by Joanna Wayne
His insides turned to mush. His outside, to rock-hard desire. His fingers caressed, rubbing the nipples to soft peaks that strained at the wet cotton of her shirt.
She raised on tiptoe and teased and feathered his lips with hers. But he couldn’t play at this, not this time, not with his emotions stemming from a past he’d never laid to rest. He buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck and claimed her lips.
Their breaths mingled, and the saucy sweetness of her, the taste he’d grown drunk on so many times before, left him shaking. She moaned, tiny seductive croonings that sucked away the last vestiges of his control. Finally, she pulled away, inhaling deeply and laying her head on his shoulder.
“I can’t play at this, Darlene. If you want me, say so, and I’ll deal with the repercussions later. But I won’t play tease and run.”
“I wasn’t playing.” Her quick, shallow breaths tripped up her words.
She eased out of the embrace, but not so far away that he didn’t still feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. He trailed her arms with his fingers and then clasped her hands.
“I’d like to make love to you. No—” he shook his head, exhaling a long, exasperating breath “—I ache to make love to you. But I’m not the kind to take advantage of a woman who doesn’t even know who she is.”
“I don’t think ‘take advantage’ is an accurate description, Sheriff. Perhaps you’re not the kind of man to give in to my advances when I have absolutely nothing of my real self to offer.”
Her honesty touched him and triggered the type of inner smile he didn’t know he was capable of these days. “Whatever,” he said, letting go of her hands and stepping backward for one more look at her kiss-swollen lips and her flushed cheeks. “But I’m also not the kind to turn down heaven if it’s offered. I may be the sheriff, duty-bound to protect you, but I’m also a man.”
“I noticed.” Bending over, she picked up the towel that had fallen by her feet. She shook it and tossed it to him, a grin deepening the dimple in her right cheek. “Boy, did I notice.”
Leaning against the counter, he watched her walk away. He was a fool, he decided. If he had a grain of sense where Darlene was concerned, he’d be miserable right now, sorely repentant for putting his heart on the line. Again.
Instead, he was crazy with wanting her, school-boy eager to kiss her again. Under the right circumstances he’d make love to her, even knowing he’d be all the more miserable when she left. The people of Vaquero might think him tough as old jerky, but when it came to Darlene, he was softer than warm butter.
That’s why he had to keep his emotions in check. There was no room for weakness now. Not with McCord stirring up too much trouble for his small pot. Not with a would-be murderer on the loose who had his sights set on Darlene. Not with Darlene on the verge of remembering something that might send the whole country into a tailspin.
James Marshall McCord. The man of the people.
Clint fought the knot of apprehension that twisted within him. No matter what he told himself, deep down inside he knew the truth. Knew it even though it cut like a jagged-edged knife. No matter what McCord thought of him, he would put his life on the line for the man, if it came to that.
But, heaven help McCord if he had willingly drawn Darlene into the line of fire. And they might find out the answer to that this afternoon when they visited Jeff Bledsoe, retired Texas Ranger. Bledsoe had been McCord’s best friend since the day the senator had lost his left leg saving Bledsoe’s life.
But first, they had to make a stop at Dr. Bennigan’s office.
DARLENE’S LEGS DANGLED over the edge of the examining table, her feet toasty warm in her boot socks while her arms sported prickly gooseflesh beneath her cotton shirt. “Do you always keep your office this cold?” she asked, rubbing frantically at her arms to produce a little friction heat.
Dr. Bennigan swiveled his stool to get into a better position for removing the stitches from her wound. “Confounded heat’s been on the blink for two days.” He pushed at the bridge of his eyeglasses.
While the doctor removed her sutures, Darlene’s thoughts wandered back to Clint’s theory about the connection between what she’d experienced last night and Jim McCord. On the surface, it explained the bizarre images and provided a reasonable explanation. But if she dug much deeper, the theory had serious flaws. It presumed that McCord had told her a gruesome, terrifying war story about men who had broken their bond with humanity, and become as wild and as uncivilized as the jungle they fought in.
And how would McCord know about that episode unless he was there, unless he was part of the deliberate killing of another American soldier?
But those kinds of actions were contrary to everything she’d ever known about McCord. The man had lost a limb saving the lives of his comrades. He’d received the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was a hero, not some drug-crazed warrior.
And he was her friend. If she bought into the theory that McCord was a murderer, what did that say about her?
As always, everything came back to that. Who was she? What was she like?
“Darlene?”
She jerked to attention. The doctor was staring at her, concern pulling his brow into rows of ruddy crevices.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting up straighter and smiling innocently. “I must have been thinking about something else.”
“Not a repeat of the type of images you envisioned last night, I hope.”
“No. Nothing like that.”
She’d have preferred not to mention that episode to the doctor, but she knew Clint had already discussed it with him. He’d called the doctor last night before they’d left the Altamira, wanting to be sure she was not experiencing a dangerous side effect from the medicines she’d taken at the hospital.
The doctor leaned back and looked at her. “I think it’s time you see a psychiatrist, Darlene. I’ve made an appointment for you with Dr. Fogleman in San Antonio for Wednesday of next week.”
