent him to murder her?
Unacceptable.
He dropped the card, then found The Lovers. Adam and Eve, naked, stood in a grassy garden planted with a flaming bush and a fruit tree entwined with a snake. Surmounted by a glorious angel, the card’s symbolism was clear.
He didn’t wear a wedding band and couldn’t see a dent or a tan line to reveal that one had ever circled his left ring finger. But that meant nothing. Many married men didn’t wear a ring. All the better to cheat. He grimaced. He hoped he wouldn’t discover that he was the kind of man who’d two-time his wife.
His wife. Did she exist? Who was she? If he’d had such a powerful love in his life, why couldn’t he remember her, or any children they had?
What kind of monster was he?
He picked up Justice, the last of the cards. “Mr. Justice,” she’d called him. He hoped the silly moniker wouldn’t stick. But if he were a hired killer, the name had an intriguing irony.
Later that day, Serenity exited the shower and rubbed her wet hair with a towel. Examining her blond roots in the mirror, she decided to tint them the next time she shampooed. Combing her short “do,” she smiled at the scant five seconds it took to complete the task.
After wrapping the towel around her body, she opened the window to let out the steam. She’d better get a move on. The Labor Day festival, which the Lost Creek New Age community had planned to jump-start the fall tourist season, was only a few days away. She needed to string more crystal necklaces and meditate to put herself in the right frame of mind.
Her new and returning customers would demand scores of tarot fortunes. Sometimes they’d bring their friends or tape record their sessions until she became hoarse and exhausted by the strain. But she couldn’t say no. Her fortune-telling income was crucial to her survival since she’d fled from Hank.
She leaned her elbows on the frame of the window, which faced east. Hank. The merest thought of her abusive ex-husband made her innards cramp. She breathed deeply of the crisp, clean wind, seeking inner peace.
Perhaps she’d jumped to conclusions. If the stranger came from Hank, Hank knew her address. But he would have come for her himself. Her darling ex-husband wouldn’t have deprived himself of the pleasure of beating her to a pulp.
Again.
On the other hand, maybe Hank was nearby, watching, torturing her with uncertainty and suspense. Her flesh shivered and chilled at the thought.
No. One of the hallmarks of her beloved ex-husband’s character was his complete lack of patience.
Sucking in another deep breath, she ruthlessly forced Hank out of her consciousness, then left the bathroom. On the way to her bedroom, she encountered the stranger in the hall. Her pulse jumped. Conscious of his semi-nude state, and hers, she wrapped her towel more closely around her body.
“Afternoon, Serenity.”
He was so courtly, so polite. Her heart melted. By his tone of voice, she knew that if it were proper to wear a hat inside the house, he would have tipped his Stetson for her. “H-hello, Justus.”
His eyebrows arched. “Feelin’ better?” Full of concern, his rich, brown eyes scanned her face.
“Yes. I’m…I’m sorry I blew up at you like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
He reached out, though not for her towel. One finger stroked her cheek. She tried to not flinch, but failed when he gently touched the scar on her forehead Hank had inflicted.
She remembered the occasion: their first fight. Six months into their marriage, he’d made mai tais and shoved pineapple rinds down their cheap garbage disposal. When she’d tried to stop him, he’d backhanded her across the face into a kitchen cabinet, and the sharp handle had cut her forehead.
Happy memories indeed.
“I can tell something’s troubling you.” Her cowboy’s Texas twang brought her back to the present.
Serenity flinched again.
“You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.”
“I know that.” She hated the defensiveness edging her voice. Serenity had worked hard to become someone other than Hank’s victim. She wanted to destroy the protective shell she’d developed, but couldn’t seem to grow beyond it.
“But I do want to talk.” His scrutiny shifted to the peach-colored towel cloaking her body.
Uh-huh. Talk. “Perhaps later.” Serenity retreated to her bedroom, clutching the towel around her.
Chapter Three
By late afternoon his jeans had dried, so Justus explored the streets of Lost Creek with Serenity at his side. Her wild grass fragrance mingled with the chaparral scent of the desert town. The sun slanted through dust motes, turning the wooden planks of the walk-ways to white-hot gold. Some of the buildings had hitching rails and false fronts that he remembered from Wild West shows. Part of the tourist attraction of the place, he supposed.
Strange that he recalled scenes from old movies but not his own name or life.
“Late in August, it’s pretty quiet here.” Serenity’s wide-brimmed straw hat shielded her face from the sun’s fury. “Too hot for tourists. We hope some will come back for the Labor Day weekend festival, but it isn’t until Samhain that the place really starts to rock and roll.”
“‘Samhain’?”
“What most people call Halloween.”
He blinked, taking that in.
“There’s the police station.” She pointed across Main Street.
He started across the dusty avenue without going to the corner or checking stoplights. He halted in the middle of the asphalt. Jaywalking felt…funny to him, as though he normally obeyed traffic signals without question. What had he been, a crossing guard?
He looked left, then right. Of course there was no traffic. Serenity was right. The August heat had turned Lost Creek into a ghost town.
The deserted police station reflected the general sleepiness of the place. Peering in a window, he tried to peek through battered Venetian blinds. He saw only a wooden counter behind which sat a couple of tired-looking chairs near a beat-up metal desk.
The scene looked…wrong to him. He didn’t know where the images came from, but he knew he should see a bunch of busy people inside, working on computers and answering phone calls. Maps with push-pins should paper the walls, with the acrid smell of burned coffee tainting the air.
Perhaps he’d watched a lot of cop shows on TV.
He heard the soft slap of Serenity’s sandals on the plank sidewalk behind him. “There’s funding from the State of New Mexico for a full-time lawman, but no one wants the job.” She shrugged. “I guess cops want to be in a big city capturing crooks and making a name for themselves.”
“Maybe if you become a policeman, you go for excitement.” He turned away from the window. No answers there. “Is there a doctor in town?”
“Um, we’re pretty small. No. Won’t you try my friends? They’re talented holistic healers. They’ve helped a lot of people.” Sweet of Serenity to look so anxious about his welfare.
“Okay.” What did he have to lose? “I s’pose I can go see a regular doctor if these, er, healers can’t help me.”
“What can a doctor do except give you drugs?” She frowned. Serenity clearly didn’t approve of drugs.
He didn’t, either. “No drugs. I won’t take any pills.” He wondered about the immediacy and firmness of his reaction. Maybe he’d had a bad experience with drugs in the past.
She looked relieved. “Good. Let’s go see Mairen.” Taking his arm, she led him down the street.
“Who’s Mairen?”
“I told you. Mairen can fix you up.” Serenity strolled down the planking, towing him along. “I’m sure that the division within your spirit can be healed with the application of the right crystals and breathing methods.”
Was she nuts? “No.”
She stopped, looking a tad upset. “Why not?”
His mind went blank. Why not, indeed? Besides, he liked Serenity and didn’t want to offend her. “Um, will it hurt?”
“No, of course not. Mairen is the gentlest of souls. You’ll see.”
At the intersection of First and Main, Serenity paused in front of a bookshop at the corner. Its sign, painted on wood with colorful rainbows, read Great Bear’s Book Nook. As she pushed open the door, a bell tinkled, heralding their arrival. He followed her when she entered.
Inside, he smelled sage and incense. Crystals winked from shelves, reflecting the afternoon sunlight. Racks of esoteric books lined the store while an oval counter in the center displayed Native American jewelry and artifacts. Soft flute music played, interspersed pleasantly with the murmur of several table fountains.
A door in the back of the shop opened to reveal the largest man he’d ever seen. Broad and tall, the copper-skinned fellow wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and shorts. His gray-streaked hair, braided with feathers and beads, reached his shoulders. He beamed at Serenity.
“Great Bear, this is the stranger I told Mairen about.” Serenity gestured. “Justus, this is Great Bear, Mairen’s soul mate. Great Bear discovered my true name and totem animals in a naming ceremony.”
