Hollis’s eyes widened. “What man?”
“Hollis, you know Spanish too?” Of course, he did. He was a former navy SEAL. He’d done a few tours. She was no navy SEAL. But it sure felt like it out there. “I know I’m not making any sense.” Her blood froze and she shivered. The room tipped.
“You’re going into shock.” Hollis raced to the lockers on the far side of the wall and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around her. He lifted her eyelids. “Pupils are dilated.” He cupped her face. “Look at me. Inhale. Exhale.” He rubbed her forearms, working to generate body heat, then he enveloped her, working his hands down her back. “Keep breathing.”
His voice soothed her, his touch eased her knotted muscles as she followed his instructions. Slowly she gained her wits, until the hysteria passed and she could rationally think. “Hollis, two Latino men pulled up behind me on the highway. My tire blew. I’m pretty sure they set it up.” She told him what happened next and how she singlehandedly put them on the ground. Grace had almost been murdered; the fear was overwhelming. Didn’t matter that she had defended herself. She had been harmed. Might be attacked again. She collapsed into his powerful arms. “I can’t be a murderer, Hollis.”
Hollis held her tighter and she melded into him—a safe place. The safest place she’d been since she’d lost her memory, possibly ever. He smelled like oranges and fabric softener. His dark stubble scraped against her cheek as he soothed her with soft shhs. She peered into his eyes, almost as dark as hers, searching for wisdom, answers...hope.
“It’s going to be okay. Let’s go to the site. Figure it out.” He lifted the collar of her jacket. “First go get some fatigues and get dry, then meet me here.” She frantically nodded and did as he instructed. When she returned, she’d wrung out her hair and wrapped it in a wet knot at the base of her neck. She wore khaki fatigues and her spare pair of hiking boots she kept at the facility.
Hollis scrutinized her. “You ready?”
No. She was terrified. Either someone had mistaken her for someone she wasn’t. Or Grace had secrets that were so dark, she didn’t ever want to remember.
* * *
Hollis kept his emotions close to the vest. He didn’t want to cause further panic, didn’t want Grace to be even more afraid, and showing his concern would set her off. Calmly, he escorted her to his pickup and opened the door for her. “It’s going to be okay,” he reassured her again. When he’d found her two years ago during SAR dive drills in the river, she’d been roughed up and left for dead on the bank. She was seizing and frothing at the mouth. He feared the trauma had affected her brain and she’d never recover. By the time he got her to the hospital, she was unresponsive, but breathing, though shallow. Then she’d slipped into a coma. The Grace he knew today might not be the Grace she used to be.
He rounded the truck and climbed in the cab. Grace wrung her slender hands—hands that had a few scars—and chewed on lips that should be kissed not tortured with worrisome gnawing. She was beautiful. Lightly bronzed skin—like the sun had kissed her—and hair as thick and black as night matching her eyes, and long lashes that reminded him of a Southern belle fan. She’d been extremely toned and sculpted when he’d found her, which told him she was a health nut, and the dress she’d been wearing exposed most of her back, revealing scars there as well.
His friend and ER nurse, Daphne, had overstepped HIPAA and confirmed that Grace had past injuries. Broken bones. Two arms. A collarbone. Her right leg. Left ankle. Several fingers. Hollis immediately suspected domestic abuse, but no one came calling for her. He’d called in a favor with an old SEAL buddy who ran a private security company now, but his search hadn’t turned up anything. He had done a missing persons check to see if anyone of her description had vanished around the time Hollis had found Grace, but no one matching her physical appearance had. And without knowing her name, her birthdate or any information that would aid in a background check or missing person’s report, it made things practically impossible. With her scars and broken bones, Hollis and the sheriff had agreed it was best to search for her identity discreetly. If the person who had injured Grace resurfaced, and she didn’t know him or her—and neither did Hollis nor Sheriff Freeman—then Grace was a sitting duck. What quiet investigating and inquiry they had done all hit dead ends. It was as if Grace didn’t exist.
Except she did and it was mind-boggling. Nothing but grace she survived. Day in and out Hollis came and sat at her bedside, talking with her even though she was unresponsive. He needed to call her something. Grace fit. Thackery was his great grandmother’s name. It wasn’t like he could call her Grace Montgomery. Then one day he was reading her a psalm and her eyelids flickered...once...twice and those coffee bean–colored eyes looked into his. For a split second it was like she knew him. Had heard every word he’d ever spoken or read to her. He thought she might even say his name, but then it registered she had no idea where she was or even who she was. Couldn’t recall a single thing and hysteria had set in.
