"When do we leave?" Bobby asked.
"We've got a flight out to Las Cruces in three hours," Joe said. He smiled crookedly. "I, um, need a little time. I haven't exactly told Ronnie yet that I'm leaving."
"Well, sir, we, uh..." Wes braced himself, "/kind of took care of that for you, Cat."
Joe closed his eyes and swore.
"I'm really sorry, Captain," Wes said.
"Skipper, you know... Me and Ren and Stimpy here can handle this. You don't have to come along—it'd be overkill anyway," Lucky earnestly told the captain. "We've worked with Mitch, we know what he looks like—at least when he's not in disguise. And like you said, the rest of the Gray Group's covering the other end. Give yourself—and Veronica—a break." He paused. "And give me a chance to practice those leadership skills they worked so hard to teach me at the academy, sir. Let me take care of this."
Joe looked up at the hillside above the beach, at the warm lights of his home cutting through the thickening fog.
He made up his mind. "Go," he said. "The paperwork giving you leave is already at the base. But I want sit-reps over a secured line every twelve hours."
"Thanks, Captain." Lucky held out his hand.
Joe clasped it and shook. "Find him. Fast."
"Are you Casey?"
Casey. Casey Parker. If that was his name, why couldn't he remember it? "Yeah, that's me."
A ten-year-old kid had come into the barn. He stood in front of Mish now, his eyes magnified by a crooked pair of wire-framed glasses. "I'm supposed to tell you to saddle up a pair of horses for me and Ashley. Ashley's my sister. She's a pain in the butt."
Saddle up some horses...
"What's your name?" he asked the boy.
"My real name's Reagan. Reagan Thomas Alden. But people call me Chip."
Mish turned back to the stall he was shoveling out. "Rumor has it, Chip, guests under age eighteen aren't allowed to ride out on their own."
"Yes, but... I'm not signed up for a ride until after four o'clock. What am I supposed to do until then?"
"Read a book?" Mish suggested, getting back into the easy rhythm of his work.
"Hey!" Chip brightened. "You could ride out with me and Ash. There's this place, about a half a mile east of here where there's these big, creepy-looking rocks, kind of like some giant's fingers sticking out of the ground. I could show 'em to you."
"I don't think so."
"Come on, Casey. You're not doing anything important right now."
Mish kept right on shoveling. "The way I figure it, I've got one of the most important jobs here—making sure the horses you ride have a clean place to sleep at night."
"Yes, but...wouldn't you rather be riding?"
Mish answered honestly. "No." The truth was, he could remember nothing about horses. If he'd at one time known how to ride, that knowledge had slipped away with his memories of his name and his past. But somehow he doubted that. Somehow, he got the sense that horseback riding was a subject he'd never bothered to learn much about.
It was troublesome. If he was Casey Parker, then he'd lied to get this job. And if he wasn't Casey Parker, then who in heaven's name was he?
Casey Parker or not, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't going to like finding out who he really was.
The handgun in his boot. The wad of money. The bullet wound. It all added up to the same grim conclusion: he was not on the side of the angels.
If his dream had held just one ounce of truth, he was a killer. He was someone who shot and killed other people for a living. And, if that was the case, he didn't want to remember who he was.
He—and the world—would be better off if he simply stayed here for the rest of his days, shoveling manure and—
Mish lifted his head, listening intently to a low rumble. Was it thunder? Or an approaching truck?
"That sounds like Travis Brown," Chip told him. "Doing what Becca calls his first-rate imitation of a damn fool."
It was the sound of pounding hoofbeats—faint, but growing louder until it became a clatter of noise directly outside of the barn. It was accompanied by a high-pitched whinny of fear and pain from the horse. That sound was echoed almost identically—except this second scream came from a human throat. Mish dropped his shovel.
"That's Ashley!" Chip bolted for the door, but Mish swung himself over the wall of the stall and beat him there.
A riderless horse stood on its hind legs, pawing the air as a man dressed in fringed leggings and a leather vest lay sprawled behind him. A young girl crouched in the dust in front of the enraged horse, covering her head with her arms.