Sounded pretty strange, but he couldn’t be picky. And Great Bear seemed friendly enough.
“Welcome, Justus,” Great Bear boomed. “Enter our home.”
A perky woman with white hair bobbed up behind Great Bear. “Want some fresh carrot juice?” she asked in a high, sweet voice. Clad in a flowing, robe-like dashiki, her bracelets clattered as she waved a glassful of orange liquid.
“Mairen.” Serenity kissed the woman’s cheek.
Great Bear remained in the shop, presumably to welcome any customers. Mairen led them into the kitchen in the back of the store and served large glasses of chilled carrot-orange juice.
He discovered he enjoyed the sweet blend. Serenity and her friends sure were unusual, but they ate and drank well.
“Mairen, this is yummy.” Serenity set down her glass after draining it.
“Even better, the electrolytes will promote the return of your memories.” Mairen directed her cheery smile at him.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He drank more electrolytes. Lucky for him they tasted so good.
“Come with me, stranger.” Her colorful skirts flowing, Mairen led the way into an adjoining room, which contained sofas, chairs, and a television set with a VCR. Evidently Mairen and Great Bear didn’t share Serenity’s disdain for mass media.
A brown-and-rust Native American-style rug decorated with a tree of life design lay in front of a brick fireplace. After closing the curtains, Mairen went to a cupboard and retrieved a long, misshapen swatch of umber-colored leather. She spread the hide over the rug.
“I usually let Great Bear do the smudge purifications,” she confided to him, “but I have had more success with issues involving mind-spirit integration.”
“Uh, what exactly will this, um, purification do, ma’am?”
“It’ll clear your mind and spirit of unwanted energies that could interfere with your memory.”
He tentatively fingered the leather. Its softness rivaled a woman’s cheek, and he bet it had been hand-tooled. “What is this, ma’am?”
“It’s a doeskin. Great Bear killed the animal himself and tanned her skin after asking her permission to use her hide for healing work.”
He didn’t recall asking permission from anything he’d killed. The certainty that he’d taken life hit him with the force and power of a wrecking ball. Shattered, he went cold. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell these good, innocent people he was a killer. He didn’t know if he wanted to conquer his amnesia. What if he found out he was a criminal?
Mairen reached into the cupboard again and removed a bundle of dried, leafy branches, about eight inches in length, tied with colorful strands of silk.
Recovering his voice, he asked, “And this is?”
“A sage smudge stick. It’ll purge the atmosphere of any negative energy or harmful spirits which might interfere with your healing.”
Yeah, right. “Oh, okay, I guess.”
Serenity smiled at him. “Your skepticism is acceptable, though you have no reason to disbelieve anything you see or hear today, do you?” She lit a candle that sat on a nearby shelf.
He blinked. “You’re right. I haven’t any experience with any of this that I can remember. Who knows, it could be the best thing since sliced bread.” He looked at Mairen. “Go for it, witchy woman.”
She giggled like a kid. “Lie down on the hide.”
He did, resting his head against the soft doeskin. His reclined position gave him a good view of the cracked stucco and a water stain or two on the ceiling. They oughtta reroof this place.
Serenity sat at his feet, cross-legged. She beamed at him. One high, elegant cheekbone reflected the candle’s mellow light.
He’d go through a thousand purification rituals just to see her smile.
Mairen, at his head, gently rubbed his temples. Her silver-and-turquoise bracelets softly clinked. “Tell us about your dreams.”
He tensed.
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Sue Swift
WHO WAS HE……this sexy but injured amnesiac cowboy who'd sought out her cabin, then staked a claim on her soul? From Stetson to boots, he looked like an upstanding lawman. But was he an enemy from her imprisoning past? Or a sweet, loving rescuer unlocking the chains around her heart?WHO WAS SHE.…this mysterious, flame-haired "Serenity Clare" who'd trustingly taken him in, stirred his senses and made him feel oddly whole? And could he offer her a future without knowing his past? He had to risk it–had to propose–and pray their vows led not to regrets but to remembering…and to sweet, loving rescue.
The stranger was better looking than anyone had a right to be.
Serenity sighed. Though he was inches away, his warmth enveloped her. His distinctive male scent filled her senses. She thrummed with delightful, forbidden longings. The memory of his recent kiss haunted her, branding her soul forever.
A fantasy of making love with him sneaked into her brain. She nearly groaned aloud, passion overtaking her.
Could she?
Would he?
What would be the harm?
Once his memory returned, he’d be leaving, wouldn’t he?
And didn’t they deserve some happiness until they learned who he was…and why he was here?
Dear Reader,
Brr…February’s below-freezing temperatures call for a mug of hot chocolate, a fuzzy afghan and a heartwarming book from Silhouette Romance. Our books will heat you to the tips of your toes with the sizzling sexual tension that courses between our stubborn heroes and the determined heroines who ultimately melt their hardened hearts.
In Judy Christenberry’s Least Likely To Wed, her sinfully sexy cowboy hero has his plans for lifelong bachelorhood foiled by the searing kisses of a spirited single mom. While in Sue Swift’s The Ranger & the Rescue, an amnesiac cowboy stakes a claim on the heart of a flame-haired heroine—but will the fires of passion still burn when he regains his memory?
Tensions reach the boiling point in Raye Morgan’s She’s Having My Baby!—the final installment of the miniseries HAVING THE BOSS’S BABY—when our heroine discovers just who fathered her baby-to-be…. And tempers flare in Rebecca Russell’s Right Where He Belongs, in which our handsome hero must choose between his cold plan for revenge and a woman’s warm and tender love.
Then simmer down with the incredibly romantic heroes in Teresa Southwick’s What If We Fall In Love? and Colleen Faulkner’s A Shocking Request. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll fall in love all over again with these deeply touching stories about widowers who get a second chance at love.
So this February, come in from the cold and warm your heart and spirit with one of these temperature-raising books from Silhouette Romance. Don’t forget the marshmallows!
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
The Ranger & the Rescue
Sue Swift
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The various details of the Texas Rangers
and their operations were the sole creation of the author.
This book is dedicated to my critique partners, Cheryl Vincent Clark
and Janet Shirah, who continued to believe when I didn’t.
I’d like to thank my critique partners and others who helped me with this book:
Judy Dedek, Jackie Hamilton, Celia Zweig and Colin Swift.
My editors, Darlene Winter, Diane Grecco, Kim Nadelson
and Mary-Theresa Hussey, have been enormously helpful.
As always, I depend upon the love and support of my husband.
Books by Sue Swift
Silhouette Romance
His Baby, Her Heart #1539
The Ranger & the Rescue #1574
SUE SWIFT
A criminal defense attorney for twenty years, Sue Swift always sensed a creative wellspring bubbling inside her, but didn’t find her niche until attending a writing class with master teacher Bud Gardner. Within a short time, Sue realized her creative outlet was romance fiction. Since she began writing her first novel in November 1996, she’s sold three books and two short stories.
The 2001 president of the Sacramento Chapter of the Romance Writers of America, Sue credits the RWA, its many wonderful programs and the help of its experienced writers for her new career as a romance novelist. She also lectures to women’s and writers’ groups on various topics relating to the craft of writing.
Her hobbies are hiking, bodysurfing and kenpo karate, in which she’s earned a second-degree black belt. Sue and her real-live hero of a husband maintain homes in northern California and Maui, Hawaii. You may write Sue via e-mail at sue@sue-swift.com (mailto:sue@sue-swift.com) or at P.O. Box 241, Citrus Heights, CA 95611-0241. And please visit Sue’s Web site at www.sue-swift.com (http://www.sue-swift.com). An interview with Sue is featured at the author area of the Harlequin/Silhouette Web site at www.eHarlequin.com (http://www.eHarlequin.com).
Contents
Chapter One (#u893f9dde-4e48-58ba-87f6-d12e353c8701)
Chapter Two (#u14c5de16-3508-5b42-9fef-a1e686bd086d)
Chapter Three (#u61e62738-4392-5d27-a05e-c0c11ffd5abb)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The most beautiful man Serenity Clare had ever seen stood at her door. Tall, lean, and utterly virile, his appearance was as unexpected as the proverbial snowball in you-know-where.
A slender ribbon of desire unfurled deep in Serenity’s body, tingly and warm.
She blinked, surprised. She’d thought Hank had destroyed her passion for any man. What was different about this guy?
He removed his Stetson, revealing short, sable hair. The pressure of his hat in the searing heat of the New Mexico summer afternoon had stuck his hair to his skull.
Rubbing his scalp, he asked, “Lori Perkins?”
Serenity took the question like a punch to the gut. Pleasure fled, blown away like dust in the desert wind. She shrank back, craving the solidity of the doorpost behind her.
She hadn’t used that name in close to a year and didn’t want to hear it now. She gazed at him while breathing deeply to recapture a calm state of mind. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Excuse me.”
She tried to close the door, but he stuck his booted toe in the way. “You’re Lori Perkins. I’ve seen a picture of you.”
Resignation filled her chest, a frightful, leaden weight. “Who are you?” she managed to whisper.
He hesitated. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Bambi-brown eyes looked too gentle for his craggy face. He shifted from side to side; his heels crunched on the gravelly stoop.
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am.” His twang reminded her of home.
A tremor ran through her body. Texas was the past, something she wanted to forget. This was getting worse and worse. “You don’t know what?”
“My name. I was hoping you could help me.” He swayed slightly. “I…I woke up in the desert, and I remembered your name and address.”
The icy fingers of fear clawed at her wits. Serenity sucked in a deep breath, commanding her body to quit trembling and her mind to begin functioning. She had to discover who this man was and how he had found her. “Do you have an ID?”
“Huh?” He stared, glassy-eyed.
“Turn around.”
He did. Hmm, she thought. The left back quarter of his jeans showed a lean, shapely buttock. A faded square marked the place in the back pocket where ninety-five out of one hundred men kept their wallets. Vanished, it would provide no answers, reveal no secrets.
“Why do you know my name, but not your own?”
Turning to face her, he opened his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Bend down. Maybe you took a whack to the head.”
“I do have a headache.”
He obliged, leaning over from the waist.
Serenity gingerly ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, catching his male, musky scent while she parted the locks. He jerked as she contacted sticky wetness.
“Oh, my.” At his temple, a lump the size of a half-dollar oozed blood. It looked bad.
She released him, then regarded him thoughtfully as he swayed, obviously ill, on her doorstep. If she sent him away, he could die. In his current weakened condition, without remembering the reason he’d been sent to find her, she was sure she could keep him under control.
“Hmm. You know me, but I don’t know you…and you don’t know you. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Serenity opened the door wider, inviting him inside.
“How’s that? Do you know me?”
Her mind raced. What could she tell him? “Um, no, but I’m a psychic. Don’t worry about a thing—the cards see all, know all, and have all the answers. And if the cards don’t tell us what we want to know, we can always try the crystal ball or the Ouija board. Don’t worry—something will work.”
He gulped. That Adam’s apple again. He was positively edible, this amnesiac cowboy who’d turned up on her doorstep like a tumbleweed.
Serenity reminded herself that he couldn’t be the only person who knew the location of Lori Perkins. Feeling exposed while standing outside, she retreated into her home.
Her stomach clenched and twisted. How had this stranger found her? She bet he’d been sent to check her out and to report back to—back to—
Her mind flinched away from the thought of Hank.
Until she figured out what to do, she’d keep this stranger close. In his befuddled condition, she was sure she’d remain safe…at least for a while.
He remembered to duck as he entered Lori Perkins’s house, but that was about all he remembered. That, and the woman. But the black-and-white photo he recalled bore only a slight resemblance to this flame-haired sprite. Maybe the snapshot was old; in any event, he remembered it only through a haze of pain and confusion.
“Give me your hat.” She hung the battered Stetson, dirty with grime and a splotch or two of blood, on a wooden coatrack near the door.
“Come.” Lori led the way through a whitewashed living room sparsely furnished with a futon-style couch and a couple of cushions in turquoise and coral. A braided rag rug in the same tones covered part of the wooden floor. A row of shiny, multicolored crystals sat on a narrow mantel above the curved adobe fireplace.
“Sit.” In the kitchen, she indicated one of four ladder-back chairs drawn up to a farmhouse table. After wringing out a worn-looking towel in steamy water, she applied it to his head. She seemed nice, wincing in empathy as she dabbed at the bump on his scalp, first with hot soapy water, then with ice.
While she brewed tea, he had a chance to look at his hostess and her home. Lori’s graceful movements reflected her simple speech. The white cotton dress she wore, brightly embroidered, harmonized with the Mexican-influenced decor. She lived modestly, but had a feminine knack for making this plain place a home. The small stuccoed, whitewashed house was typical of that part of New Mexico—and from where did that strange bit of information come? he silently asked himself.
The lack of appliances struck him. No television or radio, no dishwasher. He could hear wind chimes faintly tinkling in the quiet. He had a vision of pretty Lori Perkins washing her clothes on rocks in a stream. Was there even a phone?
She stood at the kitchen counter, dripping honey into a glass of iced tea. Her back was turned.
Pressing the ice pack to his temple with one hand, he poked at a pile of papers on the table with the other. Was he ordinarily a snoop? Maybe his rudeness was the result of the bump on his head. He hoped so, but in the meantime the bills he examined showed that his Ms. Perkins used a different name. A very different name. Serenity Clare. What kind of a wacky name was Serenity Clare?
He caught himself frowning, then consciously smoothed out his expression. Who was he to judge anyone else? He could be a Stetson-wearing version of Ted Bundy for all he knew.
Aha. A cellular phone bill in the name of Serenity Clare. Civilization did extend into the New Mexican desert wilderness.
A hand with short, buffed nails plucked the papers from his grasp. “Well, we know something about you,” she said. “You’re nosy.”
He actually became hot with embarrassment. Then, when she smiled, his temperature rose even more. She had a gorgeous smile, one that could coax the sun out from behind a cloud.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer for a moment, then spread out her hands. “You know my name. Lori Perkins.” Placing the glass nearby, she sat across from him at the farmhouse table. Her fingers fiddled with the yellow gingham cloth. Between them, in the center of the table, stood a blue earthenware pitcher filled with a tangle of wild grasses. Their subtle fragrance perfumed the air.
“Who’s Serenity Clare?” He put down the ice pack.
“I’m Serenity. I’m a psychic, remember? Lori Perkins is, well, just a little too mundane for your friendly neighborhood fortune-teller. So please, call me Serenity.”
“Serenity.” He tasted the name on his tongue, deciding he liked it. It matched the small, friendly woman who sat before him, matched her open face, guileless smile, and calm green eyes. He noticed a small scar, pale and almost invisible, cutting through one brow. “You’re a psychic? I thought all that stuff was a scam.”
Her eyes widened.
Damn, he’d probably blown it. The woman had rescued him, taken him into her home, and he’d insulted her. “I’m sorry.”
She held up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m used to skeptics. We all are.”
“‘We’?”.
“Are you familiar with Lost Creek? This town is a vortex site.”
“A vor—what?”
“A vortex site.” Lori—no, Serenity, he reminded himself—grew animated, waving her hands in the air. “See, the Native Americans used to gather here. You can see their ancient trails in the arroyos. This place is full of mystical energy.” She leaned toward him over the table, her gaze intense. “Can’t you feel it?”
Only to humor her, he closed his eyes and tried. His headache throbbed as though a road repair crew with twenty jackhammers had moved into his skull.
