Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Remembering Red Thunder

Remembering Red Thunder
Sylvie Kurtz
MARRIED TO A STRANGEROne steamy afternoon when the setting sun bled the raging Red Thunder River red, Texas sheriff Chance Conover forgot who he was. A trauma from fifteen years ago resurfaced in his mind, creating muddy images of murder that stirred whirlpools of horror. Worst of all, Chance couldn't remember the beautiful woman who claimed to be his wife–Taryn Conover. Traveling back up the river to confront his past and the danger that surely awaited him was the only way this lawman knew to protect the woman who loved him–and his unborn child. But would Taryn's kisses help him remember the life he'd lost in time to save the one he'd found?



“It’s late. Past midnight. Why don’t you come to bed?” Taryn said. Let me take care of you.
Chance didn’t say anything, but kept staring out the window at the river. Red Thunder looked innocent enough tonight. Romantic even, with the moonlight dancing on its surface.
“The river has stolen a lot from you, hasn’t it? Twice now, it’s taken your memory.”
He started to turn from her, but she hung on to him. “I won’t let it take anything more from you.”
Tentatively she pressed a kiss against his neck, felt the answering leap of his pulse against her lips.
Chance growled, “No.” But there was no strength to his denial.
She could reach him on this primal level. She knew she could. “Let me love you, Chance.”
“No,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed her….
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Harlequin Intrigue has four new stories to blast you out of the winter doldrums. Look what we’ve got heating up for you this month.
Sylvie Kurtz brings you the first in her two-book miniseries FLESH AND BLOOD. Fifteen years ago, a burst of anger by the banks of the raging Red Thunder River changed the lives of two brothers forever. In Remembering Red Thunder, Sheriff Chance Conover struggles to regain the memory of his life, his wife and their unborn baby before a man out for revenge silences him permanently.
You can also look for the second book in the four-book continuity series MORIAH’S LANDING—Howling in the Darkness by B.J. Daniels. Jonah Ries has always sensed something was wrong in Moriah’s Landing, but when he accidentally crashes Kat Ridgemont’s online blind date, he realizes the tough yet fragile beauty has more to fear than even the town’s superstitions.
In Operation: Reunited by Linda O. Johnston, Alexa Kenner is on the verge of marriage when she meets John O’Rourke, a man who eerily resembles her dead lover, Cole Rappaport, who died in a terrible explosion. Could they be one and the same?
And finally this month, one by one government witnesses who put away a mob associate have been killed, with only Tara Ford remaining. U.S. Deputy Marshal Brad Harrison vows to protect Tara by placing her In His Safekeeping—by Shawna Delacorte.
We hope you enjoy these books, and remember to come back next month for more selections from MORIAH’S LANDING and FLESH AND BLOOD!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue

Remembering Red Thunder
Sylvie Kurtz

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Chuck—For your enduring love
A Special Thanks to:
Sandy Emerson for answering my bail questions.
Jerry Fletcher—Chris’s Class A mechanic dad—
for scenario #2. It fit the bill perfectly!
Any errors in procedure are the author’s.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Flying an eight-hour solo cross-country in a Piper Arrow with only the airplane’s crackling radio and a large bag of M&M’s for company, Sylvie Kurtz realized a pilot’s life wasn’t for her. The stories zooming in and out of her mind proved more entertaining than the flight itself. Not a quitter, she finished her pilot’s course and earned her commercial license and instrument rating.
Since then, she has traded in her wings for a computer keyboard, where she lets her imagination soar to create fictional adventures that explore the power of love and the thrill of suspense. When not writing, she enjoys the outdoors with her husband and two children, in addition to quilt making, photography and reading whatever catches her interest.
You can write to Sylvie at P.O. Box 702, Milford, NH 03055. And visit her Web site at www.sylviekurtz.com.



CAST OF CHARACTERS
Chance Conover—His memory is wiped clean of everything except a nightmare.
Taryn Conover—Her husband is turning into a stranger before her eyes.
Angus Conover—Does Chance’s adoptive father know more than he’s willing to say?
Nola Barnes—Taryn’s grandmother is dead set against her granddaughter chasing after any man, even her husband.
Tad Pruitt—The deputy wants to discover if Chance is fit to serve.
Dr. Benton—Does the staff psychiatrist have reasons of his own to want Chance to stay put?
Carter Paxton—He’s the law in Ashbrook. Revenge has been eating at him for fifteen years.
Ellen Paxton—Is the shell of a woman in the nursing home the girl in Chance’s nightmare?
Garth Ramsey—The boy from the wrong side of the tracks has done well for himself. How far will he go to protect his own interests?
Joely Brahms—The town librarian has answers, but fear keeps her quiet.
Doug Talberg—The retired high school principal would just as soon not remember the past.

TARYN’S BUTTERMILK ANGEL BISCUITS
2 cups unbleached white flour
1 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ tsp baking soda
¼ cup vegetable shortening
1 package quick-rising yeast
1 ¼ cups 2% buttermilk, warmed melted butter (optional)
In a large bowl sift together the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and baking soda. Cut in the shortening until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Add yeast. Set aside.
Add the warm milk to the dry ingredients and stir with a fork until moistened. The dough will be sticky.
Turn out the dough onto a heavily floured breadboard and knead gently until smooth, about 30 seconds.
Gently roll out the dough to a half-inch thickness. Cut with a floured round or fluted cutter. Arrange the biscuits 2 inches apart on an ungreased baking sheet.
Preheat the oven to 400°F while the biscuits rise on the baking sheet, about 15 minutes. Place the biscuits in the oven and bake for 12-15 minutes. If desired, brush the tops of the hot biscuits with melted butter. Makes 12 biscuits.

Contents
Prologue
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

Prologue
Ashbrook, Texas. Fifteen years ago.
She was late.
He’d known she’d be too chicken to show. Playing games wasn’t Ellen Paxton’s style. Still, he’d hoped she’d help spice up what was shaping up to be an otherwise dull evening.
Trespassing was the only thing that made this outing any fun. But even that bit of adventure was growing old in the buggy humidity of these backwoods.
All these trees made him claustrophobic. Heat suffused his every pore, glistened his skin with sweat and rendered his mind slug slow. Any second now, all this nature was going to drive him plumb crazy.
What they needed was a bit of excitement. And on this hot and sticky late-May evening, excitement wasn’t likely to find them unless they met it halfway.
Garth Ramsey glanced at his companions. The Makepeace twins looked as contented as dogs who’d found a cool spot under a porch. Kent, he knew, could stay here all night and be happy. Kyle would be easier to prod along.
“Turkey tracks,” Kent said, pointing at the three-fingered prints where the wild birds had followed the sandy riverbank then veered into the brush.
Who cares? Garth thought and swiped Kyle’s Coke from the cardboard tray between them on the ground.
“And here we are nowhere near Thanksgiving,” Kyle mocked.
Kent shot Kyle a narrowed gaze, then turned his attention to his burger. The jitter of his knee said he wanted to add something, but realized it wasn’t wise when Kyle was in one of his moods.
And Kyle was in the mother of all moods. He’d had some burr under his saddle for the past three days. For once he hadn’t bothered Garth with all the details—which only made him more curious and more determined to view the outcome. Too bad Ellen hadn’t shown. Garth slurped the last of the Coke and batted away at the mosquitoes determined to eat him alive.
In a week, high school would be over and reality would kick in, but for now, he, Kent and Kyle were still free. Garth wanted to make the most of his time and not waste a precious evening vegetating along the river.
“I hear there’s goin’ to be a drag race out by the reservoir tonight,” Garth said, feeling out his chances of seeing action any time soon. He hated depending on Kent for transportation.
“Who’s gonna be there?” Kyle asked as he squeezed a second packet of ketchup onto his burger.
“Mac Renfro and his souped up Chevy for one.”
Kyle snorted. With an overhand hook, he tossed the empty ketchup packet toward the fast-food bag and missed. “If he drives that thing like he rides, I’ll put my money on whoever he’s racing.”
Undeterred, Garth tried another tack. “Shannon Blake’s havin’ a party. Her parents are out of town for the weekend and I hear she’s goin’ to have a keg.”
“Yeah?” Kyle flattened the top bun over the other half of his burger. Ketchup oozed out one side and plopped onto the ground. “Might be worth checking out.”
“Sounds like trouble,” Kent said. He tipped his cap to shade his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned deeper into the oak behind him.
Garth silently groaned. He wanted to cruise around town and find some sort of life. The curse of having two of his four older sisters still living at home was that one of them always had dibs on the family car before he did. Even his mother sided with them. Work came before pleasure. Like slaving at the local supermarket was worth the hassle.
“You don’t have to stay.” Garth poked the straw of his drink through the lid. “You can just drop Kyle and me off. We can get a ride back.”
“Kyle can’t go. He can’t afford another run-in with Sheriff Paxton.”
“I can decide for myself.”
“It’s a party—” Garth started.
“A party that sounds like it’ll get out of hand.”
Garth shrugged. “So we leave when it does.”
“John Henry—”
“Won’t care,” Garth said.
When it came down to the doing, John Henry Makepeace couldn’t always be counted on. Garth figured that was why Kent was such a pain in the butt at times. Someone had to be responsible. Since his grandfather and his brother weren’t, Kent had appointed himself conscience to both.
“He’ll care if he’s called down to the sheriff’s office one more time to explain why he can’t keep Kyle in line,” Kent said.