She exhaled slowly, nervously, thrown off guard by the serious tone of his voice. “Why? Both you and the neurologist said it was likely the amnesia would be temporary.”
“I believed that at first, but sometimes an amnesia patient is responding to more than a physical trauma. I’ve talked to Dr. Fogleman about your condition. He thinks there’s a good chance that’s what’s happening in your case. It’s called hysterical amnesia.”
“You mean, I may be choosing not to remember at all rather than face an unpleasant memory?”
“Something like that. Not consciously, you understand?”
“I’m trying to. I could understand the situation better if the loss of memory was a result of injury. Hysterical amnesia seems so...” She swallowed hard, hating to face the fact that she had failed everyone—McCord, the sheriff, even herself. “It seems irresponsible, for lack of a better word.”
“Your amnesia has nothing to do with responsibility, and don’t be put off by the term hysterical. It simply means the loss is due to an emotionally traumatic event rather than a physical injury. In your case, you had both, making it more difficult at first to determine the source of your memory loss.”
“But I haven’t lost all my memory. That’s what makes this so strange. I remember countless, routine things. I know how to brush my teeth, wash the dishes, even how to make grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“It’s different with every person. In your case, your subconscious seems to be protecting you from something you either can‘t—or won’t—accept.”
He patted her hand. “Look, Darlene, I didn’t know you that well, but I treated your grandmother for years. She’s a grand lady. I’d be letting her down if I didn’t provide you with the best care possible.”
“You’ve done that already, and I appreciate it.”
“Then see Dr. Fogleman, Darlene. Once you’ve dealt with the truth, whatever it is, you’ll be able to move past it. You’ll be able to handle it. You’re made of stern stuff, just like your
grandma.”
Everything he said made sense, so why was she hesitant to accept his recommendation and visit a psychiatrist? Was her subconscious still protecting her? She scooted off the examining table and thanked Dr. Bennigan. Grabbing her handbag, she hurried down the narrow corridor to the waiting room, where Clint would be drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and fingering his Stetson impatiently.
He’d be eager to grab a bite to eat and get down to the kind of business he could sink his teeth into: interrogation of a retired Texas Ranger who’d already told Clint he’d be wasting his time by driving all the way to Prairie.
The Ranger didn’t want him to come. That in itself assured that Clint would make the trip.
“I’LL TAKE THE CHICKEN Caesar salad,” she said, handing the one-page plastic menu to the waitress who was hovering over Clint and batting her huge blue eyes.
“I’ll take the cheeseburger, side order of chili fries, extra chili, and a tall glass of milk.”
“I’ll have it right out, Clint.” The waitress smiled and tossed her head, letting her straight blond hair resettle down the middle of her back before she sashayed to the next table. The girl was barely old enough to be out of high school, but she obviously had a crush on the dashing cowboy lawman. Now that Darlene thought about it, it seemed half the eligible females in town did.
“Have you ever been married, Clint?” she asked.
“Where did that question come from?”
“I was just wondering. The females of Vaquero appear to be lined up and waiting for you to notice them.”
“I notice them. All men notice adoring women. It’s our favorite trait in the opposite sex. I’m just discreet in my appreciation of them.”
“And evasive in your responses.”
“I’ve never been married. Are you thinking of proposing?” A smile parted his lips, but his eyes telegraphed a more serious message. He could never take being with her lightly, never flirt harmlessly with her the way he did with every other female in his life.
Warmth flushed her cheeks. What she was thinking of proposing was better not said in public.
She was saved from responding by the appearance of a lumbering giant in dark blue slacks and a very unwestern sport shirt, the top buttons of which had been saved from wear. A triplet of gold chains wrapped his neck, and dangled over the tattooed head of a lion that peeked through the dark hairs on his chest. He looked as out of place in this rural café as if he’d just climbed down the bean stalk.
“Glad I ran into you, Clint. I tried to find you a while ago, but Randy said you were driving over to Prairie and he didn’t expect you back until late.”
“I’ll be heading that way as soon as we finish with lunch.”
The giant hooked a booted foot around the leg of a chair and joined them without waiting to be asked. The boots were apparently his only concession to the flavor of the Lone Star State. “Mary said you’d been asking about me,” he said, propping his elbows on the table.
“I did. She told me you were in New York on business.”
“Yeah. Spent two days up there. You know how Whitt Emory is. He’s the hardest working aide I’ve ever met. He wants everything ironed out to perfection before the big speech McCord’s going to make on New Year’s Eve. It’s a mistake, if you ask me, trying to provide protection in that madhouse. Looks like the whole country’s going to descend on Times Square for the big millennium celebration.”
“I hear the demonstrations have already started—people predicting the end of the world.”
“You wouldn’t believe. They’ll have more kooks per square foot than an insane asylum.” He smiled at Darlene and readjusted himself in a chair that was way too narrow for him. “And is this pretty lady the Miss Darlene Remington I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot you’ve never met.”