He sensed the dampness of condensation on the sides of the cool glass of iced tea in his hand. He opened his eyes and took a swallow. Cold and tasty, the tea had a flavor he couldn’t define. “Hey, this is great. What’s in it?”
“It’s a blend of my own. Sage is a general tonic. I also put in chamomile, to ease your pain, and valerian to promote healing and rest. It’s very healthful, much better for you than that nasty caffeinated stuff.”
“Well, thanks, Serenity.” He sipped some more, then set the glass on the table. “I’d love to stay here and shoot the breeze, but I s’pose I should be on my way. Do you know where the police department or the sheriff’s office is in this town?”
“Oh, uh, er, it’s the weekend.” Serenity ran a hand through her short red hair, tousling it into untidy spikes. “Nobody’s there right now.”
“No one? No one’s in authority here?”
“Lost Creek is a very small town. There are fewer than three hundred permanent residents. We don’t have full-time law enforcement,” she explained. “There’s no crime.”
“It sounds as though I’ve landed in Paradise.” With effort, he stood, managing to smile at her. “But I can’t take advantage of your hospitality any longer, ma’am.”
“Of course you can.”
“What?” Already he’d discovered that Serenity made the most surprising statements. Heck, he wanted to stay just to hear her talk about the vortex thing. He’d bet that every crystal in the living room had its own story.
“I mean, I’m the only link you have with your past, huh? I’d feel bad if you were to leave with no money, nowhere to go and no idea of who you are, with that bump on your head and—and all.”
He sat, relieved. Dog-tired, hungry, and dirty, he really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere. Despite the healing tea, his head hurt so much that he couldn’t move or speak without waves of pain reverberating through his brain.
She’d offered, and he found that he wouldn’t mind imposing on pretty Serenity Clare for a while longer. “Maybe you’re right.”
“If you left, where would you go?” Serenity asked.
“I don’t know.” He touched the bump on his head. It seemed to have gone down a tad, but not much. Still hurt like the dickens.
“You’d better stay here.” She sounded definite. “I’ll call a friend of mine. Mairen is an expert at psycho-spiritual integration. And that’s got to be the solution.”
“What?” This woman said the damnedest things. Maybe he was a reporter, or a scout for one of them TV talk shows, and he’d been sent to interview Serenity Clare.
“The blow to your head caused a psycho-spiritual rift. That’s why you can’t remember anything. Heal the rift and your memory returns.” She patted his hand.
The slight touch of Serenity’s delicate fingers made his flesh ripple and heat. He squelched his desire along with his growing interest in her, hoping her talents of tarot reading and crystal ball gazing didn’t extend to clairvoyance. Otherwise, she’d throw him out of her house.
He wanted to stay. This sexy, screwball little sorceress was the only link to his identity.
“How long has it been since you ate?” Standing, she went to the refrigerator.
“I don’t know.”
“I have some nice tofu lasagna from last night, if you don’t mind leftovers.” She took a rectangular pan from the fridge and put it on the tiled counter.
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.” He realized he wasn’t merely hungry, but famished. He’d never heard of tofu lasagna, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. The clock above her microwave indicated four-thirty. He guessed he hadn’t eaten since the day before, possibly longer.
Serenity cut two chunks of food from the pan, her knife scraping on the metal bottom. She placed each portion on a plate. After covering them with waxed paper, she put them in the microwave and punched some buttons.
The machine hummed. “So you have some modern conveniences,” he said.
She smiled. “Did you suppose I used kerosene lamps and cooked food over an open fire?”
“I can’t see a TV or a radio.”
“I live simply, not stupidly. With electricity, I have the modern conveniences I choose. I don’t want mass media.” She refilled his glass with tea. “The outside world is…disturbing to my meditations.”
“What do you mean?”
Serenity shrugged. “The news seems to consist of foreign wars and local crime. TV and movies are full of car crashes and shootings. Why distress myself with such violence?” Forks and napkins in hand, Serenity set the table.
“Do you get a newspaper?” The enticing aromas of oregano and garlic began to fill the kitchen. His mouth watered.
Amnesia sure was crazy. He remembered that he liked lasagna but didn’t know his own name. Crazy.
“Not a daily. There’s a weekly paper that covers local matters. That’s enough for me.” The microwave buzzed. She took out the food. “Lost Creek is my little world.” She removed the wrap from the plates, releasing a fragrant, steamy cloud.
He sniffed appreciatively. “Most people have broader interests, don’t they?”
Serenity handed him his meal, then sat opposite him. “Do they?” Her eyes held a quizzical gleam.
He dug into the tofu lasagna. The piping-hot square of pasta, oozing spicy-smelling red sauce, didn’t look unusual. But how would he know? He blew on his bite before hesitantly placing it on his tongue. It tasted as good as it smelled, maybe better. He chewed and swallowed, then said, “Lordy, but this is good. Whatever else you might be, you’re one heck of a good cook.”
“Thank you.”
Why did Serenity go all red? “You act as though nobody ever complimented your cooking.”
Her gaze dropped to her plate. “I’m surprised you appreciate natural food. Few men do.” Serenity toyed with her fork before eating a bite.
“What’s so natural about it?”
“The pasta is whole wheat and the sauce is made from organic tomatoes and herbs. Instead of meat, I used crumbled tofu.”
“Tastes like normal lasagna, maybe a little better than most.” He took another hearty, yummy mouthful.
“That’s what’s great about tofu.” Serenity’s eyes sparkled. She waved her fork in the air for emphasis as she warmed to her subject. “It’s practically flavorless. If you put it in salsa it tastes Mexican and makes a great taco filling. With tomatoes, garlic and oregano, it’s Italian. And no fat whatsoever. Tofu’s the best protein around.”
Was she the kind of woman he usually dated? He hoped so. He’d hate to regain his memory only to discover he detested this charming, likable person. But was that how amnesia worked? He frowned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m…thinking.” He ate another bite of lasagna while considering the situation.
Who was Serenity? She must be the key to his identity, he realized. Why else could he remember only her?
She must know who I am. But why won’t she tell me? What’s her game?
He glanced up from his plate. Serenity sat, calmly eating her supper. She didn’t look like a person with secrets. But why would she welcome a stranger into her home?
Maybe she was just friendly. “Are you sure you don’t know me?”
She looked up. “Never seen you before in my life.” After finishing her portion, Serenity carried her plate to the sink and poured him more iced tea. She filled another glass with water.
“You don’t want tea?” He gestured with the glass. “It’s delicious.”
“No. It’s a healing tea, remember? I don’t need it. You do.”
Replete, he leaned back into his chair with a satisfied sigh. “That was great. Thanks, Serenity. I think you saved my life.”
Her answering smile was ready, yet nervous. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, I think I should go to town and maybe try to contact the authorities.”
Reaching across the table for his empty plate, her nose crinkled. “Uh, um, do you want to clean up a little before we go? You might cause some comment if you don’t.”
“Do I really look so bad?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Come with me.”
He followed Serenity through the living room, then down a narrow hallway to a bathroom. Upon seeing his strange image in the mirror, he couldn’t restrain a shocked gasp.
Short, black hair stuck up in filthy spikes on top of his head. The gash on his temple needed rinsing. Bloodshot brown eyes. A two-day beard. “Oh, man. I could scare a prison gang right out of their tattoos.” No wonder she didn’t tell him anything. He looked like a pretty tough customer. “Why’d you let me in your house, lady?”
“Your aura is pure.” Serenity smiled at his reflection. “Do you recognize yourself?”
“I’m not sure.” He watched the mirror as the unfamiliar mouth, narrow and a little mean-looking, scowled. “I don’t know if I like my appearance.”
“The soul is what matters, and yours is a sweet one if your energy is any indication.”
“Uh, well, thank you kindly.” I guess.
“Why don’t you shower? Cleanse the outer body to match the inner spirit. Meanwhile, I’ll wash your clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, figuring that he’d now learn if she used the rocks-in-the-stream method of laundry.
The bathroom door opened a slit and the stranger’s sinewy arm, dusted with dark hair, thrust out a bundle of dirty clothes.
“You can use my razor. It’s in the shower.” Serenity grinned, wondering what he’d make of her pink-flowered shaver. “And there’s a new toothbrush and some antiseptic under the sink.”
She took the clothes to the laundry room. Located off the kitchen, it contained an old-fashioned washer and a broken dryer that Serenity’s cheap landlord refused to fix. Anyway, Serenity preferred the scent of clothes dried on the line in the desert sun and wind.
Fingering the heavy jeans, she chuckled to herself as she tugged his leather belt free. The pants would take all night and part of the next day to dry, at least. Another day keeping the stranger in her home away from the authorities—such as they were—in Lost Creek. The next day, Sunday, would find the Lost Creek Police Department deserted. Two days of security gained. Two more precious days during which she’d decide what to do about the threat posed by the amnesiac cowboy.
Lucky for her, she’d decided to major in psychology when she’d attended college. She didn’t know much about amnesia, but recalled that no certain cure existed. The likelihood of the stranger recovering his memory soon was slight.
She pulled a flimsy scrap of leopard-print cloth out of the jeans, then tossed the pants into the washer with detergent and set the water to the hottest setting. After vainly checking for a label in the shirt, she added it to the washer with the socks.
Coming to the underwear, she stopped. Leopard-print thongs seemed out of character for her cowboy. Were they silk? She poked at the fabric. Searching for the label, she thought they were the kind of sexy underclothing that a man might receive as a gift from a lover.
Her teeth ground together. She took a deep breath, seeking calmness, before putting the underwear into the wash with his other clothes. She told herself that she cared if he had a girlfriend only because a lover would miss him and, perhaps, search for him. Otherwise, Serenity decided, she wasn’t concerned at all. Letting a man into her life wasn’t an option for her.
She dropped the lid over the churning, bubbly wash and went to the kitchen to clean up the remains of their supper. Nice of him to flatter her cooking. Hank never had. She washed the plates and stacked them in the drainer to drip dry.
She sniffed at the dregs of his iced tea before rinsing his glass. The tea should promote sleepiness, if her Healing Herbs book was to be believed. She doubted its efficacy. She doubted everything.
He’d drunk close to three glasses. If the stuff worked, he should be so woozy that he’d fall asleep in the shower.
Walking down the hall, she listened as the sound of the water stopped. The glass door creaked, then slammed. She guessed that he’d stepped out and was drying off.
She imagined a taut, muscular body gleaming with wetness as he rubbed one of her towels across his chest. Her feminine, peach-colored linens would be a spine-tingling contrast with his developed pecs and furry, masculine chest.
Leaning against the doorpost of the guest room, she mopped her damp brow with the sleeve of her dress before squelching those wild thoughts. She hadn’t dared to dream about any man since shortly after she’d married.
She couldn’t be attracted to him. That was just plain stupid, and she hadn’t survived by being stupid. Chances were that Hank had sent him. She’d been lucky that this stranger had lost his memory.
The usual treatment for amnesia was to place the sufferer back into his normal environment. There, surrounded by the familiar, each reminder of who he was would trigger a flood of memories. But that remedy wasn’t an option for the stranger. In her home, she could keep him comfortable but ignorant.
Who had said keep your friends close but your enemies closer? That was her plan, though deep down, big men still frightened her.
She’d have to get over it.
Serenity opened the door to the guest bedroom. She generally used the room for craft projects—stringing crystal necklaces and the like. Since she was a naturally tidy person, no evidence of her work littered the desk. Her unexpected visitor would dwarf the narrow, single bed, but she couldn’t change either the size of the bed or the stature of the stranger.
Besides, she wouldn’t want to change him. She liked his stature just fine.
Serenity parted the beige drapes, then slid open the screened window to let the warm, sage-scented desert breeze into the room. She adjusted the black-and-white Mexican serape covering the bed, then fluffed the pillow. A rustle warned her of his presence. She turned.
He filled the doorway, tall and lean and powerful, with only a small peach towel covering his narrow hips. Droplets of water sparkled in his hair. A curly, dark masculine fluff dusted solid-looking pecs.
Blood roared in her ears as a long-dormant need awakened. Seminude, he looked better than she’d imagined. Where undecorated by hair, his amber skin looked satiny, touchable. She’d love to give him a massage, have a legitimate excuse to explore that body without fear. He wasn’t so big as to be intimidating, she realized. Not a giant. Just a man, though a very good-looking one.
She remembered to breathe. “Excuse me.” She had to get out of there fast, before she hyperventilated.
“Uh, Serenity, where are my clothes?”
“In the washer. They were filthy.”
He grinned, eyes twinkling at some unknown joke.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothin’. Hey, what am I supposed to do, run around nekkid?”
Not a bad idea. She swallowed. “Aren’t you sleepy?” Given the amount of tea he’d drunk, he ought to collapse.
Blinking, he stretched his arms over his head. His triceps bulged. The towel slid.
Sweating, she averted her eyes. A regular at the local clothing-optional swimming hole, she wasn’t body-shy. But this unknown stranger aroused a feminine passion she hadn’t felt for a long time, and one she didn’t want to feel now.
She peeked. His stretch made him look like a lean, powerful cougar, golden and sleek. He rolled back his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles. “I do believe you’re right, ma’am. After that delicious supper and nice, relaxing shower, bed would feel fine.” He winked at her.
On fire, she fled for the door. She didn’t want to think about, much less see, his entire body as he dropped the towel and slid between the sheets. “I’ll…I’ll get you another cold compress.” But she was the one who needed to chill out, though a little bitty compress wouldn’t cool the sudden fire he’d ignited.
She probably needed the entire North Pole.
Chapter Two
He ran through the darkness, fleeing a nameless, shapeless foe. Clinging sand conspired with the sharp desert wind in his face to slow him down.
He rolled over the side of an arroyo, hoping to find cover to wait out the threat. Easier to run on the firm-packed bottomland, but dangerous. The fitful moonlight concealed as much as it revealed, distorting the path. Any shadow could be a leg-breaking, ankle-wrenching pothole. With his pursuers gaining, a fall would be disastrous.
Rising, he sprinted down one twisting, turning cleft, then risked a look over his shoulder. His eyes confirmed what his ears already knew: they were closer.
Subterfuge, then. He dodged behind a boulder and crawled, wishing that the slight concealment would shadow his movements as he turned ninety degrees into a branch of the arroyo.
Bad move into a dead end. Dead end. He’d always hated that turn of phrase.
He checked for a cave at the back of the cleft, hope warring with his knowledge of the desert.
Nothing. Unless he could climb out fast, he was a goner.
His nose twitched, scenting an aroma different than the ordinary smells of sage and sand that perfumed the desert at midnight.
It was warm, with good associations, yet burning. Not wood smoke.
Coffee?
He opened his eyes. Early dawn light, pearly and pink, snuck through beige curtains at the window. Skin sweaty and muscles tense, he shifted his legs in a too short, too narrow bed, untangling himself from the twisted sheets.
Where was he? Who was he? Had his dream been a memory? Who had been chasing him? Why?
He remembered where he was. Safe. Relief flowed through his body like a cooling tide. He was safe in the guest room of the mysterious Lori Perkins, aka Serenity Clare, fortune-teller and organic cook.
His heartbeat tripped, then slowed. He stretched his body as much as he could in the tiny bed, taking inventory. His head hurt, but only at the site of the injury. The headache had gone, he realized with a sigh of relief.
Rising, he didn’t see his clothing. He chuckled. He didn’t mind going au naturel if nakedness got the reaction he wanted from pretty Serenity. He bet she had a trim little body underneath her loose, hippie-style clothes.
Guilt gnawed at the edges of his conscience. Serenity had generously welcomed him into her home and showed him nothing but kindness. She didn’t deserve a needy male getting fresh with her.
Besides, she might have a lover. Though he hadn’t seen a ring on her left hand, a woman as cute and nice as sweet little Serenity probably attracted men the way water drew horses after a long day’s ride.
He sniffed again. Coffee. How natural was coffee? Knowing Serenity, the coffee had probably been organically grown, roasted over an open fire, then ground by holy-spirited Tibetan monks. She’d brew it with Evian or some other kind of fancy, pure water, in a hand-blown, glass coffeepot that was free from hazardous chemicals.
He laughed out loud. He was doggone cynical, wasn’t he? Wrapping the now-dry towel around his midsection, he went in search of Serenity Clare and her magic coffee.
After striding into the living room, he stopped, arrested by the spectacle that met his surprised eyes.
The curtain on a wide picture window was open, giving a view of dawn over the desert. In front of the glass, an enormous, curved chunk of amethyst stood on a wooden holder. Ambient light caught and refracted through the lavender crystals studding the rock.
Before this display, Serenity sat, cross-legged, on a mat. Clothed in a gauzy robe that clung to her lithe body, her arrow-straight back was silhouetted by the first pale rays of dawn.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He sucked in a breath.
She emitted a hum. “Ommmmmm…” Her chant grew in volume as the sun rose.
A sunbeam, pure and sharp as a blade, knifed over the horizon and struck the amethyst. Split by the crystal into a thousand disparate rays, rainbows bounced around the room.
Serenity leaped to her feet, hands flung above her head, stretching her slender body as though she wanted to touch the sky. She arched back, her body bowing, then forward, slapping both palms on the ground.
He was confronted by her upturned bottom, outlined by her enveloping robe. Lust whipped through him, elemental and violent as lightning.
Shame immediately followed. How could he even think of repaying Serenity’s kindness with a pass during her morning meditation?
He crashed down the hall to the bathroom, scrabbling for control. Turning the shower on full-blast, he jumped in, punishing himself in the stinging, icy spray.
He hated not knowing who he was, but did he really want to find out? What kind of jerk was he? He hoped he didn’t react like a caveman every time he laid eyes on a woman. Sure, Serenity was pretty and nice, but he’d better learn to control himself around her. Or he’d have to leave, and he had no idea where to go or how to seek his past.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he heard her singing. Not “om,” but something lively and charming about a hard-knock life. Tentatively touching the healing bump on his head, he found that the song struck a chord with him.
He walked through the living room, now blessedly vacant of the resident dawn worshiper. At the kitchen door, he spied Serenity, dressed and seated at the table, earthenware mug nearby.
She looked up, her smile sunny as the newborn day. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Uh, I guess,” he answered, remembering his nightmare.
“What’s wrong?” She rose, approaching to press a palm to his forehead.
“I’m okay. I had some odd dreams, that’s all.”
Her smile faded. A concerned little pleat appeared between her eyebrows.
Before she could say anything, he asked, “Are my clothes dry?”
“I’ll check.” She left the kitchen through a door he hadn’t yet investigated. The yellow skirt of her loose, summery dress swished around her calves.
When he followed, he found a room full of ancient appliances. One was a washer, so his question was answered.
Serenity walked through a door that opened onto a small patio. The broken concrete adjoined an expanse of scrubby grass lined with desperate-looking succulents. A vine, leaves limp from neglect, hesitantly twined halfway up the back fence. The ground beneath it looked parched and cracked.
Next to the door stood two chairs, similar to those in the kitchen. One had a broken rung. A clothesline, hung with his apparel, dominated the tiny yard.
Holding on to his towel, he rubbed his heavy denim jeans between two fingers. Still damp and unwearable. His blue chambray shirt could also use more time in the sun. Only a minuscule scrap of leopard-print silk had dried.
He didn’t remember taking off underwear. He must have pulled down the thongs when removing the jeans. Fingering the silk, he stared at Serenity. She wore a small, ironic smile, the mate of the cynical grin he’d already seen on his own face when he’d looked in the mirror.
“These are mine?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“None other.” Her smile broadened. “Leopard-print thongs just aren’t my style.”
He couldn’t resist. “So what is your style?”
She went pink, a good color with her yellow dress and lightly suntanned skin.
He discovered that he loved to flirt, at least with Serenity Clare. He dangled the thong in her face by one thin strap. “Not natural enough?” he asked with a wink.
She chuckled. “Not unless spun by organic silk-worms on a communally owned farm.”
He guffawed. Serenity, the New Age priestess, had kept her sense of humor.
“Coffee?” She stepped back into the house.
After she’d gone, he draped the towel over the line and donned the skimpy underwear, feeling like an idiot. Once again he wondered what kind of a man he could be. He didn’t much like the thong. Was he a Chippendale dancer or something?
Seated at the farmhouse table, Serenity watched as the stranger entered the kitchen, clothed only in the scantiest scrap of silk she’d ever seen. She envied the fabric clinging to his body. How would his warm, satiny skin feel, caressed by her hand?
Tearing her mind away from that forbidden thought, she poured herself more coffee. “Paper?” She offered him the sports section of the Lost Creek weekly. Hank had always read the sports first.
What am I doing? Serenity angrily asked herself. I don’t have to please him. I don’t have to please any man. I have to please myself!
She dropped the paper onto the table and stood to fill his coffee mug.
He sat, sipped, and nodded. “Ma’am, I don’t know about organic java, but this sure is good.”
Serenity found herself beaming at his cheerful approval. She wanted to please him, but in a different way than she’d groveled to Hank. This stranger made her feel good and worthy, like the rest of her friends in Lost Creek, who also praised her cooking and enjoyed her company. She relaxed as much as she could in the presence of six feet of potent, sexy male, a man who might be threat…or seductive promise.
“When are we going into town?” He picked up the sports section and began reading it. A puzzled look stole over his face.
“When your clothes are dry.”
“When do you s’pose?”
She shrugged. “Maybe this afternoon.” Ignoring his frown, she asked, “Granola?”
“Uh, I guess. You know, I don’t recognize any of the names here.” He waved the paper. “Who are the Dallas Cowboys, and why would anyone care about their player trades?”
Serenity grinned. Here was the perfect man: a stud with no memories and no love of football. If it weren’t for his mysterious origins, she’d keep him forever. “While we’re waiting, why don’t we try a traditional path to knowledge. How about a tarot reading?”
After breakfast, Serenity sat on the floor of the living room and spread out the cards with assurance. Though a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, she knew she had a gift with the tarots. Time and again, customers returned to tell her that her readings had come true with uncanny accuracy.
Her life had delivered so many knocks that she didn’t believe in much. Not in the love of a husband or in the support of parents, and absolutely not in the kindness of fortune. Odd, but the tarots had never let her down.
Too bad she couldn’t use them to foretell her own fate, but the cards didn’t work that way. Otherwise, there’d be tarot readers winning the lottery and betting on the horses in every town. A pity.
Clearing her throat, Serenity flipped cards over onto the polished surface of her wooden coffee table. “The Hermit.” She raised her gaze to meet the stranger’s brown eyes.
He sat on the couch opposite her. His gaze still held a befuddled mistiness. Good.
“You seek higher knowledge,” she said.
His eyebrows pulled together. “Huh?”
“You are opposed by forces symbolized by the Seven of Cups. This is typical. We often become sidetracked by the things of the outer world—gold, riches, and so forth.” She looked up. The stranger had donned his blue chambray shirt. Half open, it exposed a set of sinewy pecs furred enticingly by a mat of dark, masculine hair.
She wanted to run her fingers through that sexy, virile pelt. Would it feel silky or rough against her hand? Shoving away the fantasy, Serenity shifted her attention to his face.
The stranger quirked his narrow, well-shaped lips. “Does that mean I have a lot of money?”