“And he’ll get over it just as quick.”
Bull’s-eye, Garth thought when Kent’s eyes opened and his glare was cold enough to cool the stuffy air around them.
“We’ll all go, then,” Kent said after a while. “First hint of trouble and we leave.”
Garth and Kyle shared a conspiratorial look over Kent’s head.
“Fine.”
“Sure.” Garth picked up his carton of fries and started munching on them. Promises were made to be revised. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour to kill before he had to prod old Kent along.
The only thing around with any energy was Red Thunder. As its name implied, the river was never quiet. Unlike its meandering sisters, the Neches to the west and the Sabine to the east, Red Thunder ran straight and fast. And today, swollen by a week of rain, it seemed in a mighty hurry. Like him, Garth thought. He was in a hurry to get out of this one-stoplight town.
He had plans, big plans, and he’d set goals to reach them. Like a road on a map, he knew exactly where he was going and couldn’t wait to get started on his trip to the top. And his drive was as powerful as the river’s. Nothing was going to stop him.
Footsteps muffled by the thick padding of leaf litter drew nearer. A branch cracked. A pine bough swished. None of them stirred. The arrival was much too hesitant to belong to the forest ranger assigned to patrol the Woodhaven Preserve.
When the footsteps reached the clearing, Garth smiled. Well, well, look who’s here. He might have drawn a pat hand from a stacked deck after all. He plucked another fry from the carton he was holding and glanced over at Kyle, wondering how his friend would react.
Kyle tossed his burger to one side and shot up, then busied himself with picking up rocks along the riverbank.
Pine bough in hand, Ellen Paxton hesitated before walking into the clearing. Her blond hair hung in a long braid down her back. Garth had told her to let it hang loose. He liked the way the gold glinted in the light, and often fantasized about running his hands through the silken strands.
She hadn’t listened to his other advice, either. Her denim cutoffs were too short and her red T-shirt too tight. Not that the outfit looked bad on her. Watching her move, he was getting hotter by the second. She didn’t have much to fill the top, but those firm, long legs of hers could give any man a hard-on. Thing was that neither the short shorts nor the tight shirt were her nature, and she didn’t look comfortable playing the role of temptress she was striving for. Fresh innocence and loose, gauzy fabrics suited her more. He’d told her so.
Her gaze, with its anxious gray-green eyes, sought out Kyle, then swept quickly away to fixate on Kent. So that’s how she was going to play it. He’d told her to use him to win Kyle over again. She was doing this all wrong.
The empty fry container collapsed in his fist. One day, he’d get to her, if only to prove to himself he could.
She sank next to Kent, swiveled the straw from his drink in her direction and sipped. A kiss of red lipstick branded the white straw. She looked better in pink. He’d told her so.
Kyle’s jaw worked overtime as he pretended not to care.
“I saw your truck by the road and thought I’d stop and say hi.”
Garth smiled and leaned back against the hickory tree. Saw, my foot. He’d called her from the burger joint, and knowing there’d be fireworks, he’d told her their plans. He’d laid out a perfect step-by-step course of action for her. But had she listened? No. She was playing a game she couldn’t handle.
She should have listened to him.
But what the heck, this could still prove more entertaining than an evening drinking beer at Shannon Blake’s party. And he might still get what he wanted in the end.
“So what are y’all’s plans for the summer?” Ellen asked with a brightness that sounded exaggerated and an ease her tight muscles against Kent’s side denied.
Ellen was crazy in love with Kyle. That was plain to see on her face even though she was trying hard to ignore him. Kyle was gaga over Ellen, too, even though he was pretending she was nothing more than a weed at the moment. Garth had had to suffer through enough of Kyle’s fawning to know.
Kent started to get up, but she hung on to his arm. The straitlaced Makepeace didn’t want to let Ellen use him to get to Kyle, but he was also too accommodating to hurt a lady’s feelings, whether she deserved it or not.
“Kent’ll be a gatekeeper at the state park,” Kyle sneered. He hurled a pebble into the river. It splashed and was swallowed without even a ripple. “Safe. Solid. Dependable. Sound familiar?”
Yeah, that sounded like Kent all right. How he could find such dull work interesting was beyond Garth’s comprehension. “Better you than me. Sounds boring.”
“You got it wrong, Garth. He’ll be right in his element. Smokey the Bear will get to lecture everyone who makes the mistake of wanting a camping vacation.” Kyle tipped back his head and howled at his own joke.
“What’s wrong with wanting people to be safe?” Ellen asked with much more intensity than the comment deserved.
“They don’t want to be safe. They want to have fun.”
Ellen’s hold on Kent’s arm tightened. Her face was an indignant scrunch.
“Let it go,” Kent said between gritted teeth.
“I can’t.”
“That’s right, Kent. She can’t let go. She’ll cage even someone as stodgy as you in the end.” Without looking at Ellen, Kyle launched another missile into Red Thunder. The body English behind the motion told a story a mile long.
Garth licked the fry salt from his fingers. A mule facing a wall. He’d been right. Kyle wasn’t ready to kiss and make up yet.
“It’s not the job, Kyle,” she said.
“Then what is it?”
She blushed a deep shade of red. Her gaze darted from Kent to him. “Can’t we talk in private?”
“Hey, you’re the one who came barging in uninvited.”
Ah, there it was. Body language never lied. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? So they’d done it and innocent little Ellen was a virgin no longer. Funny how Kyle hadn’t mentioned that bit of news. He was usually more than eager to brag about his conquests. What would the sheriff say if he knew his precious daughter was no longer pure? Garth filed away the tidbit.
So Ellen had finally given herself to Kyle and was having a hard time accepting her lover’s imminent departure to a ranch out in West Texas. Not that he blamed her. Kyle had a way of attracting trouble. If she weren’t around, she probably figured some of that trouble would be of the female persuasion. She’d more than likely be right. Kyle lived the cowboy image to the hilt—from hat to boots to horse—and the girls did swoon over his dark good looks when he was all dudded up and riding his flashy black horse. Those high cheekbones, those blacker than black eyes, that singular stamp of pride made a Makepeace stand out from a crowd and attracted women like flies to honey.
But if that’s all Ellen saw, she was missing the most important element. Once Kyle made something his, there was no taking it back—which was the only reason Garth hadn’t made a move on her himself. As pretty as she was, she wasn’t worth getting his eye blackened or his lip fattened because Kyle had trouble controlling his temper. Too bad Ellen didn’t understand that. Or maybe it was good. Maybe while Kyle was gone, he’d finally get a shot at her.
The going would be good for Kyle. He was too much of a dreamer and needed a little dose of reality. A summer sweating on the range would see to that. Then maybe Garth could talk some sense into him. Owning the ranch would be much more satisfying than working it. Once Kyle had a taste of hard labor, maybe he wouldn’t be so hesitant to spend the trust fund that would be his when he reached twenty on one of Garth’s plans. Oil, lumber, cattle, horses, real estate. He’d get back the fortune his father had squandered.
Let him go, he wanted to say to Ellen. He’ll come back. Garth quirked a smile. I’ll help you get over the heartache, darlin’. That had been the whole idea behind inviting Ellen to join them tonight.
Kent was looking ill at ease as he gently tried to extricate himself from Ellen’s hold. But she just hung on to him as if he were a lifeline and she was drowning. She should have played it the way he’d told her.
Without letting go of Kent’s arm, she snapped her head and an overbright smile toward him. “What about you, Garth? What are your plans for the summer?”
He was glad to oblige. This situation was proving more entertaining than any drag race by the reservoir. “My uncle wants me to help him out with his real estate business. Says I’ve got charisma and charisma is important for attracting business.” He flashed her a grin to prove his point, saw Kent roll his eyes.
“Your uncle’ll probably have you doing all the grunt work,” Kyle said, peppering the river with a handful of stones.
Ellen ignored Kyle. “Why, that’s wonderful, Garth! Since you’re aiming to get yourself a degree in business administration, it’s right up your alley.”
An in with the scholarship committee guaranteed him a free education. And Garth didn’t plan on doing grunt work for long. Unlike his father who’d struck out in too many directions without thought, Garth knew exactly what he was after. His planning and dedication had already shown him many shortcuts on the path to success. Give him a few years, and he was going to explode to the top. And like the river, nothing could stop him.
Soon the Ramsey name would no longer stand for his father’s failures, but for Garth’s own success. People wouldn’t snigger behind his back anymore; they’d respect him and look up to him.
“You done?” Kent asked Garth as he gathered the remnants of their fast-food dinner.
“What’s your hurry?” The tension between Kyle and Ellen was just getting interesting. He did like watching a good fight. And if it was good enough, he’d have a sobbing Ellen to console on the way home.
“I forgot I promised John Henry I’d stop by the Feed and Seed and pick up the oats he ordered. Come on. I’ll need your help loading.”
Yeah, right, and if I believe that, you’ve got a jackalope ranch to sell me. John Henry had no more ordered oats than he’d held down a steady job since his accident at the sawmill ten years ago.
Ellen latched onto the hem of Kent’s T-shirt. “Kent…”
“Talk to him,” he whispered.
“He’s past listening to me,” she murmured back, placing both her hands on Kent’s chest. “You talk to him, please, Kent. He listens to you.”