Mish didn't stop. He started toward the girl at a sprint.
He could see Rebecca Keyes running just as quickly toward them from the direction of the ranch office. Her hat fell into the dust, and she reached the horse's bridle just as Mish grabbed the girl and pulled her out of harm's way.
The horse's slashing hooves came within inches of Rebecca's face, but she didn't flinch.
Mish shoved the girl into Chip's arms and stood ready to come to Becca's aid. But she simply and slowly backed away, letting the animal have some space.
The horse's sides were torn, as if slashed with too-sharp spurs. His mouth was frothing and flecked with blood. His dark body was slick with sweat and trembling.
The man who'd been thrown scrambled out of range of the beast's powerful back hooves. "Did you see that?" he said as he pulled himself to his feet. "That damned horse nearly killed me!"
"Quiet!" Becca didn't even look in the man's direction. All of her attention was focused on the horse. Although she didn't speak loudly, there was stern authority in her voice.
The rider wisely shut up.
As Mish watched, the horse returned to all fours. He twitched nervously, though, sidling and still trembling. Becca moved closer again, crooning softly to the frightened animal, her hands and body language nonthreaten-ing.
She could have been a lion tamer. Mish felt his own tension start to drain from his shoulders and neck just from the sound of her soothing, hypnotic voice. As she gazed at the horse steadily, Mish could see none of the anger that he knew she must be feeling toward the abusive rider.
He knew that her eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown, but as she looked at the horse, they reflected a serenity that was almost angelic. And for a moment, as he gazed at her, Mish couldn't breathe.
Rebecca Keyes wasn't what most folks would consider to be beautiful. Oh, her face was pretty enough—cute, actually. It was maybe a touch too round, though, making her look younger than she really was. Or maybe she was just plain young, he didn't know for sure. Her nose was small and couldn't be described as anything other than childlike. It was dotted with freckles that added to that effect. Her mouth was generously wide, her lips gracefully shaped. The only makeup she wore was a light coat of gloss on those lips—and Mish suspected she wore it as protection from the harsh sun rather than for cosmetic effect.
But as she reached for that shuddering horse, soothing, peaceful comfort seemed to radiate from her every movement, her every word, her every glance, and Mish could not breathe.
He wanted her to turn to him, to look at him that way, to lay her gentle hands on him, to bring to him the peace he so desperately needed.
Instead, he watched as she touched the horse.
The animal snorted, nervously sidestepping, but Becca moved with him. "It's okay, baby," she murmured. "Everything's going to be okay... Shhh..." She ran her hands down the horse's neck. "Yeah, everything's all right now. Let's get you cleaned up." She looped the reins over the animal's head, leading him gently toward the barn. "Casey here will take care of you," she added, still talking in that sweet, soothing voice, "while I take care of the idiot who hurt you."
She looked up at Mish, reaching out to hand him the reins, and just like that, the warm calm in her eyes flickered and changed—replaced by sheer, cold, nearly murderous anger. She was going to "take care" of the rider, indeed.
But first she turned toward the young girl who'd nearly been run down in the driveway. "Are you all right, Ash?"
Ashley and Chip were standing alongside the barn, arms still around each other. The girl nodded, but she was clearly shaken.
"Chip, run to the office," Becca crisply ordered the little boy. "Have Hazel crank up the cellular phone and locate your parents." She turned back to Mish. "Get that horse inside the barn."
Mish gently tugged on the reins, leading the huge animal into the quiet coolness of the barn. He looked up into the beast's big brown eyes, and could see mistrust. He tried to gaze back confidently, but knew he was failing. Truth was, he didn't have a clue what to do.
He wrapped the reins around one of the bars on the nearest stall, keeping one ear tuned to what was going on outside of the barn.
' 'Mr. Brown, you have exactly fifteen minutes to pack your bags and get down here to the ranch office," he could hear Becca tell the man who'd been riding the horse, her tone leaving no room for any dissent.
There was a buckle that seemed to hold the saddle on and Mish tried to unfasten it, but the animal shifted away, snorting. He was no Dr. Doolittle, but he couldn't miss the horse's message. Don't touch me.
Outside, Brown sputtered. "/'m the one who was thrown—"
"You've had your warnings," Becca cut him off, her voice tight with anger. "You've been told again and again that you may not wear spurs with any of our horses. You've been told again and again not to yank the reins, to treat the horse the way you 'd want to be treated if you had a bit in your mouth."
Mish put his hand on the horse's neck. He just rested it there, steady and firm, trying to push all of his uncertainty far away, knowing the animal could sense it. He could do this. He'd seen enough Westerns. He had to get the saddle off, and the blanket underneath, then somehow cool the horse down.
"You've been told again and again that horses must be kept to a slow walk around the ranch buildings," Becca's voice continued. "This time you might've badly injured Ashley Alden. And this time, I'm done giving you warnings. This time, I'm telling you to pack your bags and get off this ranch."
"I want the sheriff! I want an ambulance—I hurt my back in that fall! I'm going to sue—"
Mish reached for the buckle again, this time his movements steady and sure. The horse twitched and blew air out of his nose, hard, but Mitch got the job done. He lifted off the saddle and set it on top of a rail. And then he couldn't resist sneaking a look out of the barn door. A crowd had gathered—guests and ranch hands silently watching.
Becca had Travis Brown backed against the split wood railings of the corral, her eyes shooting fire. When she spoke, her voice was soft but it carried in the stillness.
"Go ahead and call the sheriff, Hazel," she said to the gray-haired woman on the ranch office steps, her eyes never leaving Brown. "It's entirely likely that Ted and Janice Alden will want to press charges against Mr. Brown for nearly killing their daughter. Reckless endan-germent—isn't that what it's called?"
"You can't kick me out. I'm a shareholder."
"You're an idiot," Becca said sharply. "Get the hell off this ranch."
He moved toward her, threateningly. "You little bitch! When Justin Whitlow finds out about this—"
"Fifteen minutes, Brown." He towered over her, but Becca didn't back down. She stood her ground, chin raised, as if daring the man to raise a hand to her.
The man pushed past her, exaggerating his limp as he headed toward the guest cabins.
Becca turned, looking first at Hazel. "Did you reach the Aldens?"
The plump older woman nodded. "They're on their way."
"Call the sheriff, too—in case they want to register a complaint."
"Already done."
Becca's gaze swept across the crowd and landed on Mish. He realized suddenly that he'd come all the way out of the barn, toward her, ready to jump in if Brown had tried to strike her.
"How's Stormchaser?" she asked, heading directly toward him. "The poor baby's going to have to go into therapy after this."
"He doesn't seem to want me to touch him," Mish admitted, following her back into the barn.
She gave him an odd look over her shoulder. "She doesn't know you. She's bound to be a little spooked."
She. The horse was female. He hadn't even thought to look. He'd simply assumed that since the animal was so big and powerful... Thou shalt not assume. He'd broken one of the biggest rules, and he'd given himself away.
Rules. Rules of what? God Almighty, it was back there, just out of his line of sight. All of the answers, dancing at the edge of his mental peripheral vision. He wanted to close his eyes, to somehow grab hold of the truth, of his identity. But Becca Keyes was talking to him.
"Why don't you get her cooled down," Becca said, obviously repeating herself as she gazed at him with her seemingly average brown eyes.
She was challenging him. Her words were a test—she wanted to know if he could do it.
But he couldn't.
Mish met her gaze levelly, honestly. "I'm afraid that's a little out of my league. But if you tell me exactly what needs to be done, I can—”
She'd already turned away from him. "Perfect," she was muttering. "Incredibly, amazingly, stupendously perfect." She spun back to face him. "You're telling me you don't know how to cool down a horse, aren't you?"
"I'm a quick study," he said quietly. "And you're short of hands—"
"Short of brains, too, obviously." There was a flare of that hot-burning anger in her eyes, but the heat was weakened by her frustration and disappointment. "Dammit. Dammit!"
The disappointment was hard to take. He would have far preferred her anger. "I didn't intend to deceive you." He couldn't explain. How could he?
She just laughed as she took the saddle blanket from Stormchaser's back. "Right. Go and make sure Brown's packing his bags. He's in cabin number 12. Walk him back to the office, finish up the stalls, then stay out of my sight for the rest of evening. I can't handle this right now—we'll talk in the morning."
Mish may not have known a thing about horses, but he knew when a situation called for silence.
He turned and left the barn. He'd awakened again this morning with no past, no name, no sense of self. Yet somehow he now felt even emptier inside.
Chapter 3
It was after two o'clock in the morning, and someone was pounding on her apartment door.
Becca sat up, groping for her flashlight in the darkness and coming up empty. The pounding continued—a frantic tattoo accompanied by a high-pitched voice calling her name. She flung herself out of bed and nearly stumbled as she made her way to the light switch on the wall.
Grabbing her robe from the hook next to her closet, she moved toward the noise and opened the door.
Fourteen-year-old Ashley Alden stood on the other side of the screen, her face streaked with tears. "Chip's gone," she said.
Becca pulled the girl inside and shut the screen before the entire mosquito population of New Mexico came into the kitchen with her. "Gone where?"
"I don't know! I was in charge, and I fell asleep, and when Mom and Dad came home, Chip was gone! He took the blanket off his bed—I think he's playing cowboy and sleeping outside somewhere." Ashley was trying her best to hold back her tears, but a fresh flood brimmed in her eyes. "And now they're fighting, and a storm's coming and someone's got to go find Chip before he's struck by lightning!"
The girl was right. A storm was coming. Becca could hear the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. Although dangerous, lightning was the least of their worries. If Chip had set up his bedroll in one of the arroyos, or on the gentle valley of the dry riverbed... It didn't have to be raining here for the arroyos and river suddenly to flood. It only had to be raining upstream.
She looked at the kitchen clock. Two-fifteen. No doubt the Aldens had stayed at the local roadhouse, drinking until the two o'clock last call. And if that was the case, they weren't going to be a whole hell of a lot of help
in finding their son.
Thunder crackled again, closer this time.
Still, she was going to need all the bodies she could get.
"Go get your mom and dad," she commanded Ashley, already on the cordless phone to Hazel. "And wake up as many of the other guests as you can. We'll meet in front of the ranch office."
Ashley disappeared out the door.
Hazel sounded dazed as she answered her phone, but she rallied quickly.
Becca pulled a pair of jeans on over her nightshirt as she rattled out a stream of orders to her assistant. ' 'Wake up Dwayne and Belinda—tell them to saddle up the horses. The search'11 be easier on horseback." She yanked on her boots and jammed her hat on her head. "I'll wake the hands in the bunkhouse."
* * *
The bus ride was interminable, but as the driver pulled up to the checkpoint at the first of the fences, Mish didn't want it to end. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the gate shutting behind them, locking him in. He kept his eyes closed. There was no point looking at the security. No point studying the watch towers and the fences. He was here. And he'd stay here until Jake got him out.
The bus jolted to a stop, but Mish didn't move until one of the guards approached and unlocked him. He had been wearing both arm and leg shackles.
Mish stood up, and the guard roughly pulled his arms behind him, cuffing his hands behind his back. He still wore a tether, a short length of chain that connected his two ankles. It was hard navigating the steps down from the bus, and he jumped the last two, landing lightly in the dusty prison yard.
Prison. He was in prison. He felt sick to his stomach as he looked up at the harsh gray buildings towering above him.
"Move it," one of the guards barked. "Inside. Let's go."
Mish started to sweat. Out here was bad enough, but at least out here he still had the sky, open and free above him. Inside would be only walls, only bars, only these chains that marked him as a very, very dangerous man.
The guard shoved him and he stumbled, but he forced himself not to react, to find serenity from deep inside, that same serenity that had saved him so many times before. He was here. He didn't have to like it. He just had to endure it. Jake was counting on him. Jake needed him to...to...
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