by Gorman, A.
“Have a good day, Button?”
“Yes!” She launched into a monologue describing who did what at school while skillfully dodging his playful tries to tug her braid. While his mind listened to his daughter, his eyes sought Faith.
She sat at the table, hands folded neatly on her lap as she watched their exchange. The other chair now pulled out told him Sierra had been seated there, doubtlessly regaling Ms. Faith with exciting tales of the day. What had she initially thought of his social daughter? Now her expression was a mix of curiosity and amusement. Papers—homework?—stacked at her elbow drew him across the room, Sierra still at his side and chattering away like a magpie.
“I brought you some things,” he said when Sierra stopped to catch a breath. He held the bags out to Faith.
She arched one dark eyebrow and reached for them. “I hadn’t realized you’d gone to town.”
“Naw, I just ran down to The Plaza. It’s not really a town, just a collection of buildings strung together. Dollar store, car wash, thrift store, and a few other little things.”
“Uncle Jack says The Plaza is like lights on a Christmas tree,” Sierra chimed in. “Some good bulbs and some duds.”
“Uncle Jack?”
“My foreman. And best friend since first grade. And surrogate second daddy to Sierra too, I reckon.”
Faith gave a slow nod. He set the last bag down and scooped up Sierra’s homework. “We’ll leave you to this and go finish Button’s schoolwork.”
Half an hour later, Sierra closed her book and set the table for dinner. Dawson started the makings for a hearty son-of-a-gun stew casserole. He hadn’t lied to Faith. It was just his cooking skills were limited.
“Daddy, can I go outside now?”
He studied the table. It all looked good. “Sure thing, Button. Be back in thirty.”
With a promise, she was gone like shot from a rifle. He swung the top half of the Dutch door open to cool the room and listen for any shouts before he returned to his pasta and beef. The sporadic cow bawl wafted in. What was Faith doing? Did she like the clothes? Did he—?
“Is your door broken?”
He jumped at her soft question. Head jerking up, he realized he had not heard her because she was stocking-footed. She wore green plaid knickers and a blood red top. Hell’s bells, had he really picked that out? Mercy! She looked like someone’s granny fixing to go golfing. What a waste of a good piece of land. And what a waste of yardage of clothing on a beautiful woman. One of his old t-shirts would be better. What had he been thinking? Was everything he got her as hideous as this outfit? Well, he’d just proven the fact men can’t shop.
At least she was game about it and not complaining. Then he realized she was looking over his shoulder at the door.
“Naw, it’s not broken. It’s called a Dutch door. Haven’t you ever seen a split door?”
“Do I look Dutch to you?”
From the look in her eyes, he had a feeling she was talking about more than a door. Her silent agony slammed into him. What was it like to know absolutely nothing about yourself? He shoved the casserole into the oven and reached for her hands. He rubbed his thumbs over her wrists, studying her. “Naw. If I had to guess, I’d say…probably Italian.”
He guided her to the mirror in the parlor and sat her down facing it. Gently he traced her face, locking his eyes with hers in the mirror. His heart beat skipped faster.
“You have a heart-shaped face, rosebud lips, and your complexion is olive. Your cheekbones are high.” Slowly, he outlined each part with his finger as he spoke. “And I noticed the first food you went for was the most Italian-smelling one. You seemed to really enjoy it.”
She swallowed. “Have you known many Italian women?”
“Nope. You’re my first.” He cupped his fingers under her chin and tipped her face up. Leaning down, he kissed her, feeling her warm skin now apple scented from the bath and tasting mint from her toothpaste.
Easing her up, he brought her close, deepening the kiss. She slowly yielded to him, uncertain at first, but bolder as he held his patience. He liked she had to think about what she wanted to do. Fresh desire swept over him. His fingers gripped the worn fabric of her granny shirt, and he yearned to yank it off her but sensed that would be too much. There were too many unanswered questions at the moment. However, he was a patient man, and he knew she felt the sparks zapping between them as much as he did. He heard the low moan rumbling from her throat and saw how she closed her eyes and relaxed her face as yearning pulsed through her.
The buzz of the oven timer startled them both. Dawson pulled back, taking pleasure in Faith’s reddened checks. Hauling in a ragged breath, he stroked a knuckle down her face, winking.
“Go ahead, take a seat. I’ll go ring the dinner bell for Sierra and Jack.”
Faith wobbled over to the table, her senses reeling. The hairs along her arms and back of her neck still stood up. Was she the only one who’d heard music playing? Or felt electricity crackling? She sat and gazed out the window at the dirt driveway, dirt road, and trees beyond, as her pulse raced like cars on the freeway.
She was a long way from a freeway here. She traced the outline of a ring pattern. Even if she had a husband, she just knew he had never made her feel so alive, so special like Dawson had in the last few moments. Like a beautiful, desirable, fragile doll. Was the man who gave her the missing ring really her husband or lover if she could not remember him?
Sierra arrived, giggling at something a rail-thin man just said. He was dressed like Dawson, plaid button shirt and blue jeans. Seeing him did not set her pulse racing like watching Dawson did. Catching her eye, he removed his hat and stuck out his hand.
“Jack Jennings, Ma’am. You must be that stray heifer Dawson found down by the Crazy Woman.”
Faith blinked, taken aback. She shook his hand before agreeing, “I suppose so. I’m Faith.”
“Daddy’s calling her that ’cause she don’t remember her own name,” Sierra supplied brightly.
Faith appreciated her innocence but felt her cheeks grow warm nonetheless under Jack’s sympathetic stare. Thankfully, he took his chair, two down from her.
“Must be hard, Ma’am. Lord knows there’s things I’d like to un-remember, like a marriage or two, but there’s a whole lot I’d sure hate to forget. My condolences.”
“Thank you. Dawson seems to think it’s only temporary.”
Jack grinned. “Dawson would look at a spinning tornado and say: ‘Aw, shucks, it’s only temporary.’ He sees the silver lining in every cloud or he paints one there himself.”
Faith smiled, unable to help but like the gangly cowboy. His slow drawl was much like Dawson’s and a sharp contrast from Sierra’s energetic chirp. Sierra reminded Faith of a small bird. Dawson’s lolling accent carried a sexy tone that excited her. Jack just made her smile at his wit.
“Dinner is served,” Dawson announced as he entered the room and set a large glass dish in the center of the table. Smells escaped, lifting into the air, and Faith tried to identify them. Beefy and nutty.
“Son-of-a-gun stew, turned into a casserole. Male cooking specialty,” Dawson explained, sitting down and reaching for Sierra and Jack’s hands. Sierra and Jack each reached for one of Faith’s hands, and they formed a perfect square.
Astonished, Faith watched as they all bowed their heads and Dawson prayed. He ended a few sentences later with a thankful comment for her safe rescue and a swift recovery of her memories. Sierra snuck a peek over at her.
“Don’t you pray before meals?” the girl asked after everyone released hands and began passing plates.
Evidently not. She glanced at Dawson as he heaped food on a plate and passed it on. Wherever she was from, meals were never handled like this. “Guess I simply forgot.”
Dinner was a good—albeit unusual—event. Faith knew she’d never tasted a meal like Dawson’s all-in-one casserole or shared such animated, colorful conversation like she did with Sierra and Jack. Together they w
ere hysterical. She particularly enjoyed the childhood stories told at Dawson’s expense and to Sierra’s acute interest. Her heart tugged at the loving way he interacted with Sierra and the brotherly way he was with Jack. It was a tight, devoted triangle she was suddenly in the middle of, and the emotions and pleasures it created in her were undoubtedly something new. She knew this, amnesia or not.
So what had she left behind her?
“I’ll do the dishes,” she volunteered as dinner and conversation wound down. Jack had said earlier he and Dawson enjoyed going out on the porch after dinner to talk shop. She was eager to repay him for his kindness, and washing dishes was a good start.
Dawson rocked back and forth, watching the sun slowly sinking over the mountaintop. Behind him, he heard the clank of dishes. Jack hadn’t hung around too long. That was okay; right now, he had two big headaches on his mind and appreciated a bit of time alone. He took a pull on the beer at his side.
Setting it back down, he fingered the envelope curled in his pocket. His lip settled into a curling snarl. A legal notice telling him his former in-laws were suing him for custody of Sierra. Like hell. He’d fight till he was out of breath and dead before they got his daughter. Not his Button.
And Faith. Eagle-eyed Jack pointed out how some of her bruises along her arms were older and already fading to green. Others were fresh, but not as new as the ones he assumed had all been caused from a spill off a horse. So who the hell had been laying bruises on her? Did it have anything to do with that pale circle around her ring finger and why there was no ring there now?
And what was worse—it really bothered him. He was liking Faith far more than he should for a lady he just rescued, and to see fresh wounds was bad enough, but old bruises were sufficient to make him mad enough to go punch a bull in the eye. His protective instincts were flaring off like rockets between Sierra and his former in-laws, and now Faith and her troubles. Lord, what was he supposed to do?
He reached for the beer and took another swallow. The sun dipped below the mountain, blanketing the ranch in darkness. The dusk-to-dawn lights kicked on, illuminating paths from house to barns to bunkhouse. He no longer heard the clatter of dishes. Crickets and bullfrogs filled the air with their chirps and croaks. Somewhere, a night bird called. For the moment, Dawson envied the nightlife their simplicity.
Chapter 4
Faith jerked awake, gasping for breath. What dreadful noise woke her? She scooted up, hugging the pillow to her chest, and the sound rolled across the yard again. The terror-filled scream of a woman being killed.
Where was Dawson? Or Jack? She swallowed. Where was Sierra? Fear for the child goaded her out of bed. One more screech set her teeth on edge. Who was being murdered out there? She slipped from her room and padded to the kitchen. Daylight shone dimly through the uncovered windows, but the room was still shrouded in darkness. Nightlights gave enough glow for her to spot a black skillet on the stove.
She gripped it, scooped it up, and almost dropped it. It was much heavier than it looked. Adjusting her grip, she headed for the door as another ear-splitting wail of terror sent shivers racing down her spine. Where the heck were the men?
Carefully, teeth set, nerves tight, and breath held, she twisted the knob and eased the door open enough to slide out. The yard lights flickered off as daylight spilled over the mountains. Horses snorted, and cows mooed. Another shriek made her jump.
“Morning, Faith.”
Gasping, she whirled, dropping the pan. It landed with a heavy thud on the wood planks. Her hands went to her chest. Dawson sat in the rocker, feet propped on the railing. Despite the murder at the moment, she took the time to appreciate the beautiful picture he made just sitting there. Yummy.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked, once her breath and wits recovered.
“Thinking mostly.”
“What about that?” She flung her arm out toward the region of the shrieks.
He lifted a dark brow, and she caught a whiff of cinnamon gum again. She took a step closer. “The screams?” she clarified.
“You mean Buster?” He chuckled. “He does have a horrible sounding crow, I admit, but he is the most dependable rooster I’ve ever known. Sounds like a gang of stray cats caterwauling each morning, but he loves it when Sierra reads her school books to him. Fool bird is almost her pet.”
She stood, her jaw dropping, trying to make sense of his words. His slow drawl assured her there was no danger. So a rooster was a—?
“What were you planning to do with the cast iron?”
She followed his gaze down to the pan at her feet. Embarrassment flooded her face as she failed to find words to describe her misunderstanding. Dawson stood up, stepped close, and cupped his hands around her face. His smile was tender.
“I appreciate your bravery, Faith. That speaks volumes of your character. A cast iron pan is a great weapon to take into a fight, too. Remember that.” He released her and stepped back. “That old Texas Longhorns t-shirt of mine looks good on you. But I think we need to update your wardrobe. After Sierra’s off to school, we’ll head into town and get you some new clothes, not thrift store finds.”
Images popped into Faith’s mind of boutiques, each lined with racks of dresses and outfits, shoes and accessories. Colors, patterns, styles, and brands, she could almost feel the textures beneath her fingertips. She could see helpful sales associates who carried merchandise for her to the fitting room. She pictured leaving with boxes and bags of goodies. So many images popped into her mind, she knew she had frequently shopped nice stores. She smiled. “That would be good.” Finally, something would be familiar. Or at least as she remembered.
“We can take my old Wagoneer,” Dawson said, pointing at the vehicle to the left.
Faith examined the two options. She and Dawson stood on the porch, watching as Sierra’s school bus faded into a cloud of dust. The other choice seemed to be a vintage pick-up truck. “Don’t you own a car?” Something with rust not as the dominant color?
He cracked a grin. “Now what good is a car on a ranch? Can’t haul and can’t carry much with it. It won’t make it into the fields or woods when it’s rough. In fact, can’t do much at all with a car.” Shaking his head, he took her hand and led her to the passenger side of the Jeep. He opened her door, and it took Faith a moment to realize his chivalrous intent. Blushing, she slid in. She was startled to see he kept the key in the ignition. The engine started with a coughing grunt, and Dawson patted the dash affectionately.
“These beasts have served me well. Sierra likes to drive this one.”
“She’s only seven!”
“Well, she’s got to sit on my lap to see out and my knees hit the dash so she can reach the pedals, but one day she’ll say her old man had her driving his old truck across the fields where she grew up.”
It was a sweet image and, coupled with Dawson’s lolling tone, stirred something deep inside Faith’s chest. A memory knocked, and she gripped the armrest, trying to bring it up.
“Don’t try so hard. They’ll come when they’re ready.”
She spun to face him, startled at his gentle suggestion. He grinned. “Your face was squished up like when Sierra is thinking real hard.”
They turned off Dawson’s dirt road onto another dirt road, which led to another dirt road. They passed four tractors, numerous barns, endless trucks, six people on horseback, miles of fence and fields, and only one car. Laundry flapped in yards. Flags snapped from poles. Dogs sprawled on porches. Livestock was everywhere.
“What are those white boxes?”
“Beehives. Some folks keep bees for the honey and wax.”
Faith massaged her temples for a moment. Would she ever find her previous life again? Why did every single thing around her seem so foreign?
“You okay?”
“Umm, just starting with a headache. Trying too hard, I suppose.” She studied his profile, an appealing blend of patience and strength. “How did Sierra get her nickname Button?”
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br /> His face split into a big smile. “I used to say I wish I had a pause button with her. Five more minutes to enjoy those special moments. Her first smile, first walk, first words. Later, her first hug, first bike ride, and that first time she came to me to fix her world. Over time, it just stuck.” He swallowed and coughed once before finishing. “I wish I could hit the pause button on these years with her now, so she never had to grow up.”
“I think that is beautiful, Dawson.” Faith reached across the space separating them and rested her hand on his arm, feeling warmth. And sizzle. His blue gaze flicked to her, surprised, and he turned to the road, blinking rapidly.
They reached town, and more flags fluttered from porches and storefronts. Trucks of every size and color lined the streets. They rolled through two stop signs, one blinking yellow light, and one traffic light.
“How many people live here?”
“In town? Around eight hundred last census. Henderson County has almost three times that many.”
Faith hoped they never all came to town on the same day. It could be disastrous.
“Reckon we should check with the sheriff first, just to see if anyone has filed a missing person report on you.” He stopped the truck in front of the building and a sign heralding County Sheriff and came around to Faith’s side.
“Do you think they would? File a report?”
He looked her up and down. “Minus your scuffs, you look like you stepped off the pages of some hoity-toity fashion magazine. Stands to reason someone, somewhere, would be looking for you.” He stroked a thumb along her cheek. “I sure would if I lost you.”
Fifteen minutes later, they left the police station. Faith’s shoulders slumped. No one had reported her missing. No one was looking for her. Except for Dawson, it seemed no one cared she was gone. Then Dawson’s warm hand rested on her shoulder, and she stopped, turning to meet his twinkling smile.