by Jan Springer
In the dimming evening sky, an arrow of Canada geese whizzed past overhead, skimming the nearby treetops, busily chattering away as they headed north and tried to decide on an appropriate rest area to soothe their weary wings for the night.
The shadows grew deeper, casting a deserted misty glow over the charred remains of her ruined inn and the tiny cabins huddled in the nearby forest. Sara sighed and smiled wistfully as she remembered the first time she’d seen the desolate sprinkle of two dozen boarded-up wooden cottages among the towering pines. And the ghostly appearance of the huge deserted log house, as it sat proudly in the flower-rich meadow.
One look at Jack’s sullen face, her in-laws’ shocked expressions and finally at her sister Jo’s doubtful look, had spurred Sara to square her shoulders, roll up her sleeves and tell them there was lots of work to do and they’d better not waste any time in getting to it.
It had been a challenge getting everything done by the target date of one year. They’d erected a two-story, sixty-room pine log inn that summer with the help of local craftspeople using the giant logs from their own property. They’d outfitted the log house with a new sheet-metal roof and sturdy windows, repaired the ramshackle cottages during Fall and furnished everything during winter. The next year the doors were opened wide for business.
Business had been brisk with a waiting list of at least one year. They’d been talking of expanding when…
Don’t think about it, Sara. Don’t go down that road again.
Sara shivered as the Spring breeze prickled against her bare arms and crawled through her housecoat and cotton pajamas. It was getting late. She had to get some sleep if only for a couple of hours or the stranger would be her nurse and not the other way around.
She shoved the note back into her pocket and at the same time heard the stranger’s strangled cry from within the house. She sighed wearily. Another nightmare.
Quickly, she slipped inside the house.
—
In the nearby meadow, Sara didn’t see the yellow flicker of a match being struck, or the burnt orange glow from a cigarette floating slowly out of the tree line a few hundred yards away. If she had, she’d probably think it an odd-looking lightning bug.
She didn’t see the tall shadow stumble into the clearing of the meadow, to stand and watch the house for a full five minutes. And she didn’t hear the shadow curse silently under his breath or see him whip the cigarette butt into the parking lot, then stomp angrily down the muddy, puddle-riddled road. If she had, she’d have known her problems could be starting all over again.
Chapter Three
A biting sting on his cheek along with a sharp command to open his eyes snapped through the black fog claiming his senses. The intense feeling to run for his life shot through his veins, waking him with a start.
For a moment, he felt slightly nauseous as gray fragments of memory lurched through his cloudy mind. Fuzzy visions of gentle, caring hands bathing his fire-riddled body. Of warm feminine fingers stroking his hard cock.
“Easy now.”
It was her voice. Soft and husky. Reaching out to him. Anchoring him.
His eyes popped open and he saw a dimly lit oil lamp on the nearby wall. It cast enough light to see her pretty heart-shaped face framed with tousled auburn hair, which cascaded in luscious silky curls down to the small of her back. Faint dark circles hung under her haunting brown eyes, yet they did nothing to dampen the somewhat shaky smile she cast his way.
His eyes narrowed curiously. She was smiling at him? Even after the way he’d forced his way into her house, threatened her life with a gun and—
A breath caught in his throat. He’d saved her life.
Had it been a dream? It couldn’t be.
He still remembered every detail, every delicious curve of her soft, yielding body beneath him as he’d thrown himself on top of her and prayed the tree wouldn’t crash through the house. Then a few minutes later she’d brought him in here, and then he’d promptly passed out.
He came fully awake with a jolt. The full implications of what he’d done to her hit him full force.
Pointing a gun at her was unacceptable behavior. He felt like a louse. An asshole.
“Welcome back. How are you feeling?” She sounded sunny, almost cheerful. Either she was a very forgiving woman or she was just being nice to him because he was on his deathbed. And from the way he felt, it was definitely the latter.
His tongue felt so heavy, he could barely form words.
“I feel like h—” His voice cracked and no other sound transpired.
“Like heaven sent you back to earth. Right?”
That wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted to say, but it would do for now.
Her smile widened.
“Just to reassure you, your fever has broken and you haven’t so much as coughed in a couple hours. I was afraid you might have had pneumonia, but I think I can safely say you’ve weathered the worst of the storm. How about something to drink? Think you can handle it?”
He moistened his dry lips and tried to nod again, but his hammering headache increased with the sudden movement. So he simply stared pleadingly at her.
“Be right back,” she said.
Watching her tempting, shapely feminine hips sway deliciously against her pink housecoat, she strolled out of the room and his heart quickened its pace in his chest. Not to mention his cock grew painfully hard. At least his body’s sexual urges were still intact.
His survival instincts were kicking in quite nicely, too. Without moving his head, he was able to sweep the rustic, homey room, and in no time flat had picked out the quickest escape route. A slightly open lace-covered, night-blackened window. Perfect.
And for a weapon? His gaze raked the giant pioneer-style stone fireplace where an old musket hung above the mantel. He cast it off as being too old-fashioned. Most likely needing a musket ball instead of bullets.
He let his gaze waver along the top of the gray stone mantel where a handful of interesting-looking, slightly dented antique tea kettles sat decked out in colorful cheery bouquets of dried flowers. He was pleasantly surprised when he realized he could even name a few of the blossoms.
Pink peonies, green ambrosia, pink clover, blue larkspur and marjoram. His favorite was a sandy-colored wicker basket loaded with crimson red mini roses delicately sprinkled with sphagnum moss.
The old teapots reminded him of cowboys, fresh-brewed coffee over an open prairie campfire and long dusty cattle drives. His past? Or some spaghetti western he’d seen on TV? He probed his mind, but it was still filled with mass confusion. Bits and pieces of memories and visions that didn’t make any sense at all.
Clamping down on the blossoming panic that he still had amnesia, he continued the search for a weapon. And that’s when he spotted it.
He grinned despite the pain in his bruised face. A woman alone could never be too careful he thought as his gaze pinned onto the shiny six-inch steak knife gleaming happily on the nearby night table. Obviously in her haste to get him that drink, she’d forgotten to take her protection with her.
With a knife close at hand, it was obvious she had not called the cops. And if she had, they’d both be cooling their heels on cold metal slabs at the local morgue. He didn’t know how he knew this to be true, but he did.
Satisfied he was in safe hands, for at least the next split second, he settled snugly against the overwhelming softness of the pillow where he was greeted by her sweet scent. It was everywhere, on the pillows, on the comforter, on the sheets, even on him.
He stared at the pale apple green wood boards on the ceiling and then at the pretty moss green and sweetheart pink bachelor button floral printed wallpaper, anything to resist the delicious fragrance.
But it was useless denying the sweet scent, and so he let it cascade over him in cooling, soothing waves, allowing it to become a part of him.
Peppermint.
Sweet, wild peppermint tea.
Tender snatches of memory tugge
d delicately at his brain.
Peppermint. Sweetness.
Peppermint candy sticks.
Standing at full attention like green and white uniformed soldiers. Nestled snugly and safely inside the largest glass jar he’d ever seen.
Eyes wide with high expectations, and as delicate as a nine-year-old boy could be, he lifted the glass jar lid. Mouth watering with anticipation he withdrew one sticky, gooey peppermint stick. Before replacing the lid, he angled a pleading look at his mother who stood at the counter busily chatting with Mr. Lapp, the general store’s owner. As if his mother sensed him watching her, she threw him a stern warning look and he gave up the idea of having two.
Sometimes when she was in an especially good mood, she allowed it. But today she wasn’t happy. He could tell by the frown on her face. Tidbits of their conversation floated to his young ears.
“Thank you so much for extending us more credit, Mr. Lapp. We appreciate it.”
Mr. Lapp, a kindly, elderly Amish gentleman who ran the store, smiled at his mother and patted her hand comfortingly. “All the farmers in de area have bin hit with de hail storm. You are not alone. Ya?”
He liked the way Mr. Lapp looked at his mother. Everyone looked at her in the same way. It was because she was so pretty. Her eyes twinkled and laughed and they were the same color as the golden wheat fields surrounding their farmhouse at harvest time.
She had the longest hair. Longer than all of his friends’ mothers’ hair. He was real proud when his friends commented on how her hair glistened an almost bright blue in the sunshine, and blacker than midnight coal on cloudy days. She even let him comb her silky hair sometimes. When she was in a good mood. But nope, today she definitely wasn’t.
Replacing the lid on the glass jar, he quickly shoved one end of the warm stick into his mouth. Cool sweetness exploded against his taste buds, and once again, he’d found heaven.
The memory faded into the deep recesses of the black abyss. And his pounding headache returned with a vengeance. He tensed at its intrusion and took a deep breath.
Pain prickled through the right side of his back into his belly. Another memory rushed up from the black void like a gushing oil well.
It was dark. He was running through a meadow. Suddenly from somewhere behind him, the cop yelled, “Freeze! Or I’ll shoot!” His voice sounded faraway. He would take the chance. He kept running.
A red-hot poker pierced his back, quickly followed by the harsh sound of a gunshot. He stumbled from the force of impact but he kept running. He charged into the nearby trees. Small twigs crackled beneath his feet. Large branches slapped painfully against his face. His lungs were on fire. The bullet wound in his back screamed for attention. Yet he kept running, headlong into the night.
Bullet wound!
His right hand moved beneath the covers and he allowed his fingertips to run along his warm flesh until he touched something taped to a throbbing area at the side of his lower back.
Yep, he’d definitely been shot.
His hand scuttled back to the front and brushed against his semi-erect cock.
His very naked cock!
A tinge of warmth scuttled across his cheeks.
What the hell?
Lifting up the covers, he peered curiously at himself. Except for some frilly, pale yellow linen-type bandages wrapped securely around his waist, his wrists and palms, he was unmistakably and totally naked as his pulsing cock poked up against the covers.
In the back of his mind lurked dreamy visions of the woman intimately touching his cock. His shaft pulsed harder, grew tighter. His balls swelled painfully. Other visions lurked through his mind. Memories of a bedpan and also of her long shimmering auburn hair trailing tickling lines across his chest as she’d bent over him, her face shadowed by determination as she’d worked on the handcuffs.