“Not necessarily. It means you want a lot of money, power, whatever.” She turned another card. “This symbolizes you. Hmm. Justice. That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
Serenity couldn’t tell him what she thought, but she guessed now that he was one of her ex-husband’s employees who’d gotten cold feet. She’d bet he’d tried to cross Hank. When Hank had found out about the stranger’s treachery, he’d been whacked on the head and left in the desert for dead.
After drawing in a breath, she let it out slowly. Stay calm. “Well, Mr. Justice, this card has an obvious meaning. You are a fair person, trustworthy and just.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” His eyes took on a hopeful, puppy-dog look.
She couldn’t help smiling, even though his arrival at her home meant complete disaster for her. “Of course.” She flipped over another card, then another. “These next cards predict the future.” Her gut clenching, she gulped.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Knight of Swords portends danger and violence. But it’s followed by The Lovers.” She stared at him.
His craggy, handsome face revealed nothing.
“Well, Mr. Justice, you’re in for a bad time.” Serenity swallowed hard. As she divined the meaning of the cards, her armpits grew damp and sweaty with tension. “But it looks as though everything is going to turn out all right for you.” Though not for her.
Sure as the sun rose in the east, Hank was going to come and get her. The reading favored the stranger, but the mere presence of The Lovers said nothing about her fate. The card could refer to his joyful reunion with his wife. Serenity loathed the notion.
Surprised by her jealousy, she stood, then shuffled the tarots together, even shakier than before.
The stranger grabbed her hand. “Wait. There has to be more than that.”
Serenity jerked away. The cards flew out of her chilled, stiff fingers. “There isn’t. I predict that you will recover your memories, but it will be a difficult process.”
“What are you so scared of?”
“I’m n-not scared.” She knelt to gather the cards, cursing them, the stranger, and Hank. Why couldn’t the world let her alone? Hadn’t she suffered enough?
“You’re terrified. Your hands are trembling and ice-cold. When I touched you, you pulled away as though I’d slapped you. What’s going on, Serenity?”
“Nothing’s going on. I just don’t like being touched, that’s all.” Standing, she put the cards on the table.
“You let me into your home. You saved my life. You obviously trust me. I’m…I’m Mr. Justice, right? Why can’t I touch you?”
Serenity fought back sobs. This was something that Hank, that beast, had done to her. Her throat threatened to close with unshed tears. “I can touch you. You can’t touch me. That’s just the way it is.” She ran to her room, overwhelmed.
Flinging herself onto her bed, Serenity rolled into a tiny ball, wanting to shut out the world. She’d cry herself to sleep even though it was only nine in the morning.
She wanted him, but she could never have him. What good would it do? She’d freeze up, just like the other times.
He stared after her. What the hell had just happened? Generally, Serenity Clare resembled the name she’d picked for herself. She reflected a clear, calm joy in living that he found very compelling, even attractive.
Now, a crack appeared in her tranquil facade. Walking down the hall, he contemplated the door she’d slammed then locked behind her, as though she were hurt or afraid.
Fear he could understand. Without a memory, he was scared himself. He couldn’t intrude, not even to comfort her. Nor could he probe further about her strange behavior.
What did her extreme reaction to the card reading mean? She obviously believed in the message of the tarots. Dumb to think that pieces of paper could predict anything, but Serenity wasn’t a dumb woman.
She’d been truly distressed by the Knight of Swords and The Lovers, and hadn’t wanted him to touch her.
Skittish. Was she on the run?
Returning to the living room, he picked up the cards and studied the Knight of Swords. A fearsome figure clad in full armor, his lips were skinned back from his teeth in a feral grin. This warrior relished the battle. Sword upraised as if to strike, he rode a racing warhorse through a barren landscape topped by a wind-whipped, stormy sky.
He shuddered. If the tarots told the truth, he was a killer.
Was Serenity his prey? Had unknown masters sent him to murder her?
Unacceptable.
He dropped the card, then found The Lovers. Adam and Eve, naked, stood in a grassy garden planted with a flaming bush and a fruit tree entwined with a snake. Surmounted by a glorious angel, the card’s symbolism was clear.
He didn’t wear a wedding band and couldn’t see a dent or a tan line to reveal that one had ever circled his left ring finger. But that meant nothing. Many married men didn’t wear a ring. All the better to cheat. He grimaced. He hoped he wouldn’t discover that he was the kind of man who’d two-time his wife.
His wife. Did she exist? Who was she? If he’d had such a powerful love in his life, why couldn’t he remember her, or any children they had?
What kind of monster was he?
He picked up Justice, the last of the cards. “Mr. Justice,” she’d called him. He hoped the silly moniker wouldn’t stick. But if he were a hired killer, the name had an intriguing irony.
Later that day, Serenity exited the shower and rubbed her wet hair with a towel. Examining her blond roots in the mirror, she decided to tint them the next time she shampooed. Combing her short “do,” she smiled at the scant five seconds it took to complete the task.
After wrapping the towel around her body, she opened the window to let out the steam. She’d better get a move on. The Labor Day festival, which the Lost Creek New Age community had planned to jump-start the fall tourist season, was only a few days away. She needed to string more crystal necklaces and meditate to put herself in the right frame of mind.
Her new and returning customers would demand scores of tarot fortunes. Sometimes they’d bring their friends or tape record their sessions until she became hoarse and exhausted by the strain. But she couldn’t say no. Her fortune-telling income was crucial to her survival since she’d fled from Hank.
She leaned her elbows on the frame of the window, which faced east. Hank. The merest thought of her abusive ex-husband made her innards cramp. She breathed deeply of the crisp, clean wind, seeking inner peace.
Perhaps she’d jumped to conclusions. If the stranger came from Hank, Hank knew her address. But he would have come for her himself. Her darling ex-husband wouldn’t have deprived himself of the pleasure of beating her to a pulp.
Again.
On the other hand, maybe Hank was nearby, watching, torturing her with uncertainty and suspense. Her flesh shivered and chilled at the thought.
No. One of the hallmarks of her beloved ex-husband’s character was his complete lack of patience.
Sucking in another deep breath, she ruthlessly forced Hank out of her consciousness, then left the bathroom. On the way to her bedroom, she encountered the stranger in the hall. Her pulse jumped. Conscious of his semi-nude state, and hers, she wrapped her towel more closely around her body.
“Afternoon, Serenity.”
He was so courtly, so polite. Her heart melted. By his tone of voice, she knew that if it were proper to wear a hat inside the house, he would have tipped his Stetson for her. “H-hello, Justus.”
His eyebrows arched. “Feelin’ better?” Full of concern, his rich, brown eyes scanned her face.
“Yes. I’m…I’m sorry I blew up at you like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
He reached out, though not for her towel. One finger stroked her cheek. She tried to not flinch, but failed when he gently touched the scar on her forehead Hank had inflicted.
She remembered the occasion: their first fight. Six months into their marriage, he’d made mai tais and shoved pineapple rinds down their cheap garbage disposal. When she’d tried to stop him, he’d backhanded her across the face into a kitchen cabinet, and the sharp handle had cut her forehead.
Happy memories indeed.
“I can tell something’s troubling you.” Her cowboy’s Texas twang brought her back to the present.
Serenity flinched again.
“You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.”
“I know that.” She hated the defensiveness edging her voice. Serenity had worked hard to become someone other than Hank’s victim. She wanted to destroy the protective shell she’d developed, but couldn’t seem to grow beyond it.
“But I do want to talk.” His scrutiny shifted to the peach-colored towel cloaking her body.
Uh-huh. Talk. “Perhaps later.” Serenity retreated to her bedroom, clutching the towel around her.
Chapter Three
By late afternoon his jeans had dried, so Justus explored the streets of Lost Creek with Serenity at his side. Her wild grass fragrance mingled with the chaparral scent of the desert town. The sun slanted through dust motes, turning the wooden planks of the walk-ways to white-hot gold. Some of the buildings had hitching rails and false fronts that he remembered from Wild West shows. Part of the tourist attraction of the place, he supposed.
