Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  He shook his head. He was so upset he couldn't even answer her. One of his tears escaped, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand. This couldn't be an act, it couldn't be. He was as upset by this as she was. More.

  She didn't know much about mental illnesses, but it was possible this man she'd given a piece of her heart to last night was sick in ways she couldn't even imagine. If so, then he needed help.

  And if not... He'd had a gash on his head when he'd first arrived at the ranch. It was mostly healed now, but what if the blow he'd received had taken away his memory?

  She tried to imagine what that might be like, how terrifying and awful and strange. How completely alone he must feel....

  Either way, she had to get him to a doctor. She had to convince him to go with her to the hospital.

  "If you don't have anywhere to go, then it doesn't make sense for you to leave," she told him, keeping her voice low, as if she were gentling a frightened horse. The first thing she had to do was calm him down. Then she had to find out if he still had that gun he'd mentioned. Guns and high emotions never mixed well.

  She stepped closer, holding out her own hand to him.

  "Come into the bathroom. Let me look at your hand. It's bleeding."

  Mish looked down, as if noticing his injured hand for the first time. He looked at the mirror, looked at her. "I'm so sorry, Becca."

  "Come on," she said. "Let's make sure you don't need stitches. And then we can talk and try to figure this out."

  "I should just go. I'll leave money to pay for the mirror—"

  "No," Becca said. "I want you to stay."

  He started to argue, but she interrupted. "Stay," she said again. "I think you owe me at least that much."

  Mish nodded. For a potentially crazy person, his gaze was remarkably steady now. "Becca, do you believe me?"

  Becca turned away as she led him into the bathroom. rtl'm still working on that."

  Chapter 10

  Becca had put clothes on. Jeans and a T-shirt. She sat across from Mish, her legs curled underneath her as she gazed at him.

  Mish, too, had pulled on his pants. Like her, his feet were bare. The shirt he'd worn last night, the one she'd helped peel off of him, hung open as he gazed down at his bandaged hand and tried his best to answer her questions.

  He'd told her about waking up at the homeless shelter, of the old man who'd named him Mission Man, of the way "Mish" had somehow seemed both wrong and right. He'd told her of his confusion and shock at seeing his unfamiliar face in the mirror. He'd tried to put into words what it felt like to remember nothing but trivial details of his past. And he'd apologized again for deceiving her.

  She cleared her throat. "Before—you said you had a gun."

  He glanced up at her and tried not to think about the way she'd looked, lying back, naked, on her bed. It was crazy. They'd made love twice, last night and early this morning, and he was still dying for her touch. He still wanted more.

  Like that was ever going to happen again.

  He cleared his throat. "Yeah. A small handgun. Twenty-two caliber. It was in my boot with the cash and that fax that had the directions to the ranch."

  "Where's the gun now?"

  "Back at the Lazy Eight. In my private lockup in the bunkhouse. I wasn't comfortable... I didn't think it was appropriate—or even legal—to carry it around."

  Becca nodded, trying very hard not to look relieved.

  Mish couldn't keep from smiling crookedly. "Makes you nervous, huh?" he asked. "The thought of me walking around with a weapon?"

  She answered honestly, glancing involuntarily at the shards of broken mirror that still littered the dresser. "I'm sorry, but, yeah."

  "You don't have to apologize. If our roles were reversed—"

  "If our roles were reversed, / would have already checked myself into a hospital."

  Mish shifted back in his chair. "I can't do that."

  "Of course you can." She leaned forward. "Mