Without a Past

by Debra Salonen

  Andi tried to put the car in reverse, but the shifter on the column refused to budge. She put her shoulder into it, but to no avail. She’d forgotten that Rosemarie hated hills.

  “Hello,” a voice hailed. A scrawny arm in red, white and blue waved from the window like a flag on the Fourth of July.

  “Is that her?” Jonathan asked.

  Andi returned the wave then sank her teeth into her bottom lip as she tried to coax Rosemarie into gear. Harley scooted over to add his help. When his fingers closed over hers on the shift knob, Andi’s heart jumped in her chest. His hand was a little sweaty. From the idea of kissing me?

  At last, the lever gave. Andi shifted sideways and prepared to back up. His gaze, she noticed, was stuck on her bare legs.

  He seemed to collect his thoughts and bulleted to his side of the seat. “What’s this woman going to say when she sees me?”

  “Who knows? She’s a little weird. But in a good way.”

  Andi backed up until she had a clear view of the road for a hundred feet in each direction. Mrs. Graham barreled down the driveway and pulled to a dusty stop just across from her. “You’re late,” she complained. “But no matter. Katty-kit had anxiety diarhea, so that slowed us down.” She used her index finger and thumb to mimic a clothespin and squeezed her nose.

  Andi glanced at her passenger. He startled when a large apricot-colored poodle with a pompadour haircut suddenly poked its head out the vehicle’s back window and started barking.

  “Sorry for holding you up,” Andi shouted above the ruckus. “This old car isn’t fond of mountain roads.”

  “No bother. I’d have given Sarge a lift into town, but as you can see there’s just not enough room. Even had to leave Joe Bob home so we could all fit.”

  “Who’s Joe Bob?” Harley asked, leaning closer to Andi so he could look out her window. His hand was almost touching her bare thigh. The skirt—Jenny’s idea—had been a smart move after all.

  “My boa,” Mrs. Graham answered. She didn’t appear to recognize Harley as an alleged murderer. “I left him out of his cage so he could do a little mouse eradication. Gotta go.”

  “Hmm,” Harley said, leaning forward to watch the odd car disappear. “Definitely unique.”

  Andi knew at that moment the feelings she’d felt for Harley could easily pass over to this new man. With a vocabulary as extensive as his—she’d read a few of his editorials—he could have chosen any one of a hundred adjectives ranging from bizarre to deranged to describe the old lady. Unique—a Harley way of putting it.

  Instead of trying to back all the way to Lars’s cabin, Andi pulled ahead as she had the first time so she could maneuver the car into a downhill position. The Caddie lunged forward, then rocked back and forth while Andi tried pushing the lever upward. “Come on, Rosemarie, you can do this.”

  “Maybe it needs transmission fluid.”

  “Well, unless that’s an item you carry with you in your pocket, I think we’re screwed.”

  He looked askance at her snide tone. “Lars had cases of the stuff around.”

  Before she could comment on his resourcefulness, he got out of the car and set off down the road. Andi could have taken the shortcut between the two homes, but she followed him instead. Not such a chore considering how sharp he looked in his new clothes. Navy Dockers with an off-white cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves that revealed his muscular arms. He’d left the brown windbreaker in the car.

  He walked fast. Seemingly unconcerned that a misstep in one of the muddy puddles might ruin his leather topsiders. His legs looked long and powerful. She had to hustle to keep up with him.

  “I’ve got the cell phone in case Donnie gets a break and catches the killer,” she said, patting her pocket.

  “Won’t happen.”

  “Today, you mean?”

  “Here. Lars told me his place was impervious to cellular reception. Sam said he tried to outfit Lars with some kind of two-way radio system years ago and nothing ever worked. Which suited Lars fine. He didn’t like people and he didn’t trust anybody. Except Sam.”

  “And you.”

  He missed a step. “He took pity on me.”

  “Maybe, at first, but then he got to know you. And like you. Lars was good at reading people.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “He didn’t know me from Adam.”

  “Then why’d he leave you the mine?”

  He stopped so abruptly she almost plowed into him. Accidentally on purpose, as Kristin used to say. Just so she could feel his body against hers. “I don’t know what he was thinking. I wish to hell I did.”

  Andi sobered. She’d been so wrapped up in the murder and the bike and her own feelings, she hadn’t given much thought to Harley’s sense of loss. He’d cared for the old man who’d rescued him, and now Lars was dead.

  “Sorry,” she said. “That was insensitive.”

  He started to say something but the woeful baying began again, making the hair on her arms stand up. Sarge might not have been a purebred, but his vocal genes belonged to the Baskervilles.

  “If I check the machine shed for the transmission fluid,” Harley said, his tone strained, “could you deal with the dog?”

  The dog? Andi didn’t understand this sudden tension in his voice. She remembered seeing Harley interact with Sarge the day Lars dropped off Harley at the Rocking M. Perhaps not as enthusiastically as a dog-lover might, but certainly there’d been no antipathy between him and Sarge.

  Puzzled, she walked to the house. With its aged timbers and thick, uneven mortar, the cabin oozed charm—and neglect. As she neared the building, Sarge’s long, sorry howl turned to frantic barking. The dog put his forepaws on the railing and watched her approach. Andi could tell by his nervous posturing, he was hoping someone—probably Lars—would come to relieve him of duty.

  “Hey, there, Sarge. Good boy. It’s me, Andi. Remember? You’re my pal, aren’t you, Sarge?” She said his name over and over and approached cautiously until she saw his skinny tail start to swish back and forth. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me give you a hug.”

  Starved for attention, Sarge’s hug became a body slam that knocked her on her butt. His sloppy kisses covered her face, then her hands, which she used as a shield. She was laughing too hard to scold him.

  “Sarge,” a stern voice barked. “Sit.”

  Immediately, the dog backed away and dropped his rear end to the ground. Andi sat up, too, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She’d lost her keys in the tall grass and had to stretch to reach for them. Harley made a funny sound, and when she glanced at him and saw his gaze on her bare legs—and no doubt immodest pose—she hastily drew her knees under her. The dampness sent a chill through her.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Of course not. I was just giggling too hard to escape. He’s lonely.”

  The dog stared at Harley with such obvious yearning it almost broke her heart. He was a man’s dog; his man was gone. This man gave commands but not the one he was waiting for.

  She started to reach out to the animal when Harley said, “Come.”

  Sarge surged forward but didn’t jump up. He seemed to know instinctively that this man wouldn’t like it. “Good dog,” Harley said, petting the dog.

  Andi turned away to keep from letting Harley see her tears. She wasn’t a soft touch, but she loved animals. And Harley, without knowing it, had just done something guaranteed to make her fall in love.

  “I’ll see if Lars has a leash around here,” she said.

  “There’s some rope in the shed. I should have picked it up, but when I heard the commotion, I thought he was going to eat you alive.” Harley hadn’t dropped to one knee, as Andi would have done. He didn’t have his arm looped around the dog’s neck. But he did scratch Sarge’s ear. Twice. Both times, Sarge sighed as if in heaven.

  For the first time, she noticed a small plastic container in his left hand. “You found some transmission stuff?”

  “Yes,” he said, helping her
to her feet.

  “Great. Let’s get going.”

  The corner of his mouth crinkled in a typical Harley smile. Although she’d caught a glimpse or two of his alter ego—Jonathan—Andi chose not to think about the two personalities occupying the same body. It was a little creepy.

  She shuddered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  Harley and Sarge followed a few steps behind her. It was obvious no leash was necessary. Sarge would have followed Harley to the moon and back.

  “No. Just thinking.”

  “It’s this place,” he said, looking around. “It seems so empty without Lars.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

  He shook his head. The wan sunlight filtering through the pines made his hair tone darker than normal. He’d combed it differently—too neat for her taste. She longed to run her fingers through it and mess it up.

  “That depends on the verdict,” he said. “If I’m found guilty, the state will probably take it. Legally, you can’t profit from someone’s death if you’re deemed instrumental in causing it.”

  Their conversation died as they reached the car. Harley poured in the transmission fluid, then checked the miniature dipstick. After testing it twice, he opened the rear door and pointed to the back seat, which Andi had covered with an old beach towel. Sarge leaped into the space.

  Harley closed the door soundly and walked to her. He stood close enough for her to smell a mixture of dog, motor oil and man. Somewhere in that combination was Harley. She felt a prickly sensation in her sinuses.

  “We started something we didn’t finish,” he said.

  His tone wasn’t the least bit romantic, but Andi didn’t find that too surprising. Despite that one sweet “Good dog,” Andi wasn’t fooled. She knew this wasn’t the same man she’d begun to have feelings for. But she owed it to herself to put an end to her X-rated dreams. She would kiss him and put the past away. “Let’s do it.”

  HARLEY TOOK A STEP CLOSER. He knew this wasn’t a good idea, but that damn skirt enticed him. And the misty look in her eyes when he’d petted Sarge hadn’t helped. You’d have thought he was a saint or something. What man could resist that kind of combination?

  He braced one hand on the roof of the old car behind her. The paint felt gritty—and he had a sudden image of a sleek shiny Mercedes. Black with tinted windows. Like some kind of gangster car, he thought, frowning.

  “We don’t have to do this,” Andi said peevishly, apparently misinterpreting his scowl.

  The sun chose that moment to peek out from behind the thick low clouds that seemed to brush the tops of the trees. The breeze made her curls dance. His hand itched to touch that inviting silkiness, but he crammed his fist into the pocket of the trousers his father had suggested he buy.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Then don’t scowl. I won’t bite. I promise.”

  Her tone was irreverent, spunky, but beneath the chutzpah Harley sensed a hint of trepidation. She had something invested in this outcome. Hope, maybe? That sounded risky.

  She lifted her chin in challenge. “So are we going to do this or—”

  He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers while they were still moving. He hadn’t taken into account that her mouth would be open. That made it not only easy but also natural to slip his tongue into her mouth and explore the moist warm recess.

  And he might not have bothered trying to engage her tongue if she hadn’t made such an effort to avoid contact. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the target.

  He had no recollection of his hand escaping from his pocket and burying itself in her hair, but he knew the exact moment it did because she gave a small sigh and ambushed his tongue with hers. He acknowledged his victory with a grunt of his own. One that seemed to echo in his head. So loudly, he opened his eyes.

  And looked into Andi’s assessing green eyes. He knew instantly that the attraction between them hadn’t lessened. If anything, the intensity of emotion was stronger. Hotter. He stepped back.

  Andi didn’t say anything. Maybe she was hurt because he stood there mute instead of making polite romantic chitchat. No doubt Jonathan would have engaged in some pleasantries, but Harley couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. He moved out of the way so she could close the door, then he walked to the opposite side and got in.

  Sarge lumbered to his feet and swung his large slobbery head in Harley’s direction. His smell—woolly canine and stringy drool—made Harley’s stomach heave. A pulse in his temple throbbed.

  “You look sick. If it was from kissing me—”

  Harley groaned and rolled down the window. “Headache. They still hit now and then. Not your fault.”

  He wasn’t sure she believed him. She started the car.

  Thankfully, it went into gear without his assistance. Moments later they started the downhill journey. Before they reached the cabin the sun disappeared, and huge, fat raindrops began to pummel the windshield.

  Harley hastily rolled up the window, taking a last gulp of wet, clean air. Andi drove slowly to adjust to the pouring rain and bathtub-size potholes. While keeping her eyes on the road, she fiddled with a couple of knobs on the dashboard. “What are you looking for?” he asked, sensing her tension.

  “Defog. It isn’t Rosemarie’s forte,” she said with a gulp.

  She cracked the window and a wet gust sliced through the opening. Shivering, she hastily cranked it back up then swiped at the condensation on the windshield with her palm. Moisture beaded up, leaving a blurry streak.

  “We’ll be fine once we get past Snot Corner,” she said. “Do you know how it got its name?”

