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The Stranger She Married
Crystal Green
THEY WERE THE TALK OF THE TOWNTwo years ago her elegant, horse-breeder husband, Matthew, had up and vanished, leaving Rachel Shane and her little girl prey to the scandalous whispers of Kane's Crossing. Then, without warning, a dusty, slim-hipped cowboy named Matt sauntered onto her ranch, professing amnesia. He looked every inch an outlaw, every inch a temptation….Matt vowed to claim what was rightfully his–his home, his family…his wife. But was he the husband who'd shattered Rachel's dreams by disappearing…or a man who could seduce her hungry heart into welcoming him home?



Matt had returned to Kane’s Crossing to reclaim his memory, his sanity.
He wasn’t sure what to do about the wife part, though.
He glanced over at Rachel. She was playing with something on her finger. A ring.
An image assaulted him, making his head swim: a flash of strumming guitars, bougainvillea, sultry nights. But then it was gone.
He reached for his iced tea to chase the dryness from his mouth—and stopped cold.
A little girl stood in the doorway, an urchin with features reminiscent of Rachel’s. In his mind’s eye, Matt saw the girl dancing on the tops of his shoes, giggling and clinging to his forearms.
“Company, Mommy?” the girl asked.
Reeling, Matt shut his eyes.
Matt Shane had come home….
Dear Reader,
I’m delighted to introduce Barbara Gale, whose intense story The Ambassador’s Vow (SSE #1500) “explores not only issues involved in interracial romance, but the price one pays for not following one’s heart.” The author adds, “Together, the characters discover that honesty is more important to the heart than skin color. Recognizing the true worth of the gold ring they both sought is what eventually reunites them.” Don’t wait to pick this one up!
Sherryl Woods brings us Sean’s Reckoning (SSE #1495), the next title in her exciting series THE DEVANEYS. Here, a firefighter discovers love and family with a single mom and her son when he rescues them from a fire. Next, a warning: there’s another Bravo bachelor on the loose in Christine Rimmer’s Mercury Rising (SSE #1496), from her miniseries THE SONS OF CAITLIN BRAVO. Perplexed heroine Jane Elliott tries to resist Cade Bravo, but of course her efforts are futile as she falls for the handsome hero. Did we ever doubt it?
In Montana Lawman (SSE #1497), part of MONTANA MAVERICKS, Allison Leigh makes the sparks fly between a shy librarian and a smitten deputy sheriff. Crystal Green’s miniseries KANE’S CROSSING continues with The Stranger She Married (SSE #1498), in which a husband returns after a long absence—but he can’t remember his marriage! Watch how this powerful love story unites this starry-eyed couple…. Finally, Tracy Sinclair delivers tantalizing excitement in An American Princess (SSE #1499), in which an American beauty receives royal pampering by a suave Prince Charming. How’s that for a dream come true?
Each month, we aim to bring you the best in romance. We are enthusiastic to hear your thoughts. You may send comments to my attention at Silhouette Special Edition, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th Floor, New York, New York 10017. In the meantime, happy reading!
Sincerely,
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor

The Stranger She Married
Crystal Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Gary and Joan.
Your love (and wedding ring) is truly inspirational.

CRYSTAL GREEN
lives in San Diego, California, where she is an eighth-grade humanities teacher. When Crystal isn’t writing romances, she enjoys reading, wasting precious time on the Internet, overanalyzing movies, risking her life during police ride-alongs, petting her parents’ Maltese dogs and fantasizing about being a really great cook.
During school breaks, Crystal spends her time becoming readdicted to her favorite soap operas, and traveling. Her favorite souvenirs include travel journals—the pages reflecting everything from taking tea in London’s Leicester Square to backpacking up endless mountain roads leading to the castles of Sintra, Portugal.
She’d love to hear from her readers at: 8895 Towne Centre Drive, Suite 105-178, San Diego, CA 92122-5542.
THE KANE’S CROSSING GAZETTE
Missing Hubby Returns Home!
by Verna Loquacious, Town Observer
Greetings from your friendly neighborhood grapevine!
For those of you who’ve been wondering when Rachel Shane, owner of Greek Oaks Horse Farm, would finally smile again, well, your worrying days are over and done. Some of our esteemed townsfolk have been chatting about a mysterious stranger who wandered into Kane’s Crossing recently. A stranger bearing a striking resemblance to Matthew, Ms. Shane’s missing husband. Although this man ambles about the property in cowboy boots and jeans instead of the usual English boots and jodhpurs, most of our population believes this is our wayward party boy.
And I must say, the change is not a bad one, ladies.
But I digress. That smile on Rachel’s face has been missing for as long as her husband, so we all have to wonder… Where has this man been?

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
T he stranger parked his vintage Cadillac near the breeding barn of Green Oaks, causing Rachel Shane to drop the piece of fencing she struggled to repair.
He walked up the paved road that wound past the maze of white fences and emerald grass, past the pond and the exercise track where her most temperamental thoroughbred, Dolly Llama, was being hand-walked by a trainer.
Rachel didn’t recognize him. Nothing about his cowboy boots, faded jeans or long-sleeved denim shirt rang familiar. A Stetson even shaded his gaze from her curiosity. His outlaw stroll caught her eye for a moment, popping a bubble of longing in her chest. She hadn’t seen a walk so sexy, so confident in ages, not since her prodigal husband had left her over two years ago.
She sighed and once again bent down to the Kentucky bluegrass, lush and fragrant around her English riding boots, and gripped the fallen white fencing. With a great heave-ho, she hefted the load, then groaned even more loudly than her city-girl muscles did. Overcome with the heaviness of her burden, she dropped the wood, feeling tears of frustration welling in her throat.
What was she doing? She needed to be in the house, watching her daughter, going over the books to see how much money they didn’t have to run Green Oaks—this horse-breeding farm.
A trickle of sweat wiggled down the back of her neck, past her braid and into the shirt collar. It felt like a clammy finger, tracing down her spine, warning her.
Again, curiosity plagued her. She peered over a shoulder, more out of habit than anything else. You always had to be watching your back in Kane’s Crossing. Too many whispered words could sneak up on you, attacking, wounding.
A voice, its tone reminiscent of low night fires, broke the June morning. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Right. As if Rachel was a stranger to hurt and pain.
This guy was probably looking for a job. As she turned around to see the voice’s owner, her mouth parted in preparation to tell him that she couldn’t afford to hire anyone right now.
Recognition slammed against her, stealing words, oxygen.
Rachel took a step back. “Matthew?”
He offered a dark half smile, familiar yet unfamiliar all at the same time. A sense of relief seemed to relax his shoulders. “Yeah.”
The breath left her body, robbing her of the ability to think clearly. Her pulse raced, the adrenaline a cold shot of reality as it filtered through her veins.
She couldn’t say a word, could only stare at the stranger in front of her. A burst of sunshine surrounded his hat, which, in turn, blocked his gaze. But that hardly mattered since she already knew everything about those eyes—how his light brown irises resembled whiskey fumes and the morning-after haziness of a black-tie soirée. She knew that the Stetson was also hiding dark brown hair with a stubborn cowlick, the hallmark of his boyish, carefree charm.
She wanted her first words to her husband to be loving, with all the comfort of a welcome-home embrace. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Where the hell have you been for the past two years?”
Matthew sauntered over to the fencing, leaned against it and tipped up the hat. Finally she could see more of his moody features.
“You’re angry with me.”
“Angry? I haven’t heard from you for what feels like an eternity, Matthew. You haven’t bothered to call, and you never even told me you were leaving. What did you do? Confront a midlife crisis? Drive a few hot little red Corvettes around New Orleans?” She gasped for air, all the rage, all the tear-her-hair-out wondering coming to the surface. “I hired a private detective to find you and that two hundred thousand dollars you made off with. Chloe Lister found you in Texas after your trail disappeared in the Big Easy, you know.”