Dammit!
The handcuffs!
A considerable chunk of fear broke loose inside him, crashing like an iceberg against his chest as reality once again reared its ugly head. While he’d been lazily lounging in this comfortable bed, being tended to by a wonderfully attractive woman, the storm outside had died.
The hunt for him would start again.
Soon enough someone would come snooping. And when they found him—
He almost jumped out of his skin when the woman entered the room, a cluttered tray in her arms. She threw him a concerned look as she crossed the room toward him. As she placed the tray on a nearby twig table, he didn’t miss her steal a quick glance over her shoulder to check on the status of the steak knife.
He didn’t blame her for being careful. Any woman out in the middle of nowhere would be jittery. For all they both knew, he could be a dangerous lunatic fresh out of a mental institution for the criminally insane, or God forbid, the way his cock was growing and throbbing so painfully at the sight of her, he could be a sex-crazed serial rapist who preyed on helpless females.
But she appeared far from helpless. It needed a rare breed of pioneer stock to be able to withstand the loneliness of a secluded place like this one.
Unless she wasn’t alone? His gaze swept quickly to her ring finger and a shiny gold band laughed up at him.
The knowledge she was married did nothing to remove the carnal heat raging through him as she hesitantly perched herself on the mattress beside him, slid her silky hand beneath his neck and gently eased his head forward until his dry lips lightly kissed the smooth edge of the ceramic mug.
She smelled real pretty, but the tea didn’t.
Instantly he wrinkled his nose in disgust at the offending barbaric odor and turned his aching head away from the mug.
“Well, it’s about time,” she laughed with pure delight. The musical sound of her voice felt like salve over his tortured body. “I’ve been pouring this stuff down your throat without a single complaint from you.” A tinge of seriousness entered her voice. “When I finally do get a complaint from a patient, I know he’s going to make it.”
Her meaning came across loud and clear. In the instance he never complained, it meant he’d kicked the bucket. So he’d better consider himself lucky to be alive.
He met her gaze with a knowing smile.
“Here.” She reached over and grabbed another steaming mug from the tray. “Try some of this.”
Again, she helped him lift his head to the mug. This time a cool minty mist sprayed a warm layer of dew against his cheeks and he eagerly sipped the steaming liquid. It scorched a blistering path of peppermint fire down his parched throat and he knew without a doubt this was the famous peppermint tea that tourists drove all the way up from the States to get to.
How did he know that? Another memory?
He continued to sip the delicious liquid and after it was completed, he tested his voice.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Sara Clarke,” she said as she lowered his head back onto the softness of the pillow.
The woman in the note. He’d found her. And she was married.
Why was he so dammed surprised and disappointed that she was married? On the subject of marriage, what about him?
He peered down at the bulky bandages holding his hands hostage but couldn’t see a ring on his finger. The thought of not being attached to anyone or having no one care about him, made him feel—oddly enough—sad?
“My hands?”
“There were full of slivers. I’ve managed to get them all out.”
He remembered reaching out, trying to grab at something, trying to keep from falling after someone had bashed him over the head.
“I remember being in a building. An old building. Abandoned.”
She nodded her head thoughtfully. “There are a few abandoned buildings strewn around. We can talk about that later. First how about some more tea?”
“Please.”
He watched her pour another cup, intense curiosity about this gorgeous woman finally taking hold. “How’d you get the cuffs off?”
“My husband used to b
e a police officer. He taught a lot of workshops. One of them was about handcuffs and how easy it was to get out of them with a makeshift key.”
She reached for something on the table and to his surprise she held up a ballpoint pen.
“He put a small slit right here—” she pointed to the end of the pen “—and pried a piece of the metal away which gave him a small bit. Used alternately with a paper clip and lots of patience, it works wonders.”
“Ingenious contraption,” he replied with awe.
“Does the job,” she laughed as she dropped the pen back onto the night table.
“You said he used to be a cop?”
He didn’t miss her slight hesitation before answering. “He quit the force and we came out here to follow our dreams.”
“And did your dreams come true?”
The flash of raw pain in her chocolate brown eyes just about made him sick. He’d struck a nerve and immediately recognized the “no trespassing” sign go up in her eyes. Quickly he changed the subject.
“That tea over there,” he glanced slightly to the other mug containing the vile liquid and said with a chuckle, “What did you do, make it taste bad to pay me back for the way I introduced myself?”
The painful look on her face disintegrated into a cold frown that could have been made of brittle glass.
“Good guess,” she replied icily.
She lifted his head again, not as gently as last time and pressed the mug firmly to his lips.
“Drink,” she ordered.
He didn’t sip. Instead, his mouth dropped open in surprise at her sudden chilly attitude.
“Hey. I meant it as a joke.”
“I didn’t.”
Suddenly things began falling into place left, right and center about the Peppermint Creek Inn and her mistress.
Broken window. A dead rat. Burned-out remains of a recent fire.
“Aw, c’mon don’t tell me you think I had something to do with wrecking your window? It was already broken when I got here. And I caught a glimpse of that rat on the counter. I swear I had nothing to do with it.”