Strange that he recalled scenes from old movies but not his own name or life.
“Late in August, it’s pretty quiet here.” Serenity’s wide-brimmed straw hat shielded her face from the sun’s fury. “Too hot for tourists. We hope some will come back for the Labor Day weekend festival, but it isn’t until Samhain that the place really starts to rock and roll.”
“‘Samhain’?”
“What most people call Halloween.”
He blinked, taking that in.
“There’s the police station.” She pointed across Main Street.
He started across the dusty avenue without going to the corner or checking stoplights. He halted in the middle of the asphalt. Jaywalking felt…funny to him, as though he normally obeyed traffic signals without question. What had he been, a crossing guard?
He looked left, then right. Of course there was no traffic. Serenity was right. The August heat had turned Lost Creek into a ghost town.
The deserted police station reflected the general sleepiness of the place. Peering in a window, he tried to peek through battered Venetian blinds. He saw only a wooden counter behind which sat a couple of tired-looking chairs near a beat-up metal desk.
The scene looked…wrong to him. He didn’t know where the images came from, but he knew he should see a bunch of busy people inside, working on computers and answering phone calls. Maps with push-pins should paper the walls, with the acrid smell of burned coffee tainting the air.
Perhaps he’d watched a lot of cop shows on TV.
He heard the soft slap of Serenity’s sandals on the plank sidewalk behind him. “There’s funding from the State of New Mexico for a full-time lawman, but no one wants the job.” She shrugged. “I guess cops want to be in a big city capturing crooks and making a name for themselves.”
“Maybe if you become a policeman, you go for excitement.” He turned away from the window. No answers there. “Is there a doctor in town?”
“Um, we’re pretty small. No. Won’t you try my friends? They’re talented holistic healers. They’ve helped a lot of people.” Sweet of Serenity to look so anxious about his welfare.
“Okay.” What did he have to lose? “I s’pose I can go see a regular doctor if these, er, healers can’t help me.”
“What can a doctor do except give you drugs?” She frowned. Serenity clearly didn’t approve of drugs.
He didn’t, either. “No drugs. I won’t take any pills.” He wondered about the immediacy and firmness of his reaction. Maybe he’d had a bad experience with drugs in the past.
She looked relieved. “Good. Let’s go see Mairen.” Taking his arm, she led him down the street.
“Who’s Mairen?”
“I told you. Mairen can fix you up.” Serenity strolled down the planking, towing him along. “I’m sure that the division within your spirit can be healed with the application of the right crystals and breathing methods.”
Was she nuts? “No.”
She stopped, looking a tad upset. “Why not?”
His mind went blank. Why not, indeed? Besides, he liked Serenity and didn’t want to offend her. “Um, will it hurt?”
“No, of course not. Mairen is the gentlest of souls. You’ll see.”
At the intersection of First and Main, Serenity paused in front of a bookshop at the corner. Its sign, painted on wood with colorful rainbows, read Great Bear’s Book Nook. As she pushed open the door, a bell tinkled, heralding their arrival. He followed her when she entered.
Inside, he smelled sage and incense. Crystals winked from shelves, reflecting the afternoon sunlight. Racks of esoteric books lined the store while an oval counter in the center displayed Native American jewelry and artifacts. Soft flute music played, interspersed pleasantly with the murmur of several table fountains.
A door in the back of the shop opened to reveal the largest man he’d ever seen. Broad and tall, the copper-skinned fellow wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and shorts. His gray-streaked hair, braided with feathers and beads, reached his shoulders. He beamed at Serenity.
“Great Bear, this is the stranger I told Mairen about.” Serenity gestured. “Justus, this is Great Bear, Mairen’s soul mate. Great Bear discovered my true name and totem animals in a naming ceremony.”
Sounded pretty strange, but he couldn’t be picky. And Great Bear seemed friendly enough.
“Welcome, Justus,” Great Bear boomed. “Enter our home.”
A perky woman with white hair bobbed up behind Great Bear. “Want some fresh carrot juice?” she asked in a high, sweet voice. Clad in a flowing, robe-like dashiki, her bracelets clattered as she waved a glassful of orange liquid.
“Mairen.” Serenity kissed the woman’s cheek.
Great Bear remained in the shop, presumably to welcome any customers. Mairen led them into the kitchen in the back of the store and served large glasses of chilled carrot-orange juice.
He discovered he enjoyed the sweet blend. Serenity and her friends sure were unusual, but they ate and drank well.
“Mairen, this is yummy.” Serenity set down her glass after draining it.
“Even better, the electrolytes will promote the return of your memories.” Mairen directed her cheery smile at him.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He drank more electrolytes. Lucky for him they tasted so good.
“Come with me, stranger.” Her colorful skirts flowing, Mairen led the way into an adjoining room, which contained sofas, chairs, and a television set with a VCR. Evidently Mairen and Great Bear didn’t share Serenity’s disdain for mass media.
A brown-and-rust Native American-style rug decorated with a tree of life design lay in front of a brick fireplace. After closing the curtains, Mairen went to a cupboard and retrieved a long, misshapen swatch of umber-colored leather. She spread the hide over the rug.
“I usually let Great Bear do the smudge purifications,” she confided to him, “but I have had more success with issues involving mind-spirit integration.”
“Uh, what exactly will this, um, purification do, ma’am?”
“It’ll clear your mind and spirit of unwanted energies that could interfere with your memory.”
He tentatively fingered the leather. Its softness rivaled a woman’s cheek, and he bet it had been hand-tooled. “What is this, ma’am?”
“It’s a doeskin. Great Bear killed the animal himself and tanned her skin after asking her permission to use her hide for healing work.”
He didn’t recall asking permission from anything he’d killed. The certainty that he’d taken life hit him with the force and power of a wrecking ball. Shattered, he went cold. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell these good, innocent people he was a killer. He didn’t know if he wanted to conquer his amnesia. What if he found out he was a criminal?
Mairen reached into the cupboard again and removed a bundle of dried, leafy branches, about eight inches in length, tied with colorful strands of silk.
Recovering his voice, he asked, “And this is?”
“A sage smudge stick. It’ll purge the atmosphere of any negative energy or harmful spirits which might interfere with your healing.”
Yeah, right. “Oh, okay, I guess.”
Serenity smiled at him. “Your skepticism is acceptable, though you have no reason to disbelieve anything you see or hear today, do you?” She lit a candle that sat on a nearby shelf.
He blinked. “You’re right. I haven’t any experience with any of this that I can remember. Who knows, it could be the best thing since sliced bread.” He looked at Mairen. “Go for it, witchy woman.”
She giggled like a kid. “Lie down on the hide.”
He did, resting his head against the soft doeskin. His reclined position gave him a good view of the cracked stucco and a water stain or two on the ceiling. They oughtta reroof this place.
Serenity sat at his feet, cross-legged. She beamed at him. One high, elegant cheekbone reflected the candle’s mellow light.
He’d go through a thousand purification rituals just to see her smile.
Mairen, at his head, gently rubbed his temples. Her silver-and-turquoise bracelets softly clinked. “Tell us about your dreams.”
He tensed.
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Sue Swift
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: WHO WAS HE……this sexy but injured amnesiac cowboy who′d sought out her cabin, then staked a claim on her soul? From Stetson to boots, he looked like an upstanding lawman. But was he an enemy from her imprisoning past? Or a sweet, loving rescuer unlocking the chains around her heart?WHO WAS SHE.…this mysterious, flame-haired «Serenity Clare» who′d trustingly taken him in, stirred his senses and made him feel oddly whole? And could he offer her a future without knowing his past? He had to risk it–had to propose–and pray their vows led not to regrets but to remembering…and to sweet, loving rescue.