Easy. Life had hardly been easy since he’d left.
She snapped out a laugh at the irony, then continued. “And you haven’t answered me, you jerk. Where have you been? And what gives you the guts to come back to Kane’s Crossing?”
He peered at his boots, seemingly lost in thought. That’s when she realized something.
Matthew had always possessed a canary-eating, know-it-all grin, and, at times, it had driven her nuts. It had been a reflection of his penchant for late-night, Scotch-on-the-rocks schmoozing, his awareness that he could reduce Rachel to a love-starved idiot with a glance.
But that grin had been warped into the now-present half smile, sadness framing it, almost drawing it down.
He looked up, his gaze scanning the paddock, the slash of his dark brows emphasizing crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Crinkles that reminded Rachel of forgotten smiles, of good times past.
“Rachel.” He said her name slowly, as if it had somehow found its way inside him and gotten lost.
She waited, wondering if he would wink at her, letting her know that he’d just been out for the last couple of years having the time of his life. That this was all a joke on her.
“It sounds like you’ve never uttered my name before,” she said.
When he turned his attention back to her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all the interest of a person you’d meet on a New York subway. Fleeting, short-term.
She pushed a long strand of hair away from her face. “Listen. I’ve got a lot of work to do. Not that I haven’t been able to handle things while you decided to party around the world.”
His tall body swayed toward her as he leaned his weight on one jeans-clad leg. “I’m sorry about everything turning out the way it did, Rachel. You’ll never know just how sorry.”
“Don’t you do your apology act on me.” Boy, she sounded bitter. Her best friend, Meg Cassidy, had told her, time and again, to think positively. But that was pretty easy for Meg to say, since she had the love of a good man and two beautiful children.
Matthew bent down and picked up the wood with which she’d been battling, handling the fencing like it was so much fluff. Under his shirt, she could see the muscles bulging, labor lean and hard.
As he worked, a sense of belated shock gripped all the questions she wanted to ask. And she felt thankful for the opportunity to gather her emotions. Matthew was here, right here. She’d imagined this scene countless times while staring at the green-shrouded property, or lounging in her wide, empty-cool bed. She’d hoped for a reunion in which Matthew threw himself at her feet, acknowledging all the pain he’d slapped into her heart with his absence.
She wanted to hate him. Needed to hate him for all the wrong he’d done her.
It was a while before he had the fencing where he wanted it, accomplishing a feat that would’ve taken her triple the time. Wherever he’d been, he’d kept busy. That was for sure.
Sweat stains had darkened his shirt, molding the denim to his skin, allowing it to curve over his muscles. As Rachel watched his strong hands, she thought of how he used to play her body with the tenderness and slow-bass caress of a Patsy Cline song. How he’d made her heart sing with the melancholy vibrato of a ballad.
Dear Lord, she’d missed her husband.
It was taking all of her willpower to stay clear, to stand back, to see if he’d returned to their horse farm in order to make things right.
Of course, their marriage hadn’t been healthy since their honeymoon, a time when they’d loved each other without question or doubt. But that didn’t mean Matthew hadn’t reconsidered during this recent absence.
Was he here to repair their marriage? He finished his task with the efficiency of a hired hand, then watched her expectantly. “Have I proven my good intentions to you?”
She shook her head. “No. And you haven’t done two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of work, either.”
“Are you always this hard to win over?”
The question struck her as odd. “What, do you think I’ve changed while you were gone?”
He shrugged, the denim puckering over his broad shoulders. “Maybe you’d like to fill me in on your life, Rachel.”
“Why would you care?” She wished her voice hadn’t come out like a whip’s lash, sharp and cutting.
Matthew’s brow darkened, and he tipped his hat. “Maybe this was a big mistake.”
He started to walk away and, as he neared Rachel, her skin cried out for him. It tingled with the remembered strokes of his fingers; it flushed with the need for a touch of reassurance.
“Matthew, wait.” She turned around. “This is so uncomfortable. So surreal.”
Their property glowed around him, gentle hills and rippling ponds, white-slatted buildings and forever-blue sky. He looked as if he didn’t belong: hands propped on lean, jeaned hips, worked-over cowboy boot leather eaten by the bluegrass, battered Stetson an eyesore against the pristine Kentucky landscape. If he truly was a part of this business he’d be wearing the typical uniform of jodhpurs tucked into English riding boots, a thoroughbred-set attitude.
But in between their last prime-rib meal together and this moment, he’d turned into a cowboy, and it suited him, bringing out his masculinity.
Rachel wondered if his current age—thirty-three—was too young for Matthew’s midlife crisis. She said, “If I tell you my story, will you tell me yours? No bull about it?”
That sexy half smile reappeared on his face.
“Yeah. There’s a lot I want to know,” he said.
“Well, there’s been a lot that happened while you were gone.”
Matthew took a step closer. Close enough so Rachel could smell saddle leather and soap.
“I need to know a little more than that, Rachel.”
She shook her head, not understanding.
He continued. “I need to know everything because, somewhere along the line, I lost myself.”
Rachel glanced sidelong at him. “What are you talking about?”
His smile was not only lacking in confidence, it was downright sheepish. “Amnesia. You’re looking at a walking case of the forget-me’s.”
Oh, this took the cake. “Right, Matthew. Tell me another one.”
His face never changed expression. He simply watched her with the patience of a cowboy leaning on his saddle horn and waiting out a sunset.
While fighting to remain calm, Rachel wondered if, somewhere in his travels, Matthew had improved on his poker face.
Because, right now, she could’ve sworn that he was telling the truth.

He was lost, all right.
After firing off a barrage of useless questions by the paddock, Rachel had finally led him to their house. At least, he thought it was theirs. More importantly, he wondered if, after the blank wasteland of his missing life, he still held claim to his home, his wife.
Losing your memory, and your life, was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy—if he knew who his enemies were.
He’d spent these past two years not knowing he had a family, not realizing that he actually belonged someplace on this big, empty globe of a world. One month ago, Matt had found out that a woman named Rachel Shane was looking for him, had sent out a private investigator to track him down, no less.
The hell of it was, it didn’t seem like Rachel Shane wanted him back. Not with the way she’d inspected him like a stud and just as summarily prodded him with her accusations. Matt didn’t know this woman from Eve, so he couldn’t help feeling a bit torqued.
He watched her as she walked up the path to the shingle-and-stone home. Her slim body, encased by beige jodhpurs and a sun-withered white shirt, had the libidinous appeal of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, sleek-of-limb and activity-toned. Even if his brain didn’t recognize her, his body sure did.
She was making him ache with need, heating him with an odd longing.
Rachel peeked over her shoulder, catching his perusal. A smoky yearning passed over her gray-green eyes, but she tried to cover it by looking away.
Well, baby, he thought, you’re not the only one suffering from the hots.
He wondered what it’d been like to feel her skin brush against his, to feel her body pressed against him. Wondered why she hadn’t smothered him with kisses when he first walked up that driveway today.
Rachel broke his concentration. “I feel strange, inviting my own husband into our home like this.”
Or someone who used to be her husband. Matt wondered what the old Matthew had been like, preamnesia. “Right. This isn’t exactly Leave It to Beaver domestic bliss.”
Though it was damned close. He took in her home’s white columns, the bay window, the stone chimney waiting for a good winter smoke. The Colonial serenity seemed foreign to him, surrounded by shrubbery, tickled by trees.
They stopped in front of the door. Rachel said, “I’m going to give you the third degree, Matthew, so you might as well cool down ahead of time with some iced tea.”
Matt was pretty sure she didn’t even need the ice to serve it. All this woman had to do was touch the damned glass. “Sounds fine.”
She opened the door. “I know, I know. We should’ve come in through the mudroom. If you’ve told me once…” Her voice faded.
“I don’t remember enough about this place to scold you.”
She stopped, sighed. “I have no idea what you remember, Matthew.”
