by Jan Springer
But where was she?
Had she taken off? Had his confession of being a criminal frightened her and she’d decided to hoof it out to the highway and get the cops? Had she left him a sitting duck for the cops to finish the job?
Maybe she was on a personal basis with them. She’d said her husband had been a cop. What about the cop who’d been racing down the road? He was the same one who’d been holding him in that basement. What had he been doing on her road? Looking for her instead of him? Warning her about him?
Running a shaky hand through his scruffy beard, he shook his head in denial.
No!
No way. She hadn’t even been here when the cop had come calling. Besides, she’d believed him when he told her they wanted him dead.
So where was she?
The familiar panic sifted through him again but he forced himself to hold it in check. Pushing against the screen door, he inched it open and winced as it sent out a violent creak.
Hesitantly he stepped onto the veranda and he sucked in a breath at the carnage that greeted him.
It looked like a bomb had exploded in the front yard. Parts of the beech tree lay scattered everywhere.
An owl hooted from a faraway pine tree startling Tom. And then he heard a strange sound. A metallic clatter. Like something falling over in the direction of the barn. Silence followed.
Swearing under his breath, he gritted his teeth and moved tenderly down the creaking wooden stairs.
The cold cement slabs of the walkway sent shivers shooting up his legs as he hurried barefoot along the path, heading in the general direction of the barn. A split second before he hit the clearing between the house and the barn, turbulent snatches of memory crashed into him, almost making him topple over.
Visions of a large, tilled plot of land surrounded by a pretty white picket fence. A brightly painted red hand pump stood proudly in the middle of the garden. He looked to his left and there it was. The tilled garden. The white picket fence. The red pump.
What the hell was going on? How did he know about all this and about the motorcycle he knew he’d find inside the barn? He hadn’t felt these weird deja vu feelings of being here before. But maybe it was because the house and barn had been shrouded in almost total darkness when he’d arrived a few nights ago.
Or maybe he’d been just too darn tired. That night it had taken every last piece of energy he could muster just to climb up the front stairs and plop himself onto the cozy porch when the storm had hit.
The eerie deja vu feelings must mean he’d been here before. He must have met Sara. That’s why she seemed so familiar. Why did she say she didn’t know him?
But then again, she had admitted she’d given his description to the cops. Had said she knew him that night he’d arrived. Then she’d changed her story. Even given him a new name.
Why? What was she hiding?
Suddenly impatient, he ignored the angry protests of his sore muscles as he cautiously proceeded, quite intent on finding the shadow, Sara and answers to his arsenal of questions.
—
Muttering angrily under her breath, Sara picked up one of the two metal buckets she’d just sent sprawling onto the floor. Cripes! She was all thumbs today. First she’d spilled some red paint over the brightly colored Navajo rug covering the pine floor of her painting loft, and now she was knocking over her buckets. Ever since awakening from the dream, she’d been tense, on edge, as if waiting for something to happen. Surprisingly, along with the dream came that old familiar inkling of wanting to paint again. Something she hadn’t done since it had happened.
But when she’d picked up the paintbrush and dipped it into the paint container, her hand had shaken so badly, she’d spilled the contents of the watercolor all over the desk and floor.
Sara sighed with frustration.
She’d been stupid to think she could start where she’d left off. It had been a dumb idea. Why she had even bothered to try again was beyond her.
The passion was lost. Finished. Gone forever.
Suddenly a bright yellow slant of light rushed across the stairwell leading up to the loft instantly capturing her attention.
A frosty warning of caution prickled across the rear of her scalp, scrambling down the back of her neck, settling like a cobra between her shoulder blades. Her heart did a triple beat as she quickly grabbed a palette knife off the nearby wooden bench.
The slant of light dissolved and she heard the door close quietly.
Silence followed.
Had to be the wind. She must not have closed the door properly.
God! She was jumping at every little sound. What a way to live. She had to relax.
Dropping the palette knife onto the nearby chair, she thrust the metal bucket under the nearby tap and half filled it with water before returning her attention to the carpet where she started vigorously scrubbing the red mess, all the while muttering irritably beneath her breath trying to convince herself that nobody was lurking around.
To distract herself, her thoughts traveled over the many things she needed to get done before the summer opening of her campground and the cabins. This morning she’d finally ventured away from the house. On her walk, she’d discovered a few trees had fallen over around the campground and one of the old cabins had a major leak in the roof.
It had taken hours to clean up the water damage and when the phone was working, she needed to make some calls to get the debris from the fire cleared away and then call in the log builders to see if they were still on schedule to come and rebuild the inn.
And then there was the poor romance tree. It needed to be cleared, chopped and stacked and—
The barn door creaked open again. Another buttery glow of sunshine spilled across the stairs leading up to her loft.
She kept scrubbing cursing herself for being so jittery.
It was just the wind again. Just the wind.
The bottom step creaked.
Oh, shit!
Not the wind.
Jumping to her feet, she grabbed the palette knife and clutched it tight in her hand.