He quietly drove through the rain, waiting for her to speak now.
Finally, she did. She told him in further detail what had happened. “Do you think I learned self-defense?”
That was the rational woman he’d come to know and admire. He smirked. “Already tossed the ninja theory out? I kinda liked it.”
Grace playfully frowned at his teasing. “I’m not quiet enough to be a ninja.”
“I’ll attest. You barreled into my office and scared my socks off.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Just in case. “It’s possible you learned self-defense or martial arts.” Health nut and martial arts or kickboxing—both great exercises. Or she may have taken it up to protect herself from whoever inflicted those wounds and had broken her body. One theory was her husband or boyfriend discovered she was leaving and tracked her, gave her the beating of her life and left her for dead. But she was wearing a red dress and heels. Someone running away wouldn’t have been in that flimsy—and slightly provocative—dress. There were other theories, but they were darker and Hollis didn’t let his mind wander there.
“What if I did kill them? What will happen?” she asked softly.
“It was self-defense.” They approached Grace’s car—no other vehicle around.
“The truck is gone!” Grace threw off her seat belt and bolted from the vehicle before it got good and stopped, darting toward her car, ignoring the drizzle. “No one is here!” Her voice held a measure of fear and relief. She hadn’t killed anyone. Good. But they were gone and that meant they could return. Not good. Hollis stood beside her and squatted, inspecting the tire.
“It’s been punctured by a blade of some kind. They must have stabbed it before you left the inn this morning, then followed you waiting on it to blow.”
“I don’t understand, Hollis. This makes no sense.”
But it might if she had her memories. “If you gave them a solid whupping like you say you did—if that was a skill they were aware of—then they aren’t going to believe you have no memory.”
“It’s retrograde amnesia!” she protested and Hollis snorted. “What? What is so amusing?”
“I doubt two probable criminals care or know much about amnesia. All they know is you kicked their butts from here to Timbuktu, and they’ve gone to lick their injured pride.”
Grace’s cheeks paled. “And when it’s been mended?”
“They’ll return with new tactics.” Likely the kind that don’t involve getting too close. That triggered a new wave of panic through his chest, squeezing it tight.
“Like the kind they can administer from a distance?”
Too perceptive. He kinda dug it. “I wasn’t going to say that but...yeah.” He changed her tire and wiped his wet, dirty hands on his jeans. “It’ll be okay, though, Grace. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
“Gonna be on me like blue on sky.”
He chuckled and opened her driv
er’s-side door for her. “Something like that.”
“You know,” she said wistfully, “I’m handy with a needle and thread, and that time Dennis fell into the ravine I knew how to splint his arm. If these guys are looking for a doctor... I could be a doctor or in the medical field too.”
“Anything is possible. I’ll follow you to the inn. Drive slow on the spare. I’ll have it fixed later today.”
She nodded and cranked her engine. A doctor? Hmm...doubtful, but for now he’d keep his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t sure he liked where they were going.
* * *
Inside the inn, Grace snagged a leftover cinnamon roll. She deserved it. She also deserved to get clean. Her face was a mess, muddy and streaked from the battle a little over an hour ago.
“Hollis, I’m going to take care of all this filth. When I’m done, we can get back to the facility. I need to look at the weather satellites, and I know you want to ride out and inspect the waters around the levee.”
Hollis finished off his roll and nodded. “You really should. You smell.”
“I do not!”
Laughing, he held his mug up in a salute and winked. “Maybe not, but you do look like you wallowed in mud.”
She shuddered. She had and not by choice.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” His eyes held concern.
“You didn’t. I need to clear the gunk off my face.” She headed for the kitchen door.
“Holler if you need anything.”
Her place from the kitchen was about fifteen to twenty feet. Grace waved and made her way out the door and along the sidewalk lined with flower pots—the flowers wilting at the merciless and unending rain. It was overcast but warm. After unlocking her door, she stepped inside and tensed.
Something wasn’t right. Pausing in the entry, she grabbed an umbrella from the wicker basket. Nothing appeared out of sorts. But the eerie sensation skittered across her skin. Everything inside her screamed a warning. Should she call for Hollis? The window in the inn’s kitchen was open. He’d hear. Grace surveyed the open floor plan. To the left of the kitchenette was her bedroom and bathroom. Inching toward her room, her heart galloped. Was she being ridiculous?