He craned his neck, eager to catch a glimpse of his old home, of the place he was determined to reclaim. After discovering his identity and doing some detective work on his own, he’d traveled like lightning back to Kane’s Crossing. Back to a life he knew he had to confront.
Not that he was enjoying it one bit.
He took a gander at the furnishings. Gilded mirrors, ferns and shades of celadon met his curiosity. Nothing struck a chord. “We’ll talk. Work some things out.”
“Sure.” She shot him one last glance and started walking again.
They moved through the foyer. Matt noted the soft colors, tasteful rugs, polished antiques. How could he have lived in such a place? He was used to a bunkhouse, decorated by necessity with a bed, rough linens and a hardy night table. That’s all he’d needed, until his ranch foreman had told him about the private detective who’d come looking for a certain Matthew Shane. A P.I. who’d tracked him by using a casual statement he’d made to his employer in a New Orleans restaurant. “I’m quitting,” he’d said. “Going to Texas so I can lay my hands on what I know. Horses.”
Rachel ushered him into a room redolent with the smell of cedar, blackberry and sage. “I’ll get that drink.”
Her tone was laced with meaning, something he didn’t understand. When he nodded in agreement, she seemed half-relieved.
She left him to explore his former abode, making him feel like a traveler who’d just wandered into Frankenstein’s castle. Hell, might as well look around to see if anything kicked a memory into gear.
The bay window overlooked elm trees and the paddock with its stables fringing the grass. The ceiling spread upward, shaped like a wide cone, lined with beams. Cast-iron light fixtures lingered on the granite walls, giving the room a slightly monastic flavor. Overstuffed couches choked with heavy pillows capped a limestone floor.
Matt couldn’t find the slightest trace of himself anywhere. Not that he knew who the hell he was in the first place.
Frankly, he’d been half hoping to see a reflection of the old Matthew Shane’s identity in the books on the shelves, in the turtle shells and crystal goblets set so deliberately on the walnut desk.
Not likely. If this was any indication of the old Matthew, he didn’t want anything to do with it. Too poufy for his tastes.
“Have a seat,” she said, carrying their beverages in sweating glasses. Ice cubes clinked as he took his glass from her. The hollow sound increased the tension, underlining the emptiness between them.
They sat across the room from each other, each taking tentative sips from their drinks.
Discomfort thickened, breaking through the room’s air-conditioned peace. They both started to speak at the same time.
“So—?”
“Why—?”
Both gestured toward the other. “You go first,” they said in stereo.
Matt nodded. “Ladies first.”
Rachel smiled, but it didn’t convince him that she was any happier.
Her voice confirmed his suspicions. “I’m not sure where to start. Should I tell you where I was born?”
“We’ve got a lot of time for the fine details. How about the last two years?”
That seemed to put her a little more at ease. Matt only wished he knew why.
She said, “I’d been working some ridiculous hours in the county hospital E.R. as a nurse.”
She paused, watching him. Matt shook his head, telling her that he didn’t remember.
Rachel continued. “After you left, I—I decided to spend more time at home. I’d always wanted to work with the horses more, and I was happy to volunteer at the Reno Center as their on-call nurse.” She flicked a gaze over his blank expression. “The Reno Center is a modern-day orphanage. Does the name Nick Cassidy ring any bells? He came back to Kane’s Crossing a couple years ago, played Robin Hood by buying out the town’s businesses from the rich people and giving those properties to the poor. Nick started the Reno Center because he was a foster child, too. Remember him from his brief stint at Spencer High School?”
Matt shrugged and tried to grin. This was like listening to a newscast in a foreign country.
“Anyway,” she added, “I still work at the center. And I make sure the farm is doing well, keeping the books, doing odd jobs—”
“Why wasn’t a hired worker fixing the fencing?” asked Matt. Even if he didn’t know Rachel, he didn’t enjoy seeing her breaking her back, doing work beyond her physical capacity.
“I can manage.” Rachel fluttered her long eyelashes at him while remaining stone-faced.
His body hardened. A lock of hair had escaped from her braid. It was an ash-brown shade, the color of dust from the path of a fallen angel.
Had she been with other men while he’d been lost? The thought pierced through him, a jealous stab.
The skin between his left ribs throbbed, and Matt fisted his hands, hating the reminder. The wound was a slim, pale secret he didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand unless he could find himself.
Matt said, “I’m not sure you’re telling me everything, Rachel. Is this farm solvent?”
Her full lips thinned to a line. “Not after you made off with most of our savings.”
Her tone and his damned pulsing scar made him shift on the couch. What kind of man had Matthew Shane been?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.” He paused. “I’ve wanted to come back to reclaim what’s mine, Rachel. And I’ll make up for that money.”
“You want the farm?”
She hadn’t included herself in the question. That stung his conscience, especially since he wasn’t so sure he wanted the family part.
He tried to remain unaffected by her apparent coldness. “Is this a healthy business?”
“In spite of you, we’re fine.” Rachel took a quick swig from her iced tea, capping the answer. Then, “Am I going to hear your story?”
Damn, his story. What there was of it.
He set down his beverage on a coaster. “It’s pretty simple, really. I woke up one morning in New Orleans with the mother of all hangovers. A wino was going through my pockets, but I didn’t have anything. No ID, no money. I suppose I’d been mugged. I don’t know.”
He left out one important detail. The blood on his shirt. Rachel didn’t need to know that yet. He’d been covered in the red matter on his left side, evidence of a knife wound that had sliced between his ribs. It’d been superficial, but enough to leave a slight scar.
But then there’d been the blood on the other side. The side with no wounds. There’d also been coagulated red liquid on his hands, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was someone else’s blood.
It’d kept him from going to the police to find his identity, from going to the hospital. What if he’d committed a crime? Should he have turned himself in?
He’d had no answers, had needed time to think the possibilities through, to listen to the word on the streets.
Rachel gasped at his news. “You don’t remember anything?” She paused while he shook his head.
“Damn,” she continued. “You obviously don’t know that your wallet was found a while ago. It was behind old crates in a New Orleans alley. Some random guy was using your remaining credit cards, so I doubt you were mugged for money.”
He couldn’t even feel relief at this news. He still had no idea about his past.
Rachel shot another question at him. “Why didn’t you get to a hospital?”
“Leave it to a nurse,” he said, trying to change the subject. “I only remember commonsense things, no details. Enough to get by in life. I took a job as a dishwasher, but I knew I could do something more. One night, these Texas ranchers came into the restaurant. I cleared the dishes from their table before they ordered after-dinner drinks. When I heard them talking about horses, something sparked inside me. I quit and went to Texas.”
Rachel held up a finger. “Well, you didn’t go for medical attention then but I still want you to go now, Matthew, to make sure you’re okay. Even if you’re stubborn as a mule.”
At least that hadn’t changed about him. “Do you want to hear my story, or not?”
She sat up like an attentive choir girl. “Yes.”
“Great.” His body tightened as he looked into her eyes. Eyes that reflected a man who’d obviously hurt this woman in the past. The thought didn’t sit well with him. “I got a job as a ranch hand near Houston. Menial stuff, mucking out stalls, exercising the stock. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t what I was cut out to do. My boss knew it, too, but I was a good worker.
“One day, this feisty gal—a P.I.—came into the foreman’s office, asking questions about a Matthew Shane. My boss suspected something, but he didn’t give any information. He came to my bunk that night and told me everything she’d said. The private detective left her card, and my boss gave it to me. Told me if I knew anything about this man to call.”
Matt didn’t add that he himself had done some checking about this Matthew Shane, just to see if he’d been the man who’d done something immoral to coat his hands with someone else’s blood. When Matthew’s record had turned out clean as a whistle, Matt had decided to return to Kane’s Crossing, facing his old life while remaining “Matt Jones,” the name he’d given his new identity. Even now, if he dropped the “Jones” part and adapted the last name “Shane,” he’d still be the man he’d become in Texas, resuming his former business—horse breeding—and reclaiming his sanity. Bottom line—he’d still be a nobody.