Another step creaked.
Damn! No time for a proper weapon! She had to hide! But where?
She spied the bookshelf beside the staircase. Swiftly she tiptoed across the tiny room positioning her shoulder against the heavy maple bookcase containing all her paint supplies.
If she pushed hard enough it would topple onto the intruder as he came up the stairs sending him most likely to his death. Sara held her breath and waited.
The intruder was near the top now. She could hear his heavy breathing. Could hear the soft sounds of his feet upon the stairs.
A part of her mind wanted to shout a warning for him to leave or she would kill him, but surprise would be her best defensive. She would act first and ask questions later.
Before she could push against the bookshelf, a bare muscular arm reached around, grabbing her wrist. Another hand flew into sight, a gleaming knife smiling viciously at her.
She screamed as he pulled her easily from her hiding place.
Frantically she kicked out. Her foot cracked into soft flesh and she heard the knife clatter down the stairs.
Her assailant swore loudly.
Instantly she recognized the husky voice and stopped her second kick midway through the air.
“It’s me!” he shouted at her.
His eyes were wide with surprise as he held her wrist tightly.
“You scared the daylights out of me!” she shouted back. “Can’t you just enter a room like a normal person, without some sort of weapon. For crying out loud, I thought you were—” She stopped mid-sentence as she gazed at him.
The first thing she noticed was his very muscular, very naked chest. The second thing, the pale pink terry cloth towel slung low over his sexy lean hips. And the third, the dangerous daggers his furious green eyes were shooting directly at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“You here alone?” he said as he l
et go of her wrist. His voice sounded low and controlled. Too controlled for her liking.
“Of course I’m alone. What’s going on?”
He said nothing as he scanned the contents of her loft. His fierce gaze narrowed suspiciously, missing nothing as it swept past a sofa and the old beat-up oak desk she used to draw and paint on.
The broad muscles tensed in his abdomen and his eyes grew to mere slits as he surveyed the two wildlife paintings she’d strung along the white paneled walls.
First he concentrated on the watercolor of an enormous black bear flanked by her two frolicking cubs amidst a raspberry patch. Then he looked at another watercolor painting of a baby raccoon, his masked face peeking curiously through the tall blades of grass, watching a green frog sunning itself on a lily pad.
Then his gaze quickly riveted onto a nearby closet door where she stored her supplies.
“Tom, what are you looking for?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, his gaze flew back to her paintings, scrutinizing every detail.
“I’m getting some memories back,” he replied icily without taking his eyes off the painting.
“Remembering?” Exactly what was he remembering? Was he reverting back to his criminal ways? Is that why he looked so furious?
Her heart began to thump wildly against her chest.
“Why haven’t you told me the truth, Sara?”
“The truth? About what?”
“About who I am.”
Oh for crying out loud. Was he sick again? Was that why he was behaving so strangely?
Automatically she reached up to feel his forehead.
In a wicked flash, his right hand sailed up with unbelievable lightning speed, capturing her wrist in a vise-like grip.
“What are you doing?” she gasped. She could hear the fear in her voice, realized he could hear it also. She straightened stiffly, not wanting to show him she was afraid of him.
She raised her eyes and met his smoldering gaze head on.
“Don’t toy with me, Sara. I want you to tell me who I am.”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t know who you are.”
“The other night you said you knew me. You said you’d given my description to the cops. Why? Who am I? What have I done? Why are you so afraid of me now?”
“Usually when someone sneaks up behind someone they have reason to be afraid. Besides, the door was opening and closing just before you came. I thought it was the wind. It spooked me. And I was terrified the other night. You had a gun. Naturally I assumed you were…” The words trailed off as she realized how mistaken she’d been. Or had she been mistaken? Her gaze fell to the tight grip around her wrist.
“Who? Who did you think I was?” he urged desperately.
“I…I don’t know,” she answered meekly. Now was not the time to bring the shadow into their conversation. Tom needed to spend all his energies on relaxing and getting better and not worrying about the fact someone was creeping around her place breaking her windows and throwing rats into her kitchen. It would just keep him on edge and unable to rest. He shook his head slightly, obviously not believing a word she was saying.
“Tell me this then. How do I know there’s an antique motorcycle under the tarp in the far corner of the barn. And there’s a lake and a huge campground not more than a few minutes walk up the hiking trail out back.” He nodded to the adjoining door. “Or how I know you’ve got a bunch of finished wildlife paintings stored in the closet. How do I know all this if I’ve never been here before?”
Shock zipped through her. “How could you know about my paintings? That door is always locked.”
“If you know who I am, why don’t you just tell me? Do you know me? Have we met? Why do you look so damn familiar to me?” His grip tightened and Sara winced at the pain shooting up her wrist.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life. I told you all I know.” She tried to pull away from him. “Please let go of me. You’re hurting me.”