From Garth’s vantage point, the touch looked mighty intimate—almost like a lover’s caress. Kyle didn’t miss it either or the way his brother and his girl stood, hip bumping into hip. Kyle could easily mistake her arms wound around Kent’s neck and the pleading look in her eyes as a come-on, especially in his foul mood.
“This is between you and him.”
“What are you two hatching?” Kyle asked. His fingers were flexing. His gaze narrowed. He was spoiling for a fight. Garth leaned back, ready to watch the spectacle.
“Nothing.” As Kent picked up a wad of discarded napkins, Kyle grabbed his arm. “Let go, Kyle. This is between you and Ellen. I’m leaving, okay.”
“Can you stop the river?” Fire burned in Kyle’s dark eyes, bringing forward the exotic good looks of his Caddo ancestors. The heat of anger had his face tight and his breath short and shallow. His grip on Kent’s elbow looked iron hard.
“Kyle—”
“I asked you a question. Can you stop the river?”
Garth had no idea where Kyle was going with his hot-blooded question, but the wrong answer could break the dam of what little restraint Kyle still had. Kyle was feeling bullied and he’d never backed down from a threat.
Kent glanced over his shoulder at Red Thunder rumbling behind him. Sweat glistened along his hairline. The convulsive swallowing had Garth believing Kent was having to choke down his own temper to keep the situation under control.
“It takes a lot to stop a river,” Kent said calmly.
“Exactly.” Kyle let go of Kent’s elbow and gestured grandly. “The river has to flow. If something tries to stop it, it might slow for a while, but eventually it goes around or through or over. It still flows.”
Lord help us, Kyle was getting metaphoric. Garth never understood Kyle when he started talking in pictures. Facts and figures Garth understood; pretty words were too fanciful for him. Still, Garth thought as he looked at the river, there was a power there that couldn’t be denied. Its energy sang in his blood.
“You’re talking to the wrong person,” Kent said.
Kyle glowered at Kent. “You’re afraid to swim. That’s your problem.”
“Kyle—”
Kyle didn’t back off. He stepped forward and got in Kent’s face. “You’re afraid to even dip your toe in water just because you got stuck in a drainage ditch when you were five.” With the heel of both hands, he gave Kent a shove.
“Your beef’s not with me.”
“What you’re missing is life.” Kyle pressed closer. Kent took a step back. “It’s gonna pass you by. You’re going to end up all brackish and stale and she doesn’t see that. She doesn’t see she’ll hate you that way. She’ll hate her life, herself in the long run.”
“Kyle, that’s enough!” Both hands around Kent’s biceps, Ellen tried to tug him out of the line of fire.
Kyle’s nostrils flared.
Kent gently set Ellen out of harm’s way.
“Talk to Ellen.”
“I don’t give a damn about Ellen.”
“Yeah, right. Don’t know why she cares for a hothead like you, anyhow.”
Kent made the critical mistake of starting to turn away.
With an explosive grunt, Kyle rammed Kent with all his might. The force of the blow made Kent backpedal. He caught himself, then took another step to steady himself. The sandy bank crumbled beneath the weight of his hiking boot.
Kent fell backward, seemed to hang in midair for an eternity. Horror etched itself into his face.
Garth shot to his feet, then stopped himself short.
Ellen screamed.
Kyle swore and reached forward, grabbing for his brother.
Kent hit the water hard.
Kyle thrust out his hand farther. “Grab it!”
He skimmed the tips of Kent’s fingers. The water carried Kent away. Kent latched on to a root on the riverbank. Kyle threw himself against the bank for a third attempt to save his brother. The sandy bank crumbled beneath him. Gravity pulled him forward and he smacked headfirst into the turbulent water, casting both of them into the current.
Ellen shrieked. “Do something!”
The swift river tugged furiously at both brothers like a predator tearing at prey.
“Kyle, Kyle!” Ellen chased the water along the bank. “Do something, Garth! Help them!”
Garth knew his strengths and weaknesses. He took one look at the water, at his friends being whirled and spun downriver, and knew there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t going to mess with power like that.
“Don’t just stand there.” Ellen grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward the shore. “Do something. They’re drowning!”
“I’ll get help.” He turned and headed for the truck.
Ellen pummeled his back. “Help them! You’ve got to help them before it’s too late!”
A look over his shoulder showed him the river, bleeding red under the setting sun, had swallowed them both. Besides, he couldn’t swim. “It’s already too late.”
That stopped the pounding, but did nothing to erase the fury narrowing her eyes and curling her lips. For the first time, he saw an underlying strength in Ellen he hadn’t known existed. “Help them, you gutless wonder, or I’ll tell your secret.”
He sneered. “I don’t have a secret.”
“Alice Addison.”
She knew. He didn’t know how, but she knew.
He had plans, big plans.
He was getting out of this one-stoplight town. He was getting that business degree that would tell the world he was somebody. He was going to the top. Nothing was going to stop him.
Nothing.
He grabbed for Ellen….

Chapter One
Gabenburg, Texas. Present.
The house was cool, cozy and inviting, and a deep sense of contentment filled him as he silently slid the glass door closed.
He was home where he belonged.
The rich aroma of simmering chili tantalized. The anticipated sweet tartness of the cherry pie sitting on the counter made his mouth water. The woman at the stove, adding a dash of cumin to what he already knew was perfection, was more enticing still.
She hummed a tuneless song as she stirred. His mouth quirked in wry amusement. Taryn couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but if she was humming while she cooked, he knew everything was right. She couldn’t have been home long since she still wore the white T-shirt and white cotton pants that were her uniform at the bakery she owned.
Without taking his gaze off his wife’s back or the pleasing curves that had been on his mind all day, he quietly made his way across the kitchen. With a groan that was part surrender and part captivation, he wrapped his arms around her waist and dropped a greedy kiss on the side of her neck. She smelled like sugar and flour and roses heavy with dew. The combination never failed to make him hungry.
As expected, she jumped and whirled in his arms. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour.”
The open welcome in her eyes, in her smile, deepened his sense of contentment, allowing him to shed the last of the weariness that had dogged him for the last hour of his twelve-hour shift at the sheriff’s office.
Chance Conover grinned and pretended to look around the kitchen as if he’d walked into the wrong house. In truth, he’d tuned everything out but the woman in his arms. “Don’t I live here?”
“I’m not ready for you.”
Taryn plopped the spoon she was holding back into the pot and frowned her displeasure. But the effect was negated by the fact she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him back. Caught in a ponytail, the ends of her long brown hair tickled his arms. He loved the silky feel of her hair on his skin, of her body against his. After a long day at work, he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her.
“Well, sweetheart, I’m ready for you.” He kissed her again, long and slow, savoring the heady taste of her, reveling in her ardent response.
Made a man grateful to have a woman like Taryn waiting for him at the end of a long day. She made him feel like a somebody, not the nobody who’d washed up bruised and battered on the shore of the Red Thunder River fifteen years ago. She made him feel real and solid. She made him feel needed.
A man couldn’t ask for more.
“You weren’t supposed to see until I was ready.”
He held her at arm’s length and caged her gaze with his. He loved her eyes, the way they sparkled with life, the way they shone with love for him. “Well, now, I like what I see.”
She blushed and batted her fingers against his shoulder. “You’re impossible!”
Turning her head, she looked at the small round table in the middle of the kitchen floor. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
For the first time since he’d walked into the kitchen, he noticed the scene set for seduction. On crisp white linen, silverware gleamed in the late-afternoon light. The fancy cream and gold china that had once belonged to Taryn’s mother scintillated. Red candles in their crystal holders were ready to be lit. The fragrance of pink roses from the garden competed with the chili’s spice.
“What’s the occasion?”
Coyly, she fingered the gold sheriff’s star on his uniform shirt. “It’s Friday night. Do we need an occasion?”
Her soft smile and the deepening blue of her eyes were having their usual combustible effect on him. A wave of craving clawed at his insides. Even though Taryn’s chili was his favorite meal and her cherry pie was to die for, right now he’d skip the food for nourishment of the sensual kind. “You want me to leave and come back later?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “We can eat later.”
With swift ease, he scooped her into his arms and started toward the bedroom down the hall. “I promise I’ll be hungry.”
“I had everything planned.” A hint of disappointment colored her voice. She shrugged it away and a Mona Lisa smile soon graced her lips. “I may have a bit of news.”
“What kind of news?” Her full, pouty lips distracted him, so he kissed them and set a sweeping tide of desire surging through him. That he still wanted her this fiercely after seven years of marriage amazed him.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll have to wait.”
But her voice had gone soft and her body molded itself to his with a liquid heat. Her arms twined at his neck and her fingers curled into his hair. And she kissed him back with such passion that his muscles quivered and weakened.
He placed her on the blue-and-white quilt in their bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, admiring her. Her skin bloomed with need for him. Her sexy blue eyes had gone dark and dreamy. She reached for the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head. That she still seemed unable to resist his advances after all this time struck him with wonder.
With a finger he traced the lace edge of her bra. The silk softness of her skin was a delight. The speeding of her breath caused an answering gallop of his pulse. He couldn’t resist the invitation of the pebbling of her nipples beneath the satiny fabric. Her soft sigh, the curling upward of her body to meet his touch as he thumbed one hard peak then the other made him acutely aware of the pulsating hardness of his body.
“Dinner can wait?” He hated to ruin her surprise when she’d worked so hard to set the scene.
She smiled at him in a way that told him she was fully aware of his desire for her and reached for him, bringing his face close to hers. In a voice raw and seductive, she said, “Dinner can wait.”
They came together in a kiss that could have melted the polar ice caps. Taryn was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt when the phone rang.
Both stopped mid-caress. Forehead rested against forehead. Breaths came in short, heated bursts.
“Don’t answer,” she said, clutching his shirt collar with a frantic hold.
“I have to.”
The shrill sound was a counterpoint to their racing pulses. Then suddenly her eyes showed both disappointment and acceptance. “Tad’s on duty.”
“I’m on call.”
He nibbled the lobe of one ear, but the ring of the phone was fast cooling his ardor. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Taryn bussed his cheek with a stiff peck. “I’ll go check on dinner.”
Heart heavy with regret, he picked up the receiver on the small night table beside the bed.
Before he could say anything, RoAnn McGarrity’s cutting voice chimed in. “Chance? Are you there?”
“I’m here, RoAnn.” Taryn reached for her T-shirt and pulled it back on. Quietly, she left the room and a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. “If you think you’re sending me anywhere now that I’m home, you’d better think again.”
RoAnn acted as the local sheriff’s office dispatcher. Folks kept their band radios tuned to the station frequency just to hear all the local gossip she managed to air over the waves.
“I know it’s been a long day for you and I wouldn’t ask except Tad ain’t got your skill at dealin’ with an incendiary temper like Billy Ray Brett’s, and besides, he’s yankin’ old Ruby Kramer out of a ditch again.”
“What’s with Billy Ray this time?”
“He’s mutatin’ coyotes into wolves again. Swears he saw one sniffin’ at his herd.” She snorted. “As if his one mangy beast makes a herd. He needs your reassurance there ain’t no wolf-release program active in these parts. Before nightfall—if you know what I mean.”
Yeah, he knew. If he didn’t handle this now, he’d be up handling it in the dead of night, and he had other plans for his evening.
Resigned, he said, “I’ll go soothe Billy Ray.”
He found Taryn in the kitchen. She accepted his arms around her, his kiss, but a skin of cool distance had grown between them. “I’ve got to go talk Billy Ray Brett out of hallucinating wolves. I won’t be long.”
Her smile had a sad quality to it. “I’ll be waiting.”
He jostled her hips against his. “It’ll give you time to finish your surprise.”
She nodded and turned to the chili.
Reluctantly, he stepped into the late afternoon’s skin-drenching humidity and into his cruiser.
As sheriff, keeping Gabenburg safe was his job, and Chance took pride in what he did—just as his mentor, Angus Conover, had taught him. He owed Angus and he owed Gabenburg for taking him in, but it wasn’t gratitude that drove him to serve and protect as much as a genuine caring for the place and the people. Still, some days, like today when he was bone-weary tired and wanted nothing more than a quiet evening at home with his wife, he yearned for a simple nine-to-five occupation.
He shook his head and mumbled, “You’d go stark raving mad inside a week.”
He had a loving wife, a job that fulfilled him and friends who accepted him as he was. What more could a guy ask for? He and Taryn had even talked of making a baby—which would be the icing on an already sweet cake.
She was the blue sky in his life, and his greatest fear was that one day, without quite knowing how, he’d mess up, that the needs of others would take him from Taryn one time too many, that he would lose her and his life all over again.
“Sheriff One.” RoAnn’s voice squawked over the radio. “Chance, are you there?”
As good as RoAnn was at coordinating calls, he could never get her to use the proper radio lingo. Chance keyed the mike. “Sheriff One. Go ahead.”
“Sam Wentworth just buzzed me. He’s out by Gator Park and thinks he’s found the safe that was heisted from Leggett’s Antiques yesterday.”
“Tad can check it out when he’s done with Ruby.”
“You really ought to yank her license. Ruby’s a menace on the road. But does anyone ever listen to me? No. Look, Gator Park’s on your way to the Brett ranch, Chance, and Tad’s way out on the other side of town. Won’t take but a minute of your time. Oh, and since you’ll be going that way, might as well stop by Nancy Howell’s on your way home and pick up that blackberry jam she’s got for Taryn.”
Taryn would want the jam to sell at her little Bread and Butter bakery. Might as well give her another reason to smile at him when he finally made his way home again. “All right. Show me en route to Gator Park.”
“Don’t forget the jam.”
“I won’t.”
Gator Park, the Brett ranch, the Howell farm—then home. He couldn’t wait to watch Taryn’s face light up at the sight of him, to run his fingers through her soft brown hair, to get his arms around her once more.
Heading north, beyond the Gabenburg town-limit sign, land rolled into gentle hills and patches of pine forests. To the south, the terrain leveled out into grassy marshlands and drifted into the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead in a field, cattle and egrets clustered around a water tank. Here and there an oil derrick pumped. A flock of geese passed over low and honked as they crossed the highway.
The cruiser’s air-conditioning was on the fritz again, so Chance drove with the windows rolled down. The air was sticky and heavy with the odor of pine, cow dung and flood-swollen river. He took it all in and smiled. These sights and smells and sounds were all precious to him. Fifteen years ago, he’d been given a second chance at life and he wasn’t going to waste a moment of it regretting a past he couldn’t remember.
For a while he’d wondered at the blankness of his memory, at his missing childhood. Then, ten years ago when he’d joined the sheriff’s office, he’d run a set of his prints through the system. Nothing had matched. He’d felt a measure of comfort in that.
Chance signaled his exit off the highway. The Red Thunder River ran fast and hard in the spring, calmed enough to harvest tourist dollars in the summer, and turned uninviting again in the fall. Sam Wentworth claimed he was born on the river and spent most of his time on the water. If the suspects had dumped the safe in the river, it didn’t surprise Chance in the least that Sam would be the one to uncover the fact.
As Chance crested the hill off the ramp, the river appeared. The recent rains had swollen it to the top of its banks and it roared like an awakening giant, churning silt as it rushed to the Gulf. The sun glittered off the racing water, bleeding it red like an open vein. He was halfway down the hill, letting gravity pull the cruiser down, when a flash zapped through his brain.
A picture bolted through his mind. Clear, vivid, horrid.
The sounds, the smells, the sights assaulted him in one overwhelming blow, ripping him from this world and pitching him into another.
Inside this strange realm, everything is tinged red.
Panic surges through him. He’s fighting with everything he has, but something bigger, stronger has hold of him and is intent on destroying him.
The smell of death hangs heavy in the sticky air. The taste of muddy water fills his mouth, makes him gag and sputter. The river surrounds him. He’s tugged and tossed and tumbled like debris. He tries to swim, but the current is too strong. “Hang on!” His voice? Someone else’s? Something catches his foot, drags him under. Black, nothing but black. Hands grab at him. His head is above water once more.
Breath, where is his breath? He’s not moving, hanging on to something hard and slippery. A branch. Something bumps into him. He turns. He screams.
A body floats on the water. Bump, bump, bump against his side. Long blond hair writhes on the waves. From a gash on the side of her head pours blood.
Then hands again, tugging, yanking. Pulling? Pushing? Dizzy. Nothing makes sense.
He looks up. Through the water’s silver-red surface, he sees his own shimmering face.
Terror engulfs him. He fights with all his might, but the hands only get stronger around his neck. Blond hair flails around him.
He’s dying.
He’s dead.

THE CHILI WAS HOT. The beer was cold. The green beans were fresh from Ruby Kramer’s garden. Taryn had traded for them that afternoon with a loaf of sourdough bread. A cherry pie waited on the counter—a sweet ending to a meal meant to win a man’s heart.
All that was missing was Chance.
Taryn flopped into a kitchen chair and straightened a linen napkin. She’d planned everything to the last second.
Then Chance had come home and knocked her best intentions haywire. She couldn’t resist him; never had been able to.
The attraction wasn’t just that his distinctive cheekbones made him look at once savage and sexy. It wasn’t just that his bottomless dark eyes seemed to take her in and hold her safe. It was also because the bone-deep goodness in him made her believe in the possibility of enduring happiness.
She hated herself for making Chance feel bad about doing his job. His loyalty and his genuine care were two qualities she admired in him.
She’d wanted everything to be perfect, everything to feel right. Determined, she stood up. “It still can be.”
The evening was young. Chance could handle Billy Ray Brett in no time. He’d done it often enough. She hurried toward the bathroom and started the shower. This was going to be a special night. One she hoped Chance would never forget. She wasn’t going to ruin it with a fit of resentment.
She would feed him. She would seduce him. Then she would tell him their world was about to be turned upside down. As steam started to fill the small room, she stood before the mirror and cleared her throat.
“Chance, I have something to tell you,” she said out loud, testing the words she’d practiced all day in her head as she’d mixed and kneaded and baked. Why was her heart beating so fast? Why did her tongue feel so stiff and clumsy? Why did her eyes look so wild with apprehension? She swallowed hard and tried again. “Chance, remember when you said—” She growled at her disappearing image in the mirror. “Chance, I’m…we’re…”
A gulp of fear brought one hand to her belly, the other to her throat. What if…? No, she wasn’t going to worry. Chance would be pleased. Hadn’t he said so a dozen times already?
She undressed and stepped into the shower. There she lathered in a shower gel of Chance’s favorite summer-rain scent and lingered for a long time under the hot spray of water until the fear and resentment flowed down the drain along with the soapy water. After drying herself, she slathered on a body lotion of the same summer-rain scent. Hair wound in a turban of towel, she headed for the bedroom.
Out of the closet, she took the tiny red dress she’d been hiding for a week—until the time was right. She planned to meet her husband at the door wearing nothing but that scrap of cloth. It left little to the imagination. And this time, she would make him wait before she allowed him to render her mindless in his arms.
A small smile of satisfaction curled her lips as she imagined Chance’s appreciation of the dress. She loved the way his gaze seemed to eat her alive when he was aroused, the way his dark eyes glittered with desire. And she loved that little groan deep in his throat as he reached for her. That seductive sound was part warrior’s claim, part helplessness—as if he couldn’t resist her even if he tried. That made her feel safe and secure and wanted.
Just as she tossed her towel onto the neatly made bed, she heard a car turn into the driveway.
“No, I’m not ready!” She rushed to the window, snapped the curtain open and peeked out. Not Chance’s cruiser, but Tad Pruitt’s truck. She groaned. Tad was having girlfriend problems and she’d made the mistake of telling him to drop by anytime he needed to talk. He’d taken her up on her offer three times this week already. And what was he doing coming to bother her while he was on duty and Chance was torn from her bed to answer a call?
She’d get rid of Tad quick, she decided as she donned a T-shirt and shorts and stuffed her feet into sandals. Maybe she ought to send him to her grandmother. She shook her head and laughed. Nola Barnes was opinionated enough for three. She’d set Tad straight in no time.
Taryn opened the door. Heat slapped her face, making her suck in a breath. Where was Tad? She couldn’t hear his footsteps on the gravel walkway. Frowning, she stepped onto the deck. She lifted a hand against the setting sun and saw Tad sitting in the truck, both hands on the steering wheel. This wasn’t good. He’d need reassurance and calming words and all she wanted to do was get ready for Chance.
“Tad? Are you all right?” But something about the way he stared at her wasn’t right. An arrow of fear sliced through her heart and razored all the way to her stomach.
The truck door creaked. Tad exited, keeping his gaze toward the ground. In the place of cocky arrogance, he wore a pained expression. His usually straight and tall posture was bowed. His tan uniform shirt sported dark splotches. He fiddled with his hat. Round and round it went. His brown pants were ripped at the knee. His boots were muddy.
“Tad?” Her heart knocked hard. Her limbs felt leaden. She slinked forward, using the railing as a crutch. “Tad?”
“Taryn,” he croaked. He took two steps forward, then stopped. His eyes looked desperate. He braced himself as if for a blow. She knew then that her world was about to come apart.
“Chance?”
Tad nodded. “He’s had an accident.”
Taryn’s ears rang. Her heart stopped beating, then made up the lapse in double time. Her legs shook. Despite the heat that slicked her skin, a cold shiver racked her body. She held on to the deck railing with all of her strength. “No, God, no. What happened? Where is he? How is he?”
“He’s alive,” Tad said in a rush. He climbed the three steps to the deck, started to reach for her, then drew back. “He drove into the river.”
“The river?” She frowned, not understanding. No, no, no. Not the river. Chance was a cautious driver, an expert diver. No river, not even Red Thunder, could get the best of him. Tad had made a mistake. Chance was too strong, too good to be taken by the river. Then why couldn’t she stop shaking? “What happened?”
“We’re not sure. They took him to Beaumont.” Tad put his hand on Taryn’s trembling shoulder. “I’ll drive you.”
She nodded and let him lead her to his truck.
This was not happening. This could not be happening.
He’s mine, she told the river. You can’t have him.
As Tad drove, her world unraveled until Taryn’s mind became nothing more than a snarl of worries.
She could not lose Chance. Not now. Not with a baby on the way.

“HELLO, darlin’.” Garth Ramsey drawled the endearment because he’d learned the ladies liked the sound of his voice deep and gravelly. The performance wasn’t so much for the body on the bed as for the staff tending to it. Image, he’d learned the hard way, bought you more than truth.
He handed a plate of oatmeal cookies to Jessie Ross, the night nurse. “I brought a treat for my wife.” He smiled and whipped his other hand from behind his back. “And for you wonderful Florence Nightingales, a box of chocolates.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest man?” Jessie gushed. She placed the plate of cookies on the nightstand beside the bed and the box of chocolates on the dresser by the upholstered glider she was using. A canvas sack with knitting lay beside the chair. Pale blue wool ran from the bag to a set of knitting needles that held what looked like a sleeve for a baby sweater.
“Now you make sure you leave some for the day staff or I’ll never hear the end of it,” he teased.
“This box is big enough to entertain an army.” She smiled at him and he knew he could have her if he wanted. All he’d have to do is ask and she’d fall into his arms. But his taste didn’t run to short, skinny brunettes with no figure, even when the room’s low light gave her pretty-enough features a soft golden glow. Besides, as part of his image of devoted husband, he’d decided it was best not to fool around with the staff at the Pine Creek Home. Finding a willing partner was never a problem.
“How’s she been doing this week?” he asked. He sat on the teal leather chair by the bed and stroked his wife’s silky blond hair. They’d wanted to cut it to make it easier to tend, but he’d insisted they leave it long and loose.
“No change really,” Jessie said, and popped a chocolate in her mouth. “She’s been a little more active during the day.”
“How so?”
“She likes to sit outside and puts up a fuss when we take her in.”
“Ah, yes, she was always one for the great outdoors.”
“She’s been more fussy about food, too. We practically have to force-feed her. She’s come up a touch anemic on her tests, but don’t worry, the doctor’s got her on iron. She’ll appreciate those cookies. They’re her favorite.”
“Well, in her case, it’s the little things that make a difference.”
“You’re so good to her. I’ll leave you alone and take my break now,” Jessie said.
“That would be great. Take your time. My wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Smiling and all but batting her eyelashes, Jessie tiptoed out of the room.
They all thought his twice-weekly visits were husbandly devotion. In truth, they were an inspection of his investment. As long as his darling wife was nothing more than a body going through the motions of life, he was free to live as he pleased. Her vacant mind bought him immunity.
He scooted the chair closer to the bed, held her hand in case someone should happen by and peek through the glass window on the door, and whispered in her ear, “Remember, darlin’, when you thought you could manipulate me as easily as you did your sweetheart? You learned your lesson, didn’t you? I always win.”
She turned her head at the sound of his voice and opened her eyes. There beneath the dull veneer in her gray-green eyes was a spark of something that needed to be nipped before it got out of control.
“I’ve noticed more light in your eyes lately and this longing for the outdoors isn’t good. I’ve got just the thing. My friend says that one extra dose should keep you right where you are.”
With his back carefully hiding his activity, he swabbed the crook of her elbow with an alcohol pad and injected a small dose of an experimental drug. The needle was so tiny it left no mark on her delicate skin. She mewled like a kitten in pain, tried to twist away, but she was too weak and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
“That’s it, darlin’, take it in. Let me take care of you. Let me shelter you from the real world. You were always too good for them.”
He returned the syringe and the used alcohol pad to a sunglasses case in his blazer pocket.
As long as Ellen’s brain misfired, there was no one to deny any of his claims, there was nothing to stop him. He was on top of the world and climbing higher every day.
“Sleep well, darlin’.”

Chapter Two
The gash on Chance’s head worried Taryn. The swollen blue and purple mark curved from temple to temple. Five stitches pinched the skin above his left eyebrow.
Watching him so still and white beneath the hospital sheets made her soul wither by inches. The emergency-room doctor had told her Chance had regained consciousness for a while before he’d slipped into a coma and that he might also be suffering from traumatic amnesia. He’d told her not to worry, that Chance’s injuries probably weren’t life-threatening. But how could she not worry? The man she’d thought invincible was lying in a hospital bed unconscious.
“The chili will keep,” she told him, trying to keep up a one-sided conversation to fill the silence that was otherwise too heavy to bear. “Probably taste even better tomorrow. So will the pie. And I’m sure Ruby will have another basketful of beans to sell before the week’s out.”
Not a muscle moved, not an eyelash twitched. She could be watching a corpse, except that the machinery beside him with its beeps and moving lines told her he was alive.
“Maud came by the bakery this afternoon. Right when I was closing, too. Have you ever noticed she seems to time her every action in a way that will irritate somebody?” Taryn gave a weak laugh. “She was complaining about the heat as she bought every last buttermilk biscuit I had. Plus a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. Plus half a dozen sweet rolls. And you know those didn’t last until she got home.”
Taryn held Chance’s hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb. The skin was rough and familiar beneath her finger, but cold. She hiked the blanket over his chest and wrapped both her hands around his to warm him. Her lips trembled and she pressed them tight to hold back a sob.
“Hey,” she said, trying hard to inject some lightness into her voice. “Maybe now you’ll take the vacation you’ve been meaning to take—for what?—seven years now. We could go away for a week. Or ask Liz and Jake to join us, and you and Jake could go diving while Liz and I go antiquing.”
Wake up. Please wake up. Seeing him like this was killing her. She couldn’t bear the thought that he wouldn’t come back to her, of trying to live without the man she loved with all her heart. He gave her confidence, made her feel secure. He was always there for her. She needed him now more than ever. She squeezed his hand and willed him to squeeze back.
“I’ve got something to tell you. I think you’ll be pleased. But I want to see the look in your eyes when I tell you my secret. So you’ll just have to wake up, you hear?”
She wanted to see the initial shock of her announcement widen his dark eyes, then see the slow spread of his smile. His lips always kicked up a bit higher on one side than the other and lent him a boyish charm she’d found hard to resist since the first time she’d seen him stroll into her mother’s diner.
She kissed his fingertips. “Wake up, Chance. Please wake up.”
What if the doctor was wrong? What if Chance didn’t come back? What if he stayed in this coma? What if he couldn’t remember her? What if he died? Taryn scrunched her eyes closed and swallowed hard. One hand went to her belly and cradled the life growing there. Could she raise this baby alone? The process of single parenting had turned her mother bitter and angry. Was that what she had to look forward to?
No, she wouldn’t think about it. Chance would recover. He had to. She would accept no other alternative. She’d waited seven years to start this family; she wasn’t going to have her dream taken away from her before it materialized.
“Mrs. Conover?”
The voice startled Taryn out of the loop of her worries. She turned to see a man standing at the door. “Could I speak with you for a few minutes?”
She glanced from Chance to the man and back. “I—I…”
He took the extra straight chair along the wall and dragged it next to her. “I’m Dr. Benton, the staff psychiatrist. I’d like to go over your husband’s chart with you.”
“Psychiatrist?” She frowned. Dr. Benton had a compact body under a lab coat that somehow reminded her of a cowboy’s duster, lank pale red hair that needed a cut, and green eyes that bugged out as if he’d read too many books in less than ideal light. He looked all wrong. A psychiatrist should have a calm, reassuring presence, but this man seemed to have a frenetic energy dancing all around him. “Why does Chance need a psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Gregory, the doctor who saw your husband in the emergency room, believes that the patient’s amnesia is not of a physiological nature.”
Taryn swiveled her body away from Chance, but still held on to his hand. “But Dr. Gregory said the coma was temporary. That it was helping him heal.”
Dr. Benton flipped a page on the chart he was carrying and flicked two fingers on the paper. “Head wounds often look worse than they are because they bleed so profusely. But other than the small laceration on his forehead, there seems to be nothing physically wrong with him.”
“But he’s in a coma. The knock must have been harder than you think. Chance is strong and healthy. He wouldn’t turn into a weakling so easily.”
Dr. Benton tried to look sympathetic, but the twist of his features looked more patronizing than concerned. “There’s no sign of trauma. The X rays, the MRI all came back negative. There’s nothing physically wrong with your husband.”
She shot up, placing herself between the doctor and Chance. “Other than the fact that he almost drowned and now he’s in a coma! What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
“When your husband came to in the emergency room, he couldn’t remember who he was, where he was, what happened to him.”
Taryn’s heart thudded heavily once in her chest. She hadn’t wanted to believe Dr. Gregory when he’d mentioned Chance’s probable amnesia. He couldn’t forget her. She’d prove that to everyone once Chance woke up. He wouldn’t forget the love they had; it was too strong. She squeezed her nape as she ordered her thoughts. “But that’s normal. He was in an accident. He’ll remember soon. Dr. Gregory said so.”
Dr. Benton eagerly bent over the chart. “In his paperwork, it’s noted that he suffered a previous episode of traumatic amnesia.”
Oh no, God, no. Her pulse jagged fast and hard. She didn’t like where this was heading at all. Could Chance have forgotten everything again? How was that possible after all they’d shared? Her legs felt shaky. She sat. “Fifteen years ago.”
Dr. Benton licked his lips, his eyes bugged out even more, and he seemed to savor what was coming next. “I believe your husband is suffering through a second episode of traumatic amnesia brought about by the return of a state-dependent memory.”
“You lost me.”
“The original trauma took place fifteen years ago,” he explained slowly as if she were dim-witted. He turned the chart at an angle and pointed. “It says here that his body was discovered not far from where today’s accident happened.”
“Yes, I know.”
A restless energy overtook Dr. Benton as he pointed to a second entry. “The time of the year is the same. Late May for the first incident. Early June for this one.”
“Yes, but what does one have to do with the other? The incident happened fifteen years ago.”
He scooted to the edge of his chair and leaned forward. “Traumatic events elicit major physiological responses in the body. Memories of the event are biochemically ‘attached’ to the traumatic physiological state and that produces a state-dependent memory.”
“Please, Dr. Benton—”
He held a hand up and rushed on. “I believe that something about the conditions today—something he heard or saw or smelled—brought back the memory he forgot fifteen years ago and it threw him back into that world. Those cues were a match to the conditions that existed fifteen years ago at the time of his trauma and brought back the lost memory. He didn’t just remember what happened, he relived it.”
“You’re saying that because he remembered what he forgot, now he’s forgotten again.”
“Exactly!”
“But why would that cause him to forget who he is now?”
He rubbed his hands together as if he were contemplating digging into a juicy steak. “Now that’s the mystery I’d like to explore. The brain and how it works is so fascinating.”
“I’m not going to let him be a guinea pig—”
“No, no.” He patted her knee. “I’d like a chance to help him recover all his memory.”
“You could do that?” A flicker of hope sprang up.
“Yes. I know I could. I believe your husband repressed his memories after suffering some extreme stress fifteen years ago. The way he’s dealt with his life since then is actually quite remarkable. In all my years, I’ve never seen such a good case for memory retrieval—”
He stopped as if catching himself about to head into a detour, cleared his throat, then went on. “Amnesia is a coping mechanism—a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. I would forward a guess that your husband is a very controlled man.”
He seemed to be holding his breath as he paused and waited for her confirmation.
“Yes.” Chance kept everything neat and tidy. She’d often thought it was because he was afraid to lose any more of himself. As if by keeping his things in order, he could keep himself in order, too. Sometimes, when he didn’t know she was watching him, she could see his internal chaos reflected in his eyes, in the painful gathering of his eyebrows. And he’d been successful at his job because everyone knew that in the middle of turmoil and tempers Chance Conover could be counted on to keep a cool head and bring back balance. No one ever seemed to notice the river of unrest just below the surface.
“He never talks about what happened then,” she said, feeling hurt once again that he’d never trusted her with that part of himself.
“Avoidance is another sign of PTSD,” Dr. Benton said. “But time alone won’t heal him.”
“He was doing fine….” Wasn’t he? Her mind scrolled back through their time together. She saw it then, the distance, that slight space he kept between himself and everything—even her. Her hand tightened against Chance’s, afraid to let him go.
“Internally, things weren’t in order,” Dr. Benton continued. A slightly manic light gleamed in his eyes, as if her husband’s troubles were a treasure to be prospected. “Trauma is stored in the brain’s limbic system, which processes emotions and sensations. Just because he’s repressed the memories doesn’t mean they aren’t there and affecting him. What I’d like to do is take him through the steps of recovering those memories and see him through the healing process.”
Dr. Benton was practically panting as he waited for her answer.
A headache thrummed at her temples. He was going too fast and not giving her enough facts to make a good judgment. What was best for Chance? “How will you do that?”
He smiled. “There are several techniques we could choose from—hypnotism, guided imagery, dream work, sodium amytal.”
“Truth serum! You’d drug him?”
“It’s a very safe technique,” Dr. Benton assured her, then rushed on. “Once he’s retrieved his past, I’ll show him how to put these memories in the context of other psychological symptoms, how to live with the feelings the retrieval is bringing back, how to deal with cognitive distortions.”
“Cognitive distortions?” This was all too much.
Dr. Benton seemed annoyed at the interruption, but with quick motions of his hands explained, “There are two forms of memory. Explicit memory is the ability to consciously recall facts or events. Implicit memories are behavioral knowledge of an experience without conscious recall. As an example you can read, but probably can’t remember how you learned the skill.”
“So you’re saying even though he might not remember who he is, he’ll remember skills he’s learned.”
“Precisely. At first he may be flooded with implicit sensorimotor memory. He’ll get the picture or the feelings or the terror the memories bring back, but not the explicit memories that could ground or explain the meaning of the sensations or images. He’ll need someone to guide him through the process of re-creating the entire scene in order to deal with what happened to him and get on with his life.”
Taryn frowned and shook her head. He made it sound so easy. Still, something kept her from agreeing readily. “Chance isn’t one to rely on anybody. I doubt you’d get him to agree to therapy of any kind.”
The doctor leaned so far forward she feared he would slip right out of his chair. “At the moment your husband is unable to make decisions for himself. You could have him admitted. Once the therapy starts, I assure you, he’ll be thankful for your foresight.”
“Chance likes to make his own decisions.”
“That’s understandable, but right now he’s not in a position to make an informed judgment. Therapy is his best option for complete recovery.”
“I don’t know—”
“No.”
The word came strong and sure from behind her. Taryn whirled and could hardly contain her joy at the sight of her husband’s open eyes.
“Chance!” She squealed and threw herself at him, clasping him into a hard hug. “I knew you’d come back. I knew you’d be all right.”
The fact that Chance had turned his head away from hers, that he was holding himself tight and stiff as if her touch was something alien took a moment to register. “Chance?”
The look in his eyes was cool and withdrawn and looked as impenetrable as concertina wire on a prison fence.
“Chance?”
Wanting to hang on to him in any way possible, she reached for his hand. He pulled it free of her grasp and shoved it beneath the sheet.
“Get out. Both of you. Leave me alone.”
“Chance?” He wasn’t making sense. He wasn’t acting like himself. “I’m here for you.”
“Out!”
His whole body shook, and Taryn couldn’t say whether it was from fear or cold or anger, only that his unseemly behavior scared her stiff. This wasn’t the Chance she knew and loved.
Dr. Benton tugged at her elbow. “Mrs. Conover, perhaps—”
“No.” She ripped her arm out of Dr. Benton’s grasp and took Chance’s face between her hands. Short-cropped bristly black hair, slightly crooked nose, sharp cheeks, kissable lips and all, this was the face of the man she loved. He was still there inside that body—had to be—and she was going to find him. “Look at me, Chance. Dammit, I said look at me!”
His dark gaze met hers, cold and hard. Like smoke in the night, specters of torment arose behind the surface. Even as she looked, the man she loved was disappearing inside those tortured shadows.
“Chance.”
He didn’t know her. He didn’t remember their life together. He didn’t recall the love that fused their souls, making them one. Right before her eyes, he was turning into a remote stranger. The pain inside her chest was nearly unbearable.
“I won’t let you forget, Chance.” She cursed her croaky voice, her sniffles, her tears. “I’m your wife. I love you. I won’t let you forget who I am, what we had together. We’ve been through too much for you to just throw it all away. Do you hear me?”
The machinery monitoring his pulse, his heartbeat jumped to life. The vein at his neck throbbed hard and fast. Panic churned in his eyes.
He shoved her away and turned his head. She stumbled backward. Both her hands covered her mouth, holding back her sobs. If he’d taken out his service weapon and shot her on the spot, he couldn’t have shocked her more than he had at this moment. Never had Chance lifted a hand to her—to anyone—in anger.
He doesn’t know who he is, she reminded herself. He’s not hurting you on purpose. He’s confused. He’s scared. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said, “it’s best you leave now.”
“No. I have to stay.” She wouldn’t let him forget. She’d be here, a constant reminder of his past. He’d have to remember.
The machinery’s beeps got quicker, the neon lines sharper.
“He needs his rest,” Dr. Benton insisted.
“He needs me.” Just as she needed him. Just as their baby needed them both.
The machinery beeped faster. The lines jagged erratically. Chance grabbed at the wires connecting him to the monitoring equipment.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call security.”
“He’s my husband.”
Dr. Benton’s grip was unrelenting as he pushed her toward the door. “He’s our patient and his welfare is our number one priority.”
Two nurses came in. One plunged something into Chance’s IV line as the other pinned him down. A rasp between anger and fear grated from his throat.
“Chance!” She reached for him, but Dr. Benton blocked her way. Tears streamed down her cheeks as Chance’s face contorted into a mask of sheer terror. “Chance!”
“He needs help, Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said, shaking her slightly to get her attention. “Now would be an excellent time to have me admit him to my ward.”
Chance’s eyes closed. Slowly the beeps and lines on the machinery calmed. And once again, he looked no more than a corpse.
“Chance,” she whispered, half in prayer, half in entreaty.
“With therapy,” Dr. Benton insisted, “I can bring your husband back. Sign the transfer.”
“I have to stay with him.”
“To heal, to come back to you, he needs therapy.”
“He needs me.” Not these white-coated people who didn’t care about him.
“He’s going to be sleeping for a while now, Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? I’ll put my therapy proposal together and we can go over it tomorrow.”
“I want to stay.”
“That’s not in his best interest right now.” Dr. Benton nodded to one of the nurses. “Call security.”
Soon two uniformed guards were leading her against her will to the elevator.
Angus, who’d been in the waiting room, joined her. “What’s going on?”
With his graying brown hair, his patrician features just now starting to droop with age and his ever-present camel-colored blazer and matching Stetson, he was a welcome sight. His questioning glance searched the guards’ faces, then hers. “You all right?”
“No,” she managed to choke out. She wouldn’t be until Chance came back to her. “They’re making me go home.”
Angus wrapped one of his strong arms around her shoulders. “Chance probably needs his rest, sweetheart.”
“He doesn’t know who I am.” She leaned into Angus’s barrel chest and the tears flowed harder, numbing her to anything but her own loss.
“I’ll take you home, sweetheart.”
She could not have said how she got home. Seeing the house all dark and empty was another blow that added a layer of numbness. Angus offered to sit with her. She refused. Like a robot on automatic, she went straight to the bedroom she shared with Chance. Still dressed in the shorts and T-shirt she’d put on after her shower, she slid into bed. She drew the sheet over her head, curled up knees to chin and withdrew into the hard shell she’d escaped to so often as a little girl.
She’d thought having Chance die would be the absolute worst thing that could happen to her. She’d been wrong. Having him alive and looking at her as if she was nothing but a stranger was a thousand times worse.
But as she spent a sleepless night in the dark, alone in her bed, she knew she could not give up. For her baby’s sake, she couldn’t let go of what had taken her so long to earn.
She’d help him, just as he’d helped her find her way home again ten years ago. “Together, we’ll find you again.”

CHANCE CAME TO in a sweat, breath all but choked out of him and coming short and sharp as if he’d been running for hours. His head pounded to a frantic beat. His skin crawled with the need to keep bolting. He tried to blink away the horror flashing behind his lids, but with each flicker, the red haze spread, the blond hair writhed, the hands choked.
Grasping the sheets on the side of the bed into fists, he forced his eyes to stay open until he saw nothing but the white ceiling. And as his breath slowed, as the beating of his heart moderated, he became aware of the anger roiling through him like Class VI rapids. All of his thoughts converged to one overwhelming desire—escape.
“You’re awake.”
The voice jolted him into hyperarousal, sending the pulse monitor at his side into another wild jangle of beeps. He dragged in a long draw of breath and looked at the man beside his bed. “Who the hell are you?”
He was tall and thin. His features were long and pointed and reminded Chance of an egret. A pink skull showed through the man’s close-cropped blond hair. He wore a beige uniform shirt with a gold star above the left pocket and held his hat before him with both hands in a way that struck Chance as a supplication.
“Tad Pruitt.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Your deputy.”
Chance looked away, closed his eyes, then jerked them open when the red haze threatened him again.
Tad Pruitt. His deputy.
The name, the man, didn’t ring a bell. He almost laughed out loud. Nothing was real anymore. His brain seemed to have been wiped clean of everything except the snapshots of the muddy images running through his mind. His emotions seemed to be able to handle nothing more than the fear running rampant through his body or the anger stirring a fevered need for action.
He fixed his gaze on the acoustic tiles on the ceiling and started counting the holes. One. Two. Three. He was riding a thin line between two nightmares. Any minute now the thread would break and sling him straight into insanity. Four. Five. Six.
“I’ve got to ask you some questions, Chance.” Tad gave a rough attempt at a laugh. “Paperwork’s a bitch, but you’ll have my head if I don’t do it right.”
Chance. They kept calling him that, but the name fit about as well as a boot two sizes too small. He sure didn’t feel lucky—blistered and bloody was more like it. “The answer to all of them is ‘I don’t know.’”
“Why don’t we give it a try anyway?”
“Why don’t you go to hell?”
Tad cleared his throat. “Well, now, I wish I could, but while you’re down, I’ve got an obligation to the town to fulfill.”
“You’ve been here. You’ve seen me. Your obligation has been fulfilled. Now leave.”
“It’s not that easy, Chance. Sam Wentworth said he saw you coming down the ramp. Halfway down you accelerated and kept going until you hit the water. They found no mechanical reason for what happened.”
No, the dysfunction had been one of his own doing. He knew that on a level as primal as the fear running through his veins. One hundred seventy-one. One hundred seventy-two.
“That leaves two options, Chance. Did you mistake the accelerator for the brake?”
“I don’t know.”
The heels of Tad’s boots squeaked as he shifted his weight from left to right. “Is there some other reason you’d want to drive into that river?”
“I don’t know.” Three hundred and one. Three hundred and two. And that was just one corner of one tile. Counting all those holes on the ceiling would surely keep him too busy to think.
“You’re an expert diver, but Sam said you didn’t even try to get out of the car. You just sat there, staring at the sun while water was pouring in all around you.” Tad paused and Chance heard the sound of felt slipping round and round through fingers. The deputy was nervous. “What did you see?”
Blood. Death. Whose? Why? Were they even real? Five hundred and nine. Five hundred and ten. “I don’t know.”
“You were lucky your rear bumper caught the bank. If it hadn’t, the current would have swept you away. Sam got on the horn to RoAnn and got help.”
Chance didn’t feel particularly grateful for Sam’s Good Samaritan act or RoAnn’s efficiency at the moment. Whoever they were. Their good deeds had left him swimming in this hell of red and bloodshed and constant dread. Nine hundred and fifteen.
“Let me walk you through what happened right before you hit the water.”
“No.” He wasn’t going there. The best thing to do, he decided, was to walk away and never look back. Escape. He swallowed hard. The need itched through him strong. Damn! He’d lost count. One. Two. Three.
“You were on the highway heading toward the Brett ranch. After RoAnn gave you the call, you headed toward Gator Park.”
Tad paused and seemed to want the silence filled. Chance obliged to cover the quickening whoosh in his ears. “I don’t know.”
“Sam said you were there pretty quick after he called in the safe’s sighting. You climbed the exit ramp. Then what happened?”
“I don’t know.” Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
“Just close your eyes and put yourself back in the cruiser.”
“No!” Chance’s heart beat frantically in his chest. The monitor’s wild beeps only added to his feeling of being out of control. Like a fish out of water, he started struggling for breath. Fisting his hands around the edge of the mattress, he grappled for control. He wasn’t going to fall into that red haze. He wasn’t going to be carried away on this surge of panic. He wasn’t going to drown.