  Harley pictured Lars expounding on the navigational pitfalls of this road. “Lars told me there’s a strata of clay that runs through this part of the mountain. It crosses the road right at the S-curve. When it gets wet, it turns to slime.”

  “Bingo,” she said. “That’s the reason he couldn’t take you to a doctor right away. Even though he knew you had a concussion.”

  Less than a minute later, she said, “And here we are.” As she eased the car around the first part of the curve, the back end broke loose. She took her foot off the gas. “I heard Lars tell Sam that The Corner ate a VW bug once. Snapped its drive train or something,” she said.

  “Should we turn around?”

  “How? If we get off the road, we’ll get stuck for sure.”

  She had a point. The hills on either side of the road had turned into grayish-brown waterfalls.

  “Maybe you should slow down,” he advised.

  “I’m going five miles an hour,” she growled. “Can you wipe the window? I can’t see a thing.”

  He grabbed his father’s jacket and rubbed. All it did was smear the moisture into a streaky mess that forced Andi to duck back and forth in rhythm to the windshield wipers. The motion reminded him of a person dodging bullets.

  He scooted closer and tried again. He made one clear path, just in time to see that they’d arrived at the hairpin corner with the disgusting name. “Tighten your seat belt.”

  He glanced down and saw her foot press the brake pedal flat to the floor. Her toes showed the strain of her effort, but the big car was still moving forward—like a skier atop an avalanche.

  Harley scrambled back to his side of the seat and snapped his shoulder harness into place, then reached out to tug on Andi’s. She spared him a bemused glance then turned all business. He braced his feet on the floor, his hands on the cracked padding of the dashboard. No such thing as an airbag in this year’s model, he thought.

  “Hold on, Sarge,” Andi said. “This might get funky.”

  Harley watched her face. Fear? Yes, but something else, too. Excitement. For some strange, totally ridiculous reason, the only thought that came to his mind was I think I love her.

  A second later, the car picked up speed and shot into the grade like a marble in a maze. Andi did an admirable job of keeping it from flipping when the back end sl
id out from under them again, but in correcting the spin, she missed her chance to make the turn. It wasn’t her fault. They simply ran out of road. And like a topsy-turvy pinball the car rolled.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ROSEMARIE WAS BEYOND help. Andi took one last look as they trudged on foot up the muddy incline. The crumpled pink automobile resembled a squashed toy, but, at least, it had landed far enough off the road that it wasn’t a hazard to other drivers. And, thankfully, neither she nor Harley had been hurt. But Sarge…

  She hurried to catch up with Harley who was carrying Sarge. Although alert, the dog had yelped when they’d freed him from the wreckage. And seemed unable to stand, let alone walk.

  “How far?” Harley asked, his breath a harsh hiss through clenched teeth.

  The combination of rain and wind put the risk of hypothermia at the top of her list of concerns. “Half a mile? I’m not sure. After we dry off, I’ll run up to Margaret’s cabin and phone for help.”

  Hunching her shoulders, she clasped the neckline of her jacket tight to her throat to keep a funnel of icy rain from coursing down her back. The denim provided neither warmth nor protection from the elements. Mud sucked at her sandals, making each step an effort, but she couldn’t complain. At least, she wasn’t carrying a very large dog.

  “D-do you want me to take him?” she asked, praying he’d turn her down.

  “Yes,” Harley said, but he kept walking, shoulder into the wind. His father’s jacket stuck to him like a wet grocery bag.

  “Okay,” she said, reaching deep for the strength she’d need to carry the dog’s weight. The clearing where the cabin sat was barely visible through the steady downpour, which felt as if it might turn to sleet or snow any second.

  He gently nudged her with Sarge’s paw. “I was kidding. I couldn’t let go even if I wanted to. My arms are frozen in place.”

  He took a step then waited. He wasn’t going without her.

  Sarge gave a low moan. Andi leaned close and pressed her nose to the dog’s ear. “Hang in there, buddy. Harley and I are going to take care of you. We’re almost home.” She tucked the soggy towel that she’d retrieved from the back seat under Harley’s trembling biceps.