His angry gaze dropped to his tight hold on her wrist and his eyes turned to a look of horror. He cursed heavily and immediately let her go.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Quickly she backed away from him, her heart cracking like a jackhammer against her chest at his odd behavior. The back of her legs collided with an empty easel, knocking it over, the loud bang making her jump in fright.
She noticed Tom wince at the noise and his hand snapped up to massage the goose egg on his temple.
“I’ve been here recently, Sara. I know it.”
“Listen, I’ve been away for a few days running errands. I just came home when you jumped me. Maybe you were here when I was away? I really don’t know you.”
Although I sure wish I did, a little voice whispered in her head.
She noticed a muscle jumped sporadically in his tense jaw. “Do you have a headache?”
“No,” he muttered and avoided her gaze.
“You’re lying. You just don’t want to drink any more of my willow bark tea,” she found herself teasing.
A flicker of a smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, on all counts.”
“I’ve got something else for the pain back in the house.” She touched his forehead allowing her fingers to rest there a wee bit longer than necessary.
The scorching way he watched her made her clear her suddenly dry throat.
“No fever. That’s a good sign. So why did you ask if I was here alone?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It was nothing. I just got spooked by a nightmare. Then when I woke up and…” He hesitated, his gaze flying to the window overlooking the yard.
A tinge of uneasiness swooped over her. Had he maybe seen the shadow?
“And what?”
“It’s not important.”
“Okay, let’s just get you back to the house before you fall over.”
—
A few minutes later, he stood watching Sara as she straightened up the sheets and the quilt on the bed. The way his loins tightened as her full hips swayed seductively while she plumped up the pillows proved he was definitely on the mend.
He found himself wanting to wrap his arms around her waist, to press his aching cock against her cute curvy ass and let her feel exactly how attracted he was to her.
Would she let him unravel the beautiful braid that ran down the length of her back? Allow him to sift his fingers through her shimmering auburn tresses?
He wanted to kiss her full, warm lips. Drown himself in her sweet peppermint scent and then—
“You need plenty of bed rest.” Her determined words broke him from his fantasy just in time for him to see her pat the mattress and say, “Because I plan on putting you to work.”
He almost laughed aloud when her cheeks turned a pretty shade of sweetheart pink as she suddenly realized what she’d just insinuated with her words and her gesture.
“I like that kind of work,” he drawled teasingly as he climbed under the sheets she held up for him.
She smiled nervously. “I mean chopping wood. That is if you want something to do while we figure out why you’re here.”
“The thought of some good old-fashioned work makes me feel a bit stronger already.”
He needed to get his strength back as quickly as possible. What other way to do it than to chop wood?
“I’ll start first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be the judge of when you start,” she stated firmly. “Maybe in a couple of days. In the meantime, I’ll get some medication for your headache. Do you feel like something to eat?”
“Maybe some of that peppermint tea? If it’s not too much trouble?”
“No trouble.” Sara turned to leave.
“Hold on! You forgot this!” Beneath the covers, he whipped off the pink towel, pulled it out and threw it toward her.
She caught it easily and he laughed as her face blushed an even deeper shade of pink when she realized it was the towel he’d wrapped around his
waist.
“Like I’ve said before, you’ve got nothing I haven’t already seen,” she said and with the towel firmly in hand, turned stiffly and headed out the bedroom door.
Tom chuckled and snuggled into the fluffy peppermint-scented pillows. He felt halfway relaxed for the first time since arriving here. But he couldn’t bask in this beautiful woman’s company for long. He was placing her in grave danger just by being here.
There was something about this place that made him a bit too uneasy. In the loft, the wildlife paintings had instantly captured his attention. Why did her paintings seem so familiar? Why did their intense beauty give him such strange uncomfortable feelings?
And why did he think he’d been in her loft before? How had he known the adjoining closet in her loft contained more paintings? She’d said she always kept that room locked up. How had he gotten in?
More questions whirled. Had the barn door been opening and closing as a result of the wind, like Sara had said? Or had it been that person he’d seen in Sara’s bedroom window? Or maybe that person had in fact been a dream? A flashback of a memory? If it hadn’t been a dream, then why would the person simply be standing there casually smoking? Someone with bad intentions wouldn’t be standing there? Would they?
He must have had some sort of illusion. The cigarette-scented air burning into his lungs could have been a flashback? Maybe his memory would come back in this way? Odd fragments of a puzzle. A puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. Whether it was a dream or reality, he couldn’t leave Sara out here in the middle of nowhere, with a possible intruder lurking around. For now, he wouldn’t tell her about the smoker. No use in getting her upset and frightened if it had just been a dream. When he felt a little stronger, he’d do some serious snooping around. Until then, he’d keep quiet.
Spent and totally exhausted, his mind fought against staying awake and he closed his eyes.
—
Sara stood at the living room window. Darkness protected her as she peered out into the inky night searching for any type of movement. Tom had been asleep when she’d gone back with the pain medication.
She was glad. It would give her time to think. To figure out why he’d come up into the loft, panic brewing in his eyes, brandishing a knife.