“You’re not even trying to figure this out,” Tad said.
“I told you. I don’t remember.” The monitor took another leap and a nurse came in. He saw a syringe in her hands and a fresh wave of terror swept through him. With the drugs, he would be helpless, a bit of debris tossed about with no control. The images would drown through him again.
“No drugs.” He grabbed at the IV line. “I’ll rip it right out. No drugs.”
“Your vitals are off the chart, Mr. Conover. This will help calm you down.”
Chance dragged in a long breath, then another. Sweat soaked him from head to toe. “I’m calm. The deputy irritated me, but he’s leaving now. I’m fine. No drugs.”
The nurse looked at Tad. “Maybe it would be best if you left.”
Hat still in hand, Tad nodded. “I’ll be back.” His boots squeaked to the slow rhythm of his departure.
“Now,” the nurse said as she reached for the IV, “why don’t you let me look at that line and make sure you haven’t knocked anything out of kilter?”
“Take it out,” he ordered.
The nurse clucked at him. “I can’t do that without a doctor’s order.”
“I’m leaving,” he said, and started to sit up.
She snorted her disagreement. “And where would you go? You don’t even know where you live.”
“But I do.”
They both turned at the gentle, yet insistent voice. The woman from last night stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other holding a bag. He couldn’t recall her name, but something about her presence sang through him.
She was small, nothing outstanding. All of her features were soft, almost invisible against the pale walls. But her eyes stood out like beacons, warm and welcoming. They were wide, bluer than a summer sky, and had a hypnotic quality to them that kept his gaze riveted and had his throat going dry.
“Do you want to come home with me?” Her eyes were earnest. Her body was braced to handle whatever answer he gave her.
She’d cried for him. She’d said she loved him. She’d told him she wouldn’t let him forget. He’d wanted to hang on to that promise. But promises were brittle. They broke like branches on the river and left you drifting still holding on to the thing that had let you down.
Now she was offering him a way out, another scrap of hope.
“Yes.”
A whoosh escaped her. Then she went into action, striding past the nurse and standing between them.
“I’m signing him out now.” The straight posture of her body dared the nurse to walk through her. If he’d had to take odds, he’d have placed them on the small woman’s determination even given the nurse’s fifty-pound and five-inch advantage. Did he deserve that fierce loyalty?
“That’s against regulations. The doctor—”
“Said there was nothing physically wrong with Chance. There’s no reason to hold him.”
“Dr. Benton—”
“Isn’t the admitting physician.”
The woman glanced at him over her shoulder. Her blue eyes revealed a mixture of soul-stirring warmth and utter sadness. “He’s my husband. I’m taking him home where he belongs.”
He got his wish; he was getting out of this nightmarish place. But as the nurse slipped the IV needle out of his arm, he swallowed hard.
He would be leaving with a woman who was almost as disturbing as the images flashing through his mind.

Chapter Three
Chance had been home for nearly a week and he didn’t seem to be making headway. Taryn had tried feeding him all his favorite dishes. She’d tried showing him the pictures taken of their life together. She’d tried taking him out into the community he’d loved. Nothing had made a difference.
He’d eaten with apathy. He’d barely glanced at the photos. Though she’d invited him to make himself at home, he acted as if he were a guest uncomfortably detained against his wishes. Her questions were either ignored or answered with a grunt. He’d refused to go out or to receive visitors—including Angus and his wife, Lucille. They’d been father and mother to him for fifteen years, and being turned away by one they considered a son had hurt.
And always there was an underlying current of anger that seemed to propel him into constant action.
He spent his nights awake, pacing the halls of their small house like a caged animal. Day didn’t bring him relief, either. It was as if he had to keep ahead of whatever was haunting him or risk being devoured by it. Not knowing how to help him made her feel as helpless as when she’d been a girl and watched her mother rant and rave at her sorry lot in life.
His blank stare, his restless turmoil, his aloofness toward her were like a bruise she kept hitting over and over again. She hid the pain with a smile and continued encouragement. But the tenderest ache was knowing that he was home and didn’t want to share her bed. So in the bedroom he refused to enter, she cried herself to sleep every night.
Even though every defeat stung, it was up to her to find a way through the amnesia to the Chance she knew. She wasn’t going to give up.
Tonight she’d awakened from a light sleep to the quiet. Not hearing the soft footfall of his bare feet on the carpet had whacked her out of drowsiness with a fresh wave of worry. She found him standing in the dark by the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Two hundred yards down the grassy slope of their backyard, the river glistened in moonlight. His gaze was riveted on the water as if it held all the answers.
She went to stand next to him. “It’s late. Past midnight. You’re exhausted. Why don’t you come to bed?”
He flinched as if she’d suggested self-mutilation, and a bolt of panic jagged through his eyes. What was causing the fear? Was he afraid that if he slept he would lose the rest of himself?
“You don’t have to sleep,” she said, reaching for him then letting her hand fall back to her side. “Come rest.” Let me take care of you.
He didn’t say anything, but kept staring out the window. She hesitated, then stood closer, wrapped one arm around his and twined their fingers as she’d done a thousand times before. Something sighed inside her at the rightness of his hand in hers. He didn’t jerk away. She took it as a good sign.
“See the roses by the fence?” She pointed at the dark shape of bushes in the yard. “You planted those for me on our wedding day. You said you didn’t want me to live in a home without flowers. The way you said it was so sweet, I cried.”
There was no sign of recognition in his eyes, no shifting of muscle to indicate anything she said was getting through. The tears burning her eyes this time were tears of frustration.
“And the swing by the pecan?” she continued, proud the rawness in her throat barely wavered her voice. “You thought we could spend romantic evenings there talking and planning. But we hardly ever use it because the mosquitoes are too fierce. Instead, most nights, we linger over iced tea right here in the kitchen.”
She leaned her head against his arm, heard the sharp intake of breath, smiled and snuggled closer. She could still affect him. That had to say something, didn’t it?
“You hate cutting the lawn. You grumbled about it every blessed weekend. I finally got so tired of hearing you complain that I hired the Taylor boy. He’s doing a good job, don’t you think?”
Chance made a noncommittal grunt. At least he was listening. She’d half feared he was lost somewhere in his own mind, or drowning in the phantom memories awakened by the river.
Red Thunder looked innocent enough tonight. Romantic even, with the moonlight dancing on its wake. The sound of the water through the closed glass door had a steady, soothing quality to it.
“You do love the river. You spend all your free time on it—fishing, paddling, diving.” She looked up into his dark eyes, wanting to be sure she wasn’t pushing too fast into dangerous territory. She wanted to bring her husband back, not drive him farther away. “You and Jake—”
He stiffened against her as he did every time a name was mentioned. He didn’t remember Jake any more than he remembered anybody else, and didn’t care for the reminder. She tried to gloss over the ties as if it were something she did every day.
“You went through the police academy with Jake Atwood. He works in Beaumont and we still see him and his wife, Liz, often. Anyway, after your ordeal, you were afraid of the current, so Jake taught you to dive. He was the one who told you that the only way to deal with the fear was to face it. He said you were a natural, that he’d never seen a strong swimmer like you. Must be why you survived.”
Chance’s jaw flinched.
“It’s brought you a great deal of joy, the river has, but it’s stolen a lot from you, too, hasn’t it? Twice now, it’s taken your memory.”
He started to turn from her, but she hung on to him. “I won’t let it take anything more from you.” Reaching across her own body, she placed a hand over his heart, felt the strong thunder of it against her hand. “Talk to me, Chance. I can deal with anything but your silence.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
To evoke memories of their life together, she’d tried feeding him, she’d tried talking to him, she’d tried showing him his world. Maybe what he needed right now was to escape for a while.
She swiveled until they stood chest to chest. Her fingers skimmed his jaw. Afraid to look in his eyes and see rejection, she concentrated on the dark stubble along his cheek, marveled at how the prickly softness showed off the exotic planes of his face, the strength.
With the tip of a finger, she traced the velvet smoothness of his lips, felt them part. His breath blew hot against her skin. She wanted to feel her mouth against his, wanted to feel him devouring her. The sheer power of the desire cut her breath short. Deliberately, she released it. Slowly, she leaned forward. Tentatively, she pressed a kiss against his neck, felt the answering leap of his pulse against her lips.
Chance growled. He captured her wrists in his hands, tore them from his shoulders and pushed them back. Her pulse bounced against the hard manacles of his fingers.
“No.” But there was no strength to his denial.
“Yes.” She rose on her toes, watched him watch her with his keen gaze, saw his nostrils flare, felt the waft of heat from his body wrap around her, smelled the familiar scent of his musk on that heated wave.
And as her lips touched his once more, there came that delicious helpless-warrior groan low in his throat. Desire flared raw and charged in his eyes.
She could reach him on this primal level. She knew she could. “Let me love you, Chance.”
“No,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed her with equal ardor.
The rich and warm taste of him sent her blood whooshing through her veins. Her fierce need for him had been a wonder to her since their first kiss. Still was. Longing had her trembling, so she anchored her arms around his neck and brought him deeper into the kiss. Yearning unfurled low in her belly, reminding her what their love had created. A cascade of warmth and lust rippled through her and her kiss turned hard and wild. “Let me love you.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sylvie-kurtz/remembering-red-thunder/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.