He wasn’t sure what he’d do about the wife part, though.
He looked over at her, sitting so primly and properly on the couch. She was playing with something on her finger.
A ring.
An image assaulted him, making his head swim. It was a flash of strumming guitars, bougainvillea, sultry nights spent walking down narrow streets with balconies looming overhead, the scent of saffron floating over seafood.
Then it was gone. Too insignificant to mention. But she must have seen the shock on his face.
“It’s my wedding ring,” she said, flushing as if she were embarrassed to be caught still wearing it. “Are you okay?”
He reached for his iced tea to chase the dryness from his mouth and nodded.
He stopped cold, his arm stiffening.
A little girl stood in the doorway, an urchin with a searching gaze and pursed lips. Expressions reminiscent of Rachel’s.
In his mind’s eye he saw the girl swinging through the air with the effort of his arms, her long curly brown hair and eyes—his hair and eyes—bouncing and laughing with delight. He saw her dancing on the tops of his shoes, giggling and holding on to his forearms for dear life.
“Company, Mommy?” she asked in a voice that couldn’t have pulled experience from more than six years of life.
Still reeling with the last image, Matt shut his eyes as the next one assaulted him: a platinum-blond woman and a little boy, posing for a camera, springtime smiles on their faces.
Problem was, the image didn’t look anything like Rachel and this girl who couldn’t be anyone other than Matthew Shane’s daughter. Problem was, he didn’t know who the picture people were.
All he knew was that they had to be an important piece in the puzzle of his past.
But who were they? And why had he remembered them right after seeing Rachel’s ring and his own daughter?
Matt’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, keeping pace with the throb of his scar, as he squeezed his eyes shut.
Once again, he wondered what kind of life he’d led before leaving Rachel.

Chapter Two
R achel stood and went to her daughter’s side, brushing a cookie crumb from the girl’s face. “Tamela, I’d like you to meet someone.”
The child wrinkled her nose in Matt’s direction. He wondered if she remembered anything about him: what he looked like, what it had been like to hug him.
He only wished he could remember more.
Rachel took Tamela by the hand, leading the girl to Matthew. “This is your daughter,” she said, a catch in her voice.
At least he could hold on to the few images that had entered his mind. He dropped to the stone floor on one knee, bringing himself eye-to-eye with Tamela. He stuck out a hand for a shake. “How’s my girl?”
Rachel shot a cold glance at him, maybe warning him that he’d already gotten too familiar. Well, this was his daughter, for Pete’s sake. Again, he got the feeling that Rachel wasn’t all that comfortable with his return.
Why?
Tamela stepped toward him, ignoring his outstretched hand, widening her eyes. Matt felt like a snake behind the glass of a zoo exhibit. “Why did you leave, Daddy?”
Oh, damn. Matt didn’t know how to explain this. He drew back from her.
Luckily Rachel stepped in, leaning her knee on the floor, right along with Matt. “Daddy’s got a story to tell us, honey. Just keep in mind that we’ve still got a lot to talk about. Okay?”
Matt’s body reacted to Rachel’s perfume—a night-blooming jasmine bouquet. The scent was elusive, mysterious, yet somehow comforting. The wildness of it took him back to a dark place. A warm place.
Tamela interrupted his thoughts. “The other day Mommy told Mrs. Cassidy that you’re a no-good scoundrel.”
Rachel cleared her throat. “That was during your quiet time, Tam. Mommy was joking with Mrs. Cassidy. Adults do that sometimes.”
Yeah, Matt was absolutely wheezing with laughter inside. “I’ll be honest with you, pumpkin.”
At this, Tamela smiled, her brown eyes shining. Matt wondered if he’d always called her by that pet name.
He continued. “I don’t remember much about the past two years. But I’m trying to do the right thing, coming back home. I’ve lost most of my memory.”
“Like you lose a shoe? I did that in school last week. Mommy didn’t even get mad at me.”
Matt wished Mommy wasn’t so mad at him for losing something, either. “I guess it’s a little like that. And sometimes that shoe will turn up in the strangest places, when you least expect it. Or sometimes you’ll find clues as to where that shoe is. Just like my memory.”
“So we can help you find clues?” asked Tamela. She scooted closer to Matt, placing a pudgy hand on his shoulder with all the openness of a child.
Matt’s heart choked. He couldn’t help the swell of emotion clogging his speech. He wanted to scoop her into his arms, hug her with all the love she’d been missing from him these past two years. Buying time to recover, he glanced at Rachel, whose brows were knitted. Her eyes resembled a mist-covered lake, unmapable.
“Tam,” she said, her voice creaky enough to make Matt think she’d been affected, “sometimes memories never come back, and we have to be prepared for that.”
Matt wondered if she’d prefer to keep Matthew Shane on the “Missing” side of a milk carton. What would they do if he never remembered his life? Did he have the right to be here, expecting to reclaim his horse farm, his lifestyle?
The little girl nodded stoically, like a minireporter gathering information for The Toadstool Times. “Why are you dressed like a country singer?”
Rachel hid a sudden laugh behind her hand, turning away from him. When she recovered, their gazes caught, and he felt fire in his belly—fast-moving and furious. He could almost feel her hair silking down his skin, her breasts sliding over his chest.
Damn, his libido was moving way too quickly. He wasn’t even sure he liked Rachel, but something deep inside told him it didn’t matter. He felt chemistry between them—a brew that could allow them to make love like strangers, making the tangled sheets hot and sweaty, making the morning-after parting of ways a simple act.
The thought was all too easy, causing Matt to wonder if Matthew Shane had spent much time in roadside bars, roadside motels.
He cleared his throat and answered Tamela’s blunt question. “A country singer, huh? Well, I lived in Texas for a while. It’s comfortable to wear jeans and a hat when you work on a ranch with horses.”
“Like our horses?” she asked, a single dimple lighting one side of her mouth.
“Not really. Down there we have quarter horses, and we use Western saddles, just for a start.”
Tamela nodded as if she knew exactly what he was talking about. Matt realized that she’d been raised on this farm, learned to ride with English saddles, on thoroughbreds and saddlebreds.
The whole scene was a lifetime away from Texas flatlands and dust, bluebonnets and horizon-filled sunsets.
The phone rang, and Rachel stood. “Excuse me.”
As she walked away, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, seemingly worried that he’d revert back to the old Matthew at any moment.
But would that be such a bad thing?
He and Tamela turned to each other, questions drawing them together like time-sharpened hooks.

Rachel walked into the adjoining kitchen, dodging the island cutting block with its hanging cast-iron pots and pans in order to get to the phone. Her heart was still pounding from the sight of Tamela and Matthew, huddled together in the family room. She didn’t know why she felt so threatened.
Heck, yes she did. She was afraid the old Matthew had come back to her, bad habits and all. She didn’t want to say it was a relief that this new man—this stranger—didn’t remember everything Matthew had done to let her and Tamela down, but… Okay, maybe it was a relief.
“Hello?” she asked, after getting the phone.
“Ms. Shane?” drawled a crisp, to-the-point voice.
“Chloe Lister?” Thank goodness. Talk about saved by the bell, or the ringer or…whatever. “There’s no one else in this world I’d rather be talking to right now.”
A deep sigh from the other end of the line. “Don’t tell me. Matthew got there before I could. Dammit, I knew I’d blown it.”
“Listen, Chloe, don’t be so hard on yourself. I hired you to find my husband, and obviously you flushed him out. He walked right up to me today while I was working on the farm, just as calm as you please. Like he’d been away on an extended business trip.”
“I understand, Ms. Shane.”
Rachel could imagine Chloe, dressed in a crisp business pants suit with her straight hair cut in a sharp line to the jaw. Vigilant and purposeful, that’s why Sam Reno, the county sheriff and a good friend, had recommended Chloe’s investigative services.
The woman said, “I should’ve known that Texas foreman was lying through his teeth to me. He kept looking at the door, as if expecting the truth to walk in at any time. The man must’ve gone to Matthew right after I left.”
“You did well, Chloe,” Rachel said, wandering to the kitchen entrance to spy on Matthew and Tamela. The pair was seated on the couch, laughing together about something or another. A bolt of…what was it—jealousy?…coursed through Rachel at the sight.
Tamela would’ve been too young to remember Matthew’s frequent business trips and the countless parties he’d attended with the thoroughbred set, parties he’d enjoyed without Rachel. She’d opted to stay home with her daughter.
Not that Matthew had been a bad father. He’d showered Tamela with affection, making the child glow whenever he walked into the room. Rachel had to admit that she felt a prod of envy, thinking about how his effortless love won over their daughter every time, while she’d had to take the everyday ups and downs of it.
But hadn’t she been living with this protective silence her whole life? She’d done it when she’d seen her mother’s sins, kept quiet in order to make sure the family was happy.
She’d lived most of her life in her parents’ upstate New York home, dressing like the perfect daughter, smiling at the dinner table as her mother and father asked about her day at prep school. Then she’d hide in her room at night, locking away her mother’s secrets with her. Even after Rachel had gone to college, she’d kept her silence. Maybe that was Rachel’s destiny—to be the sentinel of domestic happiness, securing all the bad news from those she loved the most.
Rachel shook herself back to the moment as Chloe rounded up the phone call. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Ms. Shane. Expect me tonight.”
“Thank you. I’ll have dinner waiting, all right?”
Chloe signed off, every bit the professional. Rachel could almost imagine her buffing her shoes and delinting her ensemble before checking in tonight.
She turned off the phone and leaned against the door frame, watching Matthew. She hated to admit it, but he was still capable of seducing her with a glance. Whether he meant to or not.
Maybe it was his light brown eyes, the way they invited a girl to a guaranteed good time. Or maybe it was that half smile, the one that used to smack of arrogance. Now the added melancholy drew her, made her want to smooth a palm over his brow to promise him everything was going to be all right.
Sure. Make those vows you can never keep, Rachel.
Where Matthew used to be light and charming, this man was dark and reticent. Even the achingly uncertain glances he’d slid in her direction were working the old magic on her.
And that body. Matthew had always shadowed her with his height, but he’d gone soft around the edges with his playboy ways, the whiskey-chub around the belt line, the desk-jockey arms. This new guy was all muscle. All temptation.
Don’t go back to the way things were, she told herself. Don’t fall into his arms for no reason. Don’t let that overwhelming sexual draw make you forget that your marriage had become a tattered thing after your extended honeymoon period.
Rachel straightened her spine, donning her protective facade once again. Then she dialed Matthew’s family to tell them that their brother had finally come home.

Matt watched Rachel pace the kitchen floor, phone to her ear, her body flashing past the door every few moments.
He couldn’t help himself. He wanted her to look at him again, maybe even smile at him for once. He wanted to know exactly what was going through her mind. Was she calling the men in the white coats to haul him out of her life? Or was she yearning to touch him as much as he wanted to touch her, just to get a taste of what Matthew Shane had once possessed?
Who knows? Maybe touching her would bring back a memory or two. Maybe it’d even make some new ones. Good ones that wouldn’t haunt her eyes or make her keep a safe distance.
The knife wound between his ribs pulsed again, reminding him of just how right Rachel was to distrust him. After all, Matthew Shane, the man with blood on his hands, could be his wife’s worst nightmare. And did he really want to make her confront that?
Tamela poked him in the arm. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He shook off the dark mood and focused on the angel next to him. Maybe Matthew hadn’t been too bad if he helped create something as wonderful as this child.
“Are you going to tell Mommy to let us stay here? Grandma and Grandpa want us to come back to New York.”
Matt tried to keep his cool. “She wants to leave Kane’s Crossing?”
“I love it here.” She spun a finger through a long, brown curl. Maybe it was a habit. “I love my horse, Booberry, and I love the Cutter’s Lake carousel and I love…everything!”
Matt flicked a spiral of hair from her shoulder. It felt like the thing to do. Natural. Expected. “Now why would you and your mommy leave all that?”
Tamela sighed, sounding much older than her years. How much stress had his absence put on his daughter?
“Every time she talks to them on the phone, Mommy cries. Then Mr. Tarkin calls, and she cries even harder.”
Tarkin. The name sounded familiar for some reason. Matt thought of ice, ambition, money. “Help your pop out, Tam. Can you tell me about Mr. Tarkin?”
Tamela stuck out her lips and narrowed her eyes, then said, “He’s a mean old man, and when he comes to the farm, the trainer and the grooms and everyone else don’t smile. He killed Suzy Q.”
A horse. Suzy Q. How could Matt remember this piece of trivia when he couldn’t remember his own damned life?
“So Mr. Tarkin had Suzy Q put down?” Too late, he wondered if Tamela knew what he meant.
Sharp as a tack, she did. “I heard Mommy on the phone, saying Mr. Tarkin wanted money. That’s when Mommy cries the most. When people talk about money.”
Matt would have to ask Rachel about Tarkin. If he wanted to go back to his old life, he’d have to know everything about the farm and how it was running.
He felt someone hovering over him. When he looked up, Rachel was standing in back of the couch, seeming none too amused.
“Tam, honey, you want to go upstairs and pick out a nice outfit? Uncle Rick and Aunt Lacey are coming over tonight.”
Tamela bounced off the couch and out of the room. Her footsteps pounded up the stairway, leaving Rachel and Matt in a staring contest.
She blinked first. “That was cute. Squeezing information out of a six-year-old.”
“It’s a hell of a lot easier than talking to you.”
“Great. You’re back for an hour, and you’re already feeling entitled. Glad to see that, Matthew.”
Matt stood. “I would’ve liked the chance to talk with you privately before the relatives hit the scene.”
Rachel came out from behind the couch, lifting her chin to look directly into his eyes. The gesture turned him on like a power switch, electrifying him with her spirit.
Damn that chemistry.
She said, “I thought they might want to know that their wayward brother had returned to Kane’s Crossing.”
He glanced away. “I don’t recall siblings.”
Silence, unbroken except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. Hell, it could’ve even been his time bomb of a conscience.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Listen, I’m going to be doing a lot of messing up here, so cut me a little slack.”
“Likewise. I can’t seem to do anything right.”
“That’s not…” Your fault.
The rest of her sentence went unspoken. Probably because his amnesia very well could’ve been his fault. And maybe Matthew Shane had brought trouble to the house more than once.
Would she even be surprised if she knew about the blood on his shirt, on his hands? Or had Matthew shed enough proverbial blood on his wife?
The air conditioner kicked on. She was so near, he could smell the jasmine, could feel a stray hair from her braid as it blew past his neck. It tickled him, making him shift his stance.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation about the farm,” she said.
He didn’t answer, and she didn’t pursue the subject. Instead, a heat-heavy silence pulsed around them, pulling them together while wedging them apart.
Dammit, he couldn’t stand the small talk, the distance between them. Without thinking of the consequences, Matt reached out and cupped her face between his palms. He caught a glimpse of her stun-parted lips, her wide eyes and flushed skin, before crushing his mouth to hers.
Soft as a gasp, her lips parted beneath his, melting into the welcome-home greeting he’d been hungering for.
Damn, her skin was so smooth against his calluses, her scent so inviting. In the back of his mind, Matt knew that he’d missed her touch, the long hair that was even now fluttering against his throat.
She pressed against him, nudging his lips with hers. Matt’s body reacted instantly, stiffening. He moved his fingers down her face, her jaw, her throat. Her jasmine-mirage perfume teased his senses, filled his mouth with the warm tingle of comfort. Almost like a fine bourbon.
Suddenly, Rachel pulled back from him, as if realizing she was supposed to be angry with the old Matthew.
Every inch of skin above her neckline was as red as rage. “Damn you, Matthew,” she said, punctuating the curse by pressing her fingers over her lips.
Maybe she wanted to stop the throbbing, the pulsing he was feeling, too.
“That was more of a homecoming than I got earlier.” He tried to keep a straight face, but the very recent memory of the kiss pushed a grin across his mouth.
She lowered her hand, pointing a finger in his direction. “You think this is funny, don’t you? You find it amusing that I’ve had to endure all of this town’s gossip, that I’ve had to walk down the streets of Kane’s Crossing acting like I still had some damned pride? Do you realize that every time I’d walk into the Mercantile, Darla’s Beauty Shop or even Meg Cassidy’s bakery that someone would smirk or snicker or mutter something outright rude to me?”
She overimitated a Kane’s Crossing drawl. “‘So, Rachel, ya must’ve driven Matthew away with a cattle prod.’ Or, ‘Say, Rachel, it takes a lot to scare away a Kane’s Crossing boy.’”
Here she took a deep breath, and Matt’s heart clenched when he realized that she was on the edge of tears.
But she continued. “You have no idea what it’s been like without you, Matthew. And your coming home hasn’t made things much better so far.”
Her words stung, but he deserved it. For being cheeky, for being two years late for dinner, for being her husband.
“I’m sorry, Rachel. I’ll say it a million times if I need to.”
A sharp laugh was her prelude to an answer. “Then start now. But a million apologies won’t even begin to cover the damage you’ve done to your daughter.”
Part of him wanted to remind her that he—this man he was right now—had no idea what he’d done to wrong his wife and child. Yet he had the feeling she already knew that. So he decided to stand there, to take the brunt of her pain, to suffer for the other Matthew’s sins. There was no other way around it.
She watched him, arms akimbo, eyes flashing. Her chest heaved with the aftermath of her tirade, and her lips were still red and swollen from his kiss.
Damn, he wanted her.
But he backed away to a safe distance, creating a polite buffer. “You might want to take a seat while I complete those I’m-sorries. It could take years.”
She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing as she flung up her arms. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
He was definitely full of suggestions, but he chose to keep them at bay. Instead, he sat on the couch.
Rachel followed him, honoring that physical safety zone between their bodies. She sighed, then softly said, “What makes me angrier than anything is that I need your help.”
Matt almost fell off the couch. Was he about to get a reprieve?
Rachel shook her head, and it took Matt a moment to realize that she wasn’t answering his silent question, but that she was going to tell him the reason she needed him.
Needed him. He grinned just thinking about it. Then he sobered when he realized that he didn’t want to be needed. Couldn’t be needed in his current state of nobodiness.
“Do you remember Peter Tarkin?” she asked.
Matt shrugged, trying to counteract his still-thumping, kiss-aftermath heartbeat. “All I get are feelings, and they’re not good ones.”
“All right. Trust your instincts, because they just might help.” She sighed. “Your father left you this farm in his will, along with the feed business in Louisville. You used to spend a lot of time up there, working. You loved the challenge. In fact, it took more of your attention than Green Oaks did. Anyway, one thing you inherited right along with this farm was Peter Tarkin, your father’s partner, a sixty/forty relationship. Tarkin is a real businessman, a bottom-line kind of guy. If a mare is sickly, if she takes away any profit whatsoever, Tarkin goes for the insurance money, has the horse put down.”
Anger ripped through Matt. “This man is a partner? Why didn’t we buy him out?”
Rachel seemed to brighten a little at the word we. Maybe she felt that Matt considered her a partner, too.
“We tried buying him out, but that’s when you disappeared with all our savings. I couldn’t afford it anymore. Now Tarkin wants the whole farm, and I’ve been under such financial pressure with the loss of a miscarried foal that I’ve been thinking about selling. But I’ll be damned if I lose to a greedy jerk like Tarkin.”
Matt tried to meet Rachel’s eyes, to connect like they had during that kiss. But she averted her gaze, biting her lip. Her withdrawal felt like a physical blow.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered.
He thought she’d shoot right back at him with “I’m not your girl.” But she didn’t say anything.
As they stayed silent, he could hear her breathing becoming more uneven every moment. His own heartbeat was even speeding up, matching his breaths to hers.
It was an erotic pause, making him think of the quiet of night, his palm sliding over her belly, up her rib cage, cupping a breast.
His gaze fell to her shirt, the gape of it revealing a tanned patch of skin, the swell of her breasts. Her nipples hardened under that shirt, telling Matt that she was aware of his thoughts. She crossed her arms over her chest.
He girded himself for the truth. “What kind of husband was I?”
Rachel’s eyes went wide, her mouth opening with the lack of words.
“Mommy?”
Tamela. And she’d called for Rachel, not him.
Rachel backed away. Matt’s rib scar began to heat up again, blazing with memories he should’ve been able to grasp.
“I’ll be right there, Tam.” Without another glance, Rachel left the room.
Left him with a wilting sense of discomfort, of knowing that he didn’t belong here at all.

Chapter Three
H ours later, under the dark canopy of a June night, Rachel was still distracted by the thought of Matthew’s kiss.
As she peered out the kitchen window at the covered, candle-lit dining terrace where her dinner guests were seated, her gaze fell directly on him. In order to greet his siblings during dinner, he’d showered and changed into a fresh set of jeans and a plaid shirt. She’d even convinced him to take off the hat. It’d been a battle, but well worth it, she thought, as the breeze ruffled his dark hair, making his cowlick stand at attention.
A flush burned down her body. He looked like a kid, as gosh-golly full of humor as he’d been during college, when they’d first met with all the bang of a starry-eyed first love. She’d been three years younger than he was, a freshman, light-years more naive, thinking he was the moon and sun all wrapped into one.
Even though they’d gotten married shortly after her graduation, Rachel’s adoration of him had lasted for years. It’d outlived their honeymoon, outlived her usefulness.
Tamela scampered into the kitchen, carrying an empty water pitcher. “Where’d you go, Mommy?”
Rachel straightened, taking the pitcher and setting it on the counter. She glanced away from the window, away from her husband. “I’m going to serve dessert. Strawberries over ladyfingers.”
Rachel waited for the little girl to stop bouncing on her heels before handing her the first dish.
She smiled at her daughter. “Serve the guests before anyone else.”
“Is Daddy a guest?”
Zing. Rachel didn’t even know the answer to this one. “Um, he’s the reason we’re celebrating. Sure, he can have the first one.”
Tamela lingered, now swiveling back and forth, making her maroon jumper flare at the knees, making Rachel nervous about her daughter dropping the crystal, shattering it all over the floor.
Tamela gave a saucy little whistle for attention.
In spite of her angst, Rachel held back an exasperated grin. “Yes, Tam?”
“How long is Daddy staying?”
“Oh. Well. We haven’t discussed that yet.” Rachel nodded to the crowd outside. “Time to serve, honey.”
“Is he going on another vacation? Will he find his memory this time?” Tamela wrinkled her nose. “What does he think with right now if he doesn’t have all of his brain?”
Rachel wondered what her husband had been thinking with when he’d left her for New Orleans, but she didn’t mention it. “It’s complicated. Not much is understood about amnesia. It’s different for different people.”
Tamela nodded. “I sure wish he’d find his memory. He used to bring me those stuffed teddy bears. I’d really like some more of those.”
As if on cue, private detective Chloe Lister and Lacey Vedae, Matthew’s stepsister, entered the kitchen just in time to spare Rachel from Tamela’s inquisition.
Lacey took the dish from the young girl. She was a petite woman in her late twenties, all eyes and lips. When folks around Kane’s Crossing talked about the “strange one” in the Shane family, Lacey’s name always tipped their tongues. She had a propensity to change images at whim—much like Madonna and her sense of chameleon-restless style. Everyone attributed Lacey’s eccentricities to her time in “that home for disturbed girls.” Her life was just one more item on Kane’s Crossing’s gossip list.