She toed her bedroom door farther open and stepped inside, caught a whiff of musk. The smell zinged along her memory pulling something familiar forward, but it was blurry. She inched into the bathroom, switched on the light and felt a presence behind her.
Turning, a figure loomed. Throat constricting, adrenaline racing, she didn’t wait for him to tackle her. She went on the offensive and rushed him, but he dodged her. She swung around and his back was to her. Grace instinctively thrust out the umbrella—the hook catching around his neck like a noose. She yanked—choking him—forcing him backward and toward her.
“You...always...knew how...to make...an entrance...” he sputtered and held his arms out to his side. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then what are you here for? My valuables? I’ll give you a hint. I don’t have any.” Where on earth did that bravado and snark come from or her instincts to use that umbrella as a weapon?
“I’m turning around.”
She recognized his voice now that her ears weren’t buzzing, but her heart was going wild and she itched to run. Run fast and hard.
With hands raised, Peter Rainey from breakfast faced her. “You can put the umbrella down. Really.”
She lowered it.
“I thought you were dead.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “But then three weeks ago I saw you on the national news. In the background while the SAR chief told the world they’d found the little girl their team had been searching for. It was covered almost nightly. I was in shock. Then confused.”
He was confused? How had he seen her on TV? Hollis had made sure to steer her clear from the media during that hunt for their pastor’s little girl—her scars kept him protective of her, and she appreciated that. She hadn’t found the child for the recognition anyway.
“Why did you settle down in this Podunk town? Why did you pretend not to know me earlier? And why are you volunteering with Search and Rescue and living under a tin roof?”
“Why are you under my tin roof? I don’t have any cinnamon rolls here.” Now probably wasn’t the time to go comedic and dry, but a memory teetered on the edge of her mind—she used this kind of banter to do something...what?
He chuckled. “Always loved that snark. I know you hate me.”
She did?
“I’m here to make amends, Max, even though you have every right to stomp me into the ground for betraying you. I should have known better but...”
Max! Was that her name? Short for Maxine or something? She glanced at the door and her hands shook.
Peter spotted it. “Are...are you afraid?”
She was working hard to conceal it; should she not be? “Well, you did betray me.” If she told him her brain had deflated like a balloon and she was at a loss for memory, he might try to hurt her or clam up. He’d asked why she pretended not to know him. Well, he hadn’t acted like he knew her either, so he was hiding something. He was her only link to her past. She had to play the game for as long as she could.
“Look, I’ll tell you everything, but I may not be the only one who knows you’re alive.”
Oh so true. She had two creeps coming for her already.
Peter sighed. “I can help you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I’m telling you the truth. Where is Dr. Sayer? I can help her too.”
Her! The doctor had a name and gender. Good, she could work with this. But could she work with this man? What if he tried to betray her again? How did he betray her before? By beating her up and leaving her for dead? Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she bit down on her lip to hide the tremble. What if she didn’t know any more self-defense moves?
“I didn’t—” He paused, cocked his head and surveyed her. It gave her the shivers but she tried to hold fast. Still, her fingers jittered, causing the umbrella to bounce. He watched it then let his gaze slowly roll over her face and locked onto her eyes again.
“What’s my name?” He was on to her somehow. The fear. The fear was tipping him off that something was wrong.
“Peter.”
He narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. She took a step back and he paused, tipped his head to the side. “What’s your name?”
Busted. Would he kill her now?
“Why do you ask?” She tossed a glance at the open door and took another step toward it.
Peter matched a step forward for every one she took in retreat, surprise in his eyes. “I thought you were toying with me this morning somehow so I didn’t say anything, played the game. But you weren’t up to anything sneaky. You don’t know me. And you don’t know you either. I’m so sorry, Max.”
“For what?”
“Everything. It was all lies.”
“What was all lies? Is my name Max?” she asked, her head spinning. Did she try to run or did she trust this man who admitted to betraying her?
He glanced out the window and shook his head; he seemed concerned. “No. It’s a nickname. Mad Max.”
Mad Max? “Am I crazy or something? If you’re not here to hurt me...then tell me who I am.”
“Max,” he whispered. “Your real name is—”
Glass shattered and Peter fell to the ground dead. Grace stared at him frozen and stunned, then another bullet slammed into the wall by her head. “Hollis!” she screamed and hit the floor.
Copyright © 2019 by Jessica R. Patch
ISBN-13: 9781488040665
Undercover Twin
Copyright © 2019 by Heather Humrichouse
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