Darlene shook the man’s hand as Clint completed the formal introductions, explaining that Bernie Cullen was McCord’s personal assistant. A translation for the word assistant wasn’t necessary. Bernie was the bodyguard she’d heard about, the one who supposedly stuck closer than a shadow to McCord, daring anyone to mess with his boss.
Except for the night they’d been attacked when Bernie had been uncharacteristically missing. And now, when McCord had decided he was better off working alone than surrounded by his personal security staff.
Bernie scanned the small café and then returned his attention to Clint. “Have you got any ideas as to what McCord’s up to?”
“Not a clue.”
“I don’t like it.” Bernie shook his head and frowned, his top lip overriding his bottom one. “McCord’s a good man, but he still thinks he can take on the world. He forgets he’s getting older, that he operates on one good leg. That’s why Whitt hired me and told me to stick to him every second.”
“So, it was Whitt Emory’s idea to hire you?”
“Yeah, and he’s on my case big time about letting McCord slip away from me. The man looks after McCord like a son would, if the big man had a son.”
“Yeah, if he had a son.”
“Only blood kin could reason with a man like McCord once he makes up his mind to do something.”
“And what is it you think he’s made up his mind to do?”
“Go after whoever attacked him and Miss Remington the other night. Handle the matter his way. Everyone knows that, except maybe Whitt and McCord’s niece Robin. They think he’s off by himself getting psyched up for the big New Year’s Eve speech. They said he’d tried to get them to go with him on a surprise vacation, but they had too much work to do.”
The bell at the front door jangled as Freddie Caulder stepped inside. Bernie frowned. “So, Mr. I-Know-Everything does stop for lunch.” He turned and looked the other way when Clint acknowledged Caulder with a wave of his hand.
Darlene caught the eye of the bodyguard. “Are you and Freddie Caulder having problems?”
“No more than Caulder has with everyone. He just thinks he runs the Altamira. That’s all.”
“He does run the ranch,” Clint reminded him. “He’s the foreman, and McCord pretty much gives him a free hand when he’s away.”
Bernie leaned in closer. “He might run the ranch, but he don’t run me. And he don’t run Thornton Roberts either. I heard them going at it the other day over the access code for the front gate. Thornton’s one of the best security guys in the business—he’s got the whole place wired for every contingency. And Freddie Caulder bungles around and sets off alarms almost every day.”
“Sometimes it’s hard for old ranchers to get used to high tech,” Clint offered.
“Maybe. All the same, Sheriff, Caulder gets huffy when anyone questions McCord’s disappearance, and I think that’s mighty strange. He doesn’t like your coming around asking questions either.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Darlene joined Clint in saying goodbye to the giant. She watched him stride across the room and take a seat at the long bar. He walked right past Caulder without so much as a nod.
“Looks like more trouble at the Altamira,” she said.
The smiling, adoring waitress stopped at their table before Clint had time to respond. “You ought to come out to the Road House Tavern tomorrow night, Sheriff.” She leaned low as she set his burger plate on the table. “There’s a band out of Austin coming down to play. Everyone says they’re good, and they’ve got a singer sounds just like George Strait.”
“I might have to come out and make sure they’re checking IDs. How old are you?”
“Turned twenty-one last week.”
Clint shook his head as she swung her hips and walked away. “There goes trouble.”
“Is the Road House Tavern one of your local hangouts?”
“My hangout is my ranch. But I’ve visited the tavern on many a Friday or Saturday night. Always to break up a brawl between a couple of young bucks after the same doe, or to arrest a man who’s had a few too many.”
> They settled into eating. Darlene wondered if she’d ever been to the tavern in question, wondered if any young buck had ever fought over her. If so, she’d probably been as smitten as the waitress was, if Clint had ever come riding to her rescue.
So much about herself she didn’t know. So much about everything to do with Vaquero she didn’t know.
CLINT SPENT THE FIRST fifteen minutes of the drive on the phone with his deputy, going over facts he’d apparently had Randy digging through databases to recover. He spent the next fifteen chatting with someone in Washington, D.C., trying to pinpoint the exact date of the battle in which McCord had lost his left leg performing acts of heroism.
At first, Darlene had tried to concentrate on what she could hear of the conversation, but her mind had grown numb. She forced her eyes to stay open by studying the passing scenery and searching the bare limbs of trees for species of birds. So far she’d counted seven, including a hawk and a woodpecker—all cast against a backdrop so blue that it might have been painted by a school child with only one color choice in her box of crayons. The clouds from the morning had disappeared without a trace.
Somewhat the way McCord had, except that he’d made phone calls to a select few, telling them not to worry. She was apparently on his “select few” list.
“Isn’t anyone except us worried about McCord’s safety?” she asked, when Clint finally hung up his cell phone. “I mean, plans are apparently going ahead for his millennium speech in New York. Do you think he’s given the go-ahead?”
Clint stretched as far as the cramped cab of his truck would let him and then inhaled slowly, as if weighing his answer. “I think a lot of people are concerned. They just don’t believe he can’t handle the situation, or any situation, for that matter. You’d have to know McCord to understand.”
“I do know him.”
“And if you could remember all you know about him, you might be inclined to blow this off as another of his fact-finding missions for which he doesn’t want anyone’s help.”