This month, she’d adapted a Laura Ashley exterior, her dress flowered, her neck-length dark hair breezy. “My brothers are absolutely dying for some sweets. We need to feed the creatures.”
“It’s coming,” said Rachel, topping off another batch of strawberries with homemade whipped cream.
Chloe Lister stepped farther into the room. “You need more help, Ms. Shane?”
As Rachel handed another full dish to Lacey, it slipped out of her hands, crashing to the floor. Rachel shook her head, trying to keep her cool. “Great. That’s just wonderful.”
And suddenly, with that one last irritating straw, it was all too much for Rachel. She bent down to clean the mess, and tears clouded her vision.
“Mommy?”
Rachel didn’t move, merely held a hand over her eyes. Two long years of waiting. Two long years of lost hope with no answers, even with the return of the man she’d married.
She’d held up pretty well until now.
Lacey’s voice floated over the room. “Tamela, why don’t you go ahead and serve the men? Leave us with your mom a moment.”
As the girl’s footsteps faded away, Rachel felt a hand on her shoulder, comforting, calming. A sob heaved through her, embarrassing her. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” asked Lacey.
Rachel looked up, seeing her sister-in-law, her hand wiping away a tear from her cheek. Chloe shut the door, every inch the calm-blooded career woman. Rachel wouldn’t have been surprised if the detective could stand her ground beneath the attack of a steaming stampede of rhinos, never batting an eyelash.
Rachel said, “I’m sorry for breaking down like this. It seems I can handle everyone else’s problems, but when it comes to my own, I’m useless.”
Lacey laughed. “Nonsense. I’m just surprised this minibreakdown didn’t happen sooner. See, that’s what you get for thumbing your nose at my offer to help with money for this farm. Even Meg Cassidy, your best friend, for heaven’s sake, wanted to help.”
“It would be humiliating to take your money, Lacey.”
“Have it your way, trooper.” Lacey rubbed a hand along Rachel’s back. “It can’t be easy with this amnesia deal. I almost didn’t believe Matthew when he came out with that whopper.”
Chloe spoke up. “You can never tell. Ms. Shane, if you need me to look into it more, I can. And you can defer payment for a while—”
“Thank you, but no.” Rachel took a deep breath. A woman couldn’t ask for much more than good friends, and Rachel had a whole stockpile of them right here in Kane’s Crossing. How could she think of going back to New York, giving up on the farm, giving up on the people who cared?
Her mother used to take advantage of loved ones’ feelings, choosing to consider herself the center of the universe instead of extending the same courtesy to others. Rachel would never, ever turn out to be a carbon copy.
Lacey helped her up, to the sink, then turned on the faucet. Rachel splashed some cold water over her eyes, her cheeks. There. A little relief.
Her friend said, “I hope my rascal of a brother has grown up, has changed into the husband he was always capable of being.”
“Things were fine,” said Rachel, wishing Lacey wasn’t quite so astute. Were their dinner-party appearances so strained, so obviously frayed? How many people had noticed the way they rarely spent weekends together? She tried to pretend her heart wasn’t breaking apart at the thought of her shattered marital wishes. Just before Matthew had left, their union had faded like the colors of an old wedding cake decoration.
“Uh-huh, absolutely, things were fine,” said Lacey. Chloe shifted in the corner, probably wishing she could go outside to do more digging into Matthew’s mysteries.
Lacey continued. “You know that men never change, right, Rachel? They just go on and on until somebody puts the screws to them. Well, maybe somebody did a little body work on Matthew down in New Orleans. Maybe somebody did you a favor.”
Rachel wanted to ask, But what if this new Matthew changes back into the old one? The one who fell out of love with me?
But she didn’t. She kept her tongue, hoping Lacey was right about the new man. Wishing that this Matthew Shane could see how much she’d always wanted to win back his love.

Outside, night creatures buzzed and chirped with the deepening shade of the sky. The evening felt like the tepid breath of a watcher, keeping time over the world.
Matt sat by himself and finished the last of his dessert, hardly tasting the summer fruit. He wanted Rachel out here, not hiding in the kitchen as if she wanted no part of him.
He’d sneaked a few peeks at the window, just to see what was keeping her. Lacey and Chloe had gone inside, probably attacking Rachel with girl talk.
Damn. Why couldn’t the only person whom he felt halfway familiar with be here, keeping him anchored, sane? He hadn’t even remembered his brother and stepsister, and that had made dinner even more awkward.
Matt cast one last glance at the kitchen, then stood, walking away from the house. After ambling around a few minutes, he reached a cool expanse of grass overlooking the white-fenced pond. The sky was purple, graced with streaks of faint star white.
He didn’t realize that someone had been following him until he heard a deep voice break the silence.
“The old man wouldn’t believe a word you’ve said about amnesia.”
He turned around to see a tall, dark shape. There was a scraping sound, followed by the flare of a match. Faint light skidded over the face of Matt’s brother, Rick, emphasizing the hidden darkness in the younger man’s gaze.
Rick noticed Matt’s scrutiny. “Cigar?”
“No, thanks.” God, shouldn’t he feel at ease with his own little brother? Shouldn’t there have been memories or some kind of emotional pull to ground him? All Matt knew was that Rick flew planes and generally holed himself up in a cabin just off Lacey’s wooded property.
There was nothing else Matt knew about his own flesh and blood.
Rick cocked an eyebrow in the star-palled light. Not for the first time, Matt noticed that his brother’s hair was the same deep chocolate shade, though Rick wore it a bit longer, scruffier.
The siblings watched the night together, and Matt was positive that they didn’t have a damned thing to say. Rick hadn’t uttered more than ten words tonight, hadn’t even shown much emotion when he welcomed his big brother home.
And then there was his stepsister, Lacey. After jumping into his arms and hugging him near to death, she’d come right out and told him not to worry, that she wasn’t as crazy as Kane’s Crossing made her out to be.
But who was worried?
Rick blew a plume of smoke in the air. The scent of brandy and shaded alley corners overcame Matt, making him think of laced grillwork, neon-lit bar signs shining over midnight streets. New Orleans, the place of his rebirth.
Rick said, “Dad would’ve questioned you up and down about this amnesia, thought you had some angle.”
Was he accusing him of something? Matt turned to him, his dander up. “Let me guess. We don’t have a very good relationship, do we?”
A grim smile flickered over his brother’s lips. “Not after the way you’ve treated your family the past couple of years. And I don’t give much credence to this tragic amnesia story, either.”
Before either of them could fire another verbal shot, the roar of a souped-up engine cut the air, followed by jubilant shouts and horn blasts. Both Matt and Rick turned to the commotion.
A cherry-red Camaro zoomed up their drive. A man dangled out of the passenger-door window, waving a ball cap.
“Mattie!”
Rick asked, “You still have questions about your past, Matt?”
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the approaching spectacle. “What the hell do you think?”
Rick chuckled and started sauntering away. He said, over his shoulder, “You’re about to get some answers.”
And without even a good-night, Rick left.
Matt started to wonder if he should’ve just stayed in Texas, training horses under his adopted “Matt Jones” name.
As the sports car squealed to a stop outside his home, three bodies tumbled out.
“Mattie!” they all cried in chorus.
He knew he’d regret this, but he approached the car anyway.
Two burly men, attired in tobacco-stained T-shirts, grimy jeans and tractor-logo ball caps flanked a person whom Matt first thought was a young boy. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the third party was actually a tiny woman dressed in tomboy clothing.
“Yee-haw!” cried the female, as she launched herself on Matt. Whiskey fumes washed over his senses as she wrapped her legs around him, smacking a kiss on his cheek.
The other males hefted some liquor bottles out of the car. One said, “We heard ya come back, Mattie! See, I told ya, Sonny, all them rumors are true.”
Without missing a beat, the bigger man—Sonny?—stumbled from the driver’s side of the car to Matt.
“Aw, lookie here, Junior. Mattie finally decided to throw away them hoity-toity business scrubs. Is your neck red, partner?” He slapped Matt on the back, almost knocking him over with the weight of the wild girl hanging all over him.
Matt tried to laugh off this ridiculous situation. Surely the old Matthew didn’t spend time with these people. “Listen, you all. I’m not sure—”
“Duh, Mattie,” said the girl who’d, by now, jumped off of him and grabbed the liquor bottle from Sonny. “It’s us. Remember?”
They must have seen the fill-in-the-blank of his gaze.
Laughter echoed through the night. Sonny knocked on Matt’s head. “Hello in there? Can you believe this, you all? He’s ignoring us!”
Matt’s hackles rose. This was a nightmare. Or a joke. Yeah, that’s it. Rachel had sicced these clowns on him in payment for over two years of her own personal hell.
“All right, you’re the Kane’s Crossing welcoming committee.” He stopped there, noting the trio’s miffed expressions.
The girl hung on his arm. “Come on, Mattie. Now that I’m back from Tennessee, we’re here to catch you up on all those drinking days you’ve lost. Farmer Fred’s got a bonfire going tonight. And there’s a keg there.”
“And college girls,” said Junior.
A swift kick from the girl clamped Junior’s mouth shut. Both Sonny and she muttered, “Damn, Junior.”
Matt was starting to get a really bad feeling about this. “Maybe I need to explain something to you all.”
Rachel’s voice interrupted him. “Junior, Sonny, Mitzi? I thought we’d come to an agreement about this before.”
Matt watched his wife emerge from the house. Watched the way her summer dress flowed around her slim body, clinging to the curves of her waist and breasts. As she patiently waited for Junior and Sonny to remove their caps and lower their heads, something primal and unexplainable shot to life in his soul. Something he’d been missing for years.
Mitzi wasn’t having any of this respect stuff. “Aw, come on. If Mattie stays home, you’ll make him boring. Just like you.”
Matt thought boring sounded like a great idea.
Rachel merely sighed, and Matt caught on to her game. A sheriff’s Bronco had stealthily pulled up their driveway, sirens and lights off. As a law enforcement officer stepped on to the pavement, the party crashers tried to hide their liquor.
The towering, football-shouldered sheriff came to stand behind Junior and Sonny. His gaze took in Matt before settling on Rachel. “Evening, Rachel.”
“Hi, Sam. Back from your honeymoon, I take it?”
Sam. Sam Reno.
Matt’s anger at himself burned. Why did he know this name, this insignificant detail?
Rachel still seemed calm, but she was bunching her dress with a fist. She added, “We seem to have a problem here.”
Sam glanced at Matt again, and he could feel himself bristling. Was he—the husband—the reason for Rachel’s agitation?
“No, wrong problem,” said Rachel. “Remember Matthew?”
Matt kept his gaze on her, feeling Sam’s stare, wondering how close Rachel had gotten to this man in Matthew’s absence. Jealousy filtered through him, making him stiff with anger.
Then he locked gazes with Sam, who nodded slowly in his direction. There was a total lack of respect written on his face. In a sense, Matt couldn’t blame him. If his life turned out to be half as awful as what he suspected, Rachel had every right to hate him.
The tension abated slightly when Sam addressed Sonny, Junior and Mitzi. “I saw the car weaving down the road. You’re all stinking drunk. I can smell you from the nearest dry county.”
Mitzi grinned. “We’re welcoming home our Mattie.”
A bottle crashed to the pavement, and whiskey pooled around Junior’s feet. “Why, look at that,” he said, worming a finger under his hat to scratch his head.
Sam narrowed his eyes as Sonny slapped Junior upside the head. “Junior Crabbe, Sonny Jenks and Mitzi Antle—”
The tiny girl interrupted. “That’s Madcap Mitzi—”
Sam continued without a hitch. “Nobody’s driving that hot rod home. Let’s take a trip to the office.”
Matt could feel the weight of Rachel’s stare as Sam herded them into the Bronco. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, couldn’t take her disappointment.
He was even disappointed in himself. God, had the old Matthew spent time with friends like this?
Sam glanced at Rachel as he prepared to reenter his vehicle. “Maybe you’d both like to come over to my place in a few days? Everyone will want to see you and Matthew, I’m sure.”
Rachel looked at Matt, silently asking if he was up to going.
He nodded, knowing that he’d have to deal with the rest of Kane’s Crossing soon anyway. There was no escaping the curiosity.
She smiled at Sam. “We’ll be there. Tell Ashlyn and Taggert hello.”
“I will. Night, Rachel.” Sam’s grin disappeared. “Matthew.”
From the way Sam looked at him, Matt knew he’d be in for a real test when he met Rachel’s friends. Hell, the whole town probably thought he’d gone off and cheated on his wife.
The picture of the blond woman with the little boy plowed into Matt’s brain again.
He only wished he could be sure that he hadn’t cheated.
As the sheriff drove away, leaving the blazing-red Camaro in their driveway, Rachel said, “Let’s go inside.”
A comment escaped his lips before he could stop it. “The sheriff was awfully interested in your comfort.”
“Jeez, Matthew.” Rachel suddenly seemed so tired, her eyes reddened as if from crying, her voice weary. “Sam’s a friend. You’d be mortified if you could see how much he loves his wife and son.”
Matt couldn’t move, didn’t want to come in the house after revealing his damned insecurity. “You go on in, Rachel, to the guests.”
She stood there for a moment more, but Matt turned away from her. He knew she wanted to talk about Sonny and his friends, but what the hell could he say? He couldn’t even apologize for this mistake.
He felt her leave, missed the jasmine in the air, missed the opportunity to say he was sorry once again.
Even if Matt Shane had come home, he was lonelier than ever.

Chapter Four
T en minutes later, their company had cleared the house. Rachel almost missed the crowd already, feeling just about naked without their sheltering small talk, the excuses to work in the kitchen or kick the party crashers’ tails back to the nearest jail cell.
She was just descending the stairs after making sure Lacey had readied Tamela for bed before leaving. Matthew sat on a couch in the family room, his head down.
Rachel walked behind him, peering over his shoulder.
He started, noticing her presence, a guilty cast to his eyes. A scrapbook lay in his palms, opened to shots of holly, Christmas ribbons and discarded gift wrap.
She knew he was sorry for what he’d said about Sam Reno. Sam was a good friend who’d just gotten married to the former Ashlyn Spencer, a woman Sam had considered to be the daughter of his worst enemy, the daughter of the man who’d been responsible for the factory death of Sam’s father.
Rachel had supported Sam while he’d come to terms with Ashlyn, while he’d fallen in love with her. In return, she and Matthew were going to need all the support they could get from friends like Sam and Ashlyn.
But for the time being, she could ignore Matthew’s discomfort and how it had made him jump to conclusions.
Rachel nodded toward the pictures. “The Christmas book. We record every Yuletide season for Tamela.”
His lips tightened, and Rachel couldn’t help noticing how lost he seemed. He flipped past another page.
“I wasn’t in too many pictures, was I?”
She didn’t want to tell him that he’d usually come home late from the office on Christmas Eve, bringing Tamela and Rachel generous presents as an apology for being tardy. He’d usually find some excuse to make himself scarce during the Christmas festivities.
Rachel wasn’t sure how much information he could handle in the space of one day.
She used her thumb to rub against her wedding ring, a silver trinket etched with roses. Simple, heart-felt. She wouldn’t have traded it for all the expensive gifts in the world. The jewelry represented a time when they’d been silly in love, just after college, during their honeymoon in Seville, Spain.
“You’re a little camera-shy,” she said, deciding to save the workaholic news for another day, a day when he’d had enough time to acclimate himself to his old life. Right now, he didn’t need to know about his corporate duties in the feed business. She only wished she could put off all the breadwinner talk forever.
Truth be told, she was enjoying his concern, his remorse for not spending every available moment with her in the past.

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