Without a Past

by Debra Salonen

  She shrugged off her heavy shirt, folding it inside out, then used the hem of her T-shirt to wipe the sweat from her face. Harley caught a tantalizing glimpse of her belly.

  Even though the timing was undoubtedly terrible—and the action foolish—he reached out and put his free hand on her shoulder.

  She didn’t resist when he pulled her to him, although her eyes were wide with surprise. But her lips parted before he lowered his head, and she seemed to welcome his kiss. Harley hadn’t kissed a woman since his accident. Whom he’d kissed last and when that might have been were pure guesses, but Harley was willing to bet he’d never experienced anything sweeter and more intoxicating than kissing Andi Sullivan.

  Her lips were soft—a little salty. Her tongue wasn’t the least bit shy, which didn’t surprise him. The way she closed her eyes and the small sound she made were so feminine, so irresistible, he felt a surge of desire rock him.

  He wrapped his arms around her and tilted his head to taste her more fully. With eyes closed, he entered a world of lush texture, beautiful colors and scintillating music.

  She put her arms around his neck; and the stiff leather object fell from his fingers. He was instantly reminded of why they were standing in the hot sun in the middle of nowhere. Even as her body melted against him, and his body responded, Harley felt the cruel slap of reality.

  He dropped his arms and stepped back, breaking her hold around his neck. “I’m sorry, Andi. That was out of line.”

  She blinked twice. “Was that hazard pay?”

  A great comeback, but the little tremor in her voice robbed it of any flippancy. “No. That was me being an idiot. I’m a stranger—a nobody—and my past is this close to catching up with me,” he said, bending to pick up the billfold.

  She sighed. Her expression showed a range of emotions, none he could easily interpret.

  He blew the dust from it, then studied the weather-damaged exterior, whitened by moisture and brittle around the edges.

  “You’d probably like some time alone to look at this stuff,” Andi said, shouldering the coil of rope. As she passed by him, she handed him a red cotton bandanna. “Tie this to a limb before you leave. We’ll need help to recover the bike.”

  Too overwhelmed to express what he was feeling, Harley could only nod.

  “I’ll wait for you at the car.” She turned to leave, but paused. “Harley, I did a little reading about amnesia, and it probably doesn’t pay to get your hopes up. Maybe this stuff will trigger a whole flood of memories, but it might not. That doesn’t mean you’ll never remember.”

  Her concern touched him. And he knew she was right, but he couldn’t quell the double-edged thrill of anticipation coursing through him. Harley waited until the sound of her footsteps was nothing more than a soft whisper, then he dropped to his haunches and opened the wallet.

  The first thing he spotted was a driver’s license protected by opaque plastic. Fingers trembling, he worked the laminated card free. A state emblem he didn’t recognize was his first clue this wasn’t going to be the miracle cure.

  I’m from Missouri? The question produced a humming in his head. A dangerous sound. One he usually shied away from. But he rose, holding the object to the sunlight.

  The photograph was definitely the same face he saw in the mirror each morning—a bit younger, perhaps. The statistics fit: blue eyes/brown hair, six-foot, one-hundred-eighty pounds. It took him a few seconds to calculate his age. Thirty-two. He would turn thirty-three in August.

  A Leo, he thought, recalling his conversation with Ida Jane.

  Dropping to his haunches, he gave a cursory glance at the items Andi had recovered. Intellectually, he knew that each article was a clue—and he should be dancing with joy, but it was difficult to get excited about the possibilities this find offered when his head was pounding.

  He massaged his temple. The faces matched, but what did that mean? Was he Harley Forester? Or Jonathan Jackson Newhall?

  ANDI WAS TWIDDLING her thumbs to the sound of Huey Lewis and the News when she spotted Harley slowly trudging down the road. She’d become a master at thumb twiddling during her years in the military; she’d also become adept at reading a man’s body language. The man approaching her great-aunt’s beloved Cadillac was hurting. Big time.

  Andi opened the door and got out. “No bells or whistles?” she guessed.

  His head swiveled from side to side, but his gaze seemed fixed on the car’s grille. Andi’s heart went out to him. If Jenny or Kristin were here, they’d know what to do. Andi would probably blow this, but she’d have to try.

  She motioned to the passenger side. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  He moved like a sleepwalker. She could tell by the squint around his eyes that he was in pain. Once he was seated, she took a plastic bottle of Extra Strength Motrin from the glove compartment and offered him two gel caps. He swallowed them without water, even though Andi had a water bottle handy.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice strained.

  The wallet and the blue-shirt satchel rested on the seat between them.

  Andi started the car and carefully backed the beast into a three-point turn. Rosemarie hadn’t been new when Ida Jane bought her twelve years earlier, but after her christening, she’d become a member of the family.

  “Can you talk about it?” Andi asked once they were headed back toward the main highway. “Even if there was no instant recall, there must be stuff in the wallet that can help you find out about your past. Credit cards, photos.”

  Andi didn’t want to think about the photo she’d spotted during her quick perusal of the wallet. Unfortunately, she’d been able to think of little else. So far, she’d come up with a dozen scenarios to explain both the engagement ring and the beauty with two kids at her side. None made her feel any better.

  Harley let out a sigh. “I didn’t look beyond the driver’s license. What was the point? I didn’t recognize the name on it.”

  “You’re sure it’s your wallet?”

  “Actually, it belongs to a guy named Jonathan Newhall. But he looks a lot like me.”

  The frustration in his voice was tinged with dismay. She tapped the signal lever and stepped on the gas. A few miles later she pulled onto a gravel road leading up a sharp driveway to a rustic conclave of bungalows scattered on the steep hillside and connected by decks and wooden walkways.

  She parked in front of one set of buildings then grabbed her purse. “Come on,” she said. “And bring the booty. I’m good at puzzles.”

  The Yosemite Bug Hostel’s Recovery Bistro was housed in what had originally served as a mess hall for young men who’d stepped outside the boundaries of the law. A pair of Bay Area entrepreneurs had converted the forty-year-old dormitories to a youth hostel, and eventually the swell of business had necessitated building new suites to cater to a more moneyed clientele. Weekend barbecues now attracted diners from all over, locals and tourists alike.

  Since Harley seemed immersed in an introspective fog, Andi ordered two Bug Brews and carried both to a little table overlooking a wooded gully not unlike the one she’d just scaled. “Sit. Drink,” she ordered.

  He pitched the wallet on to the table then sat down, placing the blue carryall on the extra chair. He sighed weightily before picking up his glass. “I guess at some level I expected this to open the door to my past. Just like magic.”

  He took a long gulp then looked at Andi. “Thanks.”

  Andi sipped her beer. She preferred iced tea, but this beer was a prop. She knew from experience guys opened up when they had a brewsky in hand. “I’d be disappointed, too. That’s only human. But it doesn’t mean the key isn’t here.” She tapped the wallet. “It just hasn’t made it to the lock in your brain. Mind if I take a look?”

  Harley shrugged then polished off the rest of his beer. “I need another. How ’bout you?”

  “Not yet.” She waited until he left the table before snatching up the billfold. She gave the outside a cursory
scan—not cheap—then opened it. She removed the driver’s license and looked at the signature. She’d read somewhere that even people with the kind of amnesia that wiped out all past memories—retrograde amnesia, she thought it was called—often retained the same handwriting.

  Jonathan signed his name with a flourish that rendered it almost illegible.

  “Jon,” Harley muttered, sitting down a moment later. “Could I possibly have a more ordinary name?”

  “It’s not J-O-H-N,” she said, smiling. “It’s Jonathan. That’s not so common.”

  “Hmmph. You have a beautiful name. Andrea.”

  He said it with a lover’s lilt.

  She felt herself blush. “Only problem is I’ve been Andi ever since the fourth grade when I told the school secretary I wouldn’t come back if anyone called me that sissy name again.”

  “I like that sissy name.”

  “You would…Jonny.” Her teasing earned her a smile, but it disappeared when she turned the wallet sideways to open an accordion file of photos. These hadn’t fared as well as the laminated driver’s license and half-dozen credit cards. Most of them had gotten wet and were a smeary mess sticking to the plastic. A couple in the center had fared better. She looked for the one she’d seen earlier.

  “This could be your family,” she said in a small voice. She ran her finger over the plastic rectangle. The image of a woman with long blond hair flanked by two towheaded little girls was clearly visible. Andi guessed the children to be about six and four.

  Harley anchored his elbows on the table and sat forward. She spun the wallet around to give him a clearer view. “You’re right,” he said dispassionately. “Those could be my kids. Which would mean that for some reason I abandoned them in Missouri—if the address on the driver’s license is legit—and they don’t know if I’m living or dead.”

  Andi’s heart ached for him. He was a good man, despite how damaging the scenario he’d just described might sound. “Let’s call information in Bainbridge, Missouri, and find out,” she said, leaning down to dig the cellular phone out of her purse.

  She thought Harley was going to stop her, but he sank back in the chair and took a big gulp of beer. Andi gave the operator the name and address on the license. “Nothing?” she exclaimed at the news. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Maybe she gave up and moved away,” he suggested.

  Andi rolled her neck. “Oh, pul…lease,” she said, taking a drink of beer. “If this woman loved you enough to give you two adorable children, she sure as heck wouldn’t just take off. Not if there was any hope at all that you might show up. I know I wouldn’t,” she added without meaning to.

  Her words made him smile, and some of the anxiety left his eyes. “There could be another explanation,” he said. “She might be my sister. Or a friend.”

  Andi thought about that diamond ring she’d found. “Have you looked at the other stuff yet?”

  “Nope.” He eyed the bag as though it held snakes and scorpions. After a full minute, he picked up the knapsack and dropped it on the table. “What’s inside it?”

  “Guy stuff. Rusted electric shaver. A book of some sort. An expensive-looking watch.”

  That made his eyebrow shoot up. “Really?”

  He took another drink of beer before drawing the bag closer to his side of the table. Andi held her breath as he opened it. The damaged material made a ripping sound as his masculine fingers manipulated the knotted sleeves. “This shirt has seen better days,” he said.

  “It was handy.”

  The first thing to fall out of the bag was the jeweler’s case. Harley blinked in surprise. “What’s this?” He popped it open. “Wow. That’s a nice ring, isn’t it?”

  Andi tried to ignore the weird emotions racing through her. “I’d say most women would swoon if somebody gave it to them.”

  He plucked the small sparkling symbol of love out of its protective bed and held it between his fingers. He lifted it to the light as if looking for engravings.

  White gold or platinum—she couldn’t tell which. A full carat at least. It sparkled like fire. “It’s…pretty.”

  He returned it to the box, snapped the lid closed and tossed it aside. “I wonder what I’m doing with it. I suppose it could be stolen.”

  Andi stifled her reprimand. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  He didn’t appear to hear her. He’d opened the leather-bound volume next. “Look at this,” he said, turning the open leaf so she could read an inscription. Although the ink had been muddied by moisture, the text was still legible. From Dad, with love. Christmas 1998.

  “You have family.”

  “Or had in 1998,” he corrected.

  Only a few of the elegant ivory pages had been written on—as if the journal writer had just begun to log his thoughts before being interrupted. By a motorcycle accident, perhaps. On the inscribed pages, the ink had bled into blue rivers running parallel across each page. Some pages were stuck together like wet money.

  Andi reached out and turned the book over. In the bottom corner of the cover were gold-leaf initials: JJN. “This is a very classy gift. Inscribed, no less.”

  Harley didn’t offer an opinion.

  “How’s the headache?”

  “Still there, but, at least, I don’t feel sick to my stomach.”

  Andi sympathized with him. She couldn’t begin to understand what he was going through and she felt powerless to help. Because she had to do something, she reached out and brushed her fingers along his jaw. The gesture wasn’t meant to be anything but supportive. Unfortunately, a spark of current seemed to spring to life from the contact. The memory of their scintillating kiss made her sit back in her chair. She wasn’t good at flirting, and this wasn’t the time or place, anyway.

  “Maybe Sam could help, if you take this stuff to the ranch. He’s smart, worldly. You could try Donnie Grimaldo again, but working with the sheriff’s office is like opening a can of worms.”

  He cocked his head. “Why do you say that? When Sam took me in to run my prints, Donnie seemed quite personable.”

  Andi nodded. “Donnie’s a genuinely nice guy, but he and Kristin had a thing in high school and it ended badly. We sort of do our best to avoid him.”

  Harley’s sandy-colored eyebrow shot up. “How do you manage that in a town this size?”

  Andi shook her head. “It isn’t easy. Last year at Josh’s funeral, Donnie handled the traffic for us. But I figured that was because Josh and Donnie were friends. Everybody loved Josh.”

  “So I’ve heard. Did you love him?”

  Something about the way he said the words made her answer bluntly. “Of course. He was the brother I never had. But from the minute he spotted Jenny, there was never another girl for him.” Andi stifled a sigh. She’d always hoped for that same kind of love-at-first-sight romance in her life, but so far it hadn’t worked out. The closest she’d ever come was the crazy sense of rebellion she’d felt when she’d dated Tyler Harrison during her senior year of high school. Until Kristin had batted her big blues at him.

  “Donnie’s a good man and a decent cop, but I wouldn’t blame him if he still held a grudge. Kristin really set this town on its ear when she backed Ty’s version of their altercation over Donnie’s.” She shook her head. “It’s old news—except when Gloria Hughes rehashes it in her gossip column.

  “I swear that woman is part elephant. She never forgets. Of course, it doesn’t help that she’s Ty Harrison’s mom.” She made a negating motion. “Never mind. It’s a long story. We should probably hit the road. I’d like to be home when Ida and Jenny get back from shopping. Maybe if Jenny’s there, the two of us can help Ida understand that the new roof is absolutely necessary.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But maybe we should talk about that kiss—”

  She knew what he was going to say. “Don’t,” she interrupted. “That was more about triumph than boy-girl stuff. The timing isn’t right for either of us. But I consider myself your friend, Harley, a
nd I want to help.”

  He sat back and took a drink before speaking. “Actually, you’re wrong. That kiss was all boy-girl stuff—for me anyway. But you’re right about the timing. And I need all the friends I can get.”

  His smile did things to her she wanted to ignore and his voice had an unprecedented effect on her libido. True she’d been celibate for over a year, but now wasn’t the time or place to get carried away.

  “Unless, of course, we discover something sordid in my past. If it turns out I’m an ax murderer or something odious, you’re under no obligation to be my friend.”

  Suddenly furious, she reached across the table and grabbed a fistful of T-shirt. “Just stop it, Harley. As your friend, I won’t sit back and let you think the worst about yourself. Your past may be unknown. But the man I know is a great guy—the kind of man who chauffeurs old ladies and stops to fix a flat tire for tourists. So, quit running yourself down, okay?”

  She released her hold and sat back, temper spent.

  Harley looked down at his shirt, then without lifting his chin looked at her and smiled. Something raw and hungry surged through her body. Damn. She wanted this man—even if he was married to the beautiful blonde in the picture or about to be engaged to some other lucky woman.

  “Andi-amie,” a cheerful voice boomed. “Whatcha doing in this neck of the woods, ma petite?”

  Andi looked over her shoulder. A Goliath of a man—well over six foot with snowy hair and a rotund belly framed by bright red suspenders—clomped into the room. He had to duck to clear the threshold. At his heels trailed a golden retriever with white whiskers and a jaunty red, white and blue bandanna around her neck.

  “Pascal,” Andi exclaimed, jumping to her feet. She hugged the older man with joy then dropped to her knees to embrace the dog. “Belle. Hello, girl. I’ve missed you.

  “Harley, this is Pascal Fournier, my old—excuse me—former English teacher. Pascal, my friend Harley Forester.” She sort of stumbled over his name because it suddenly occurred to her that he wasn’t Harley anymore. “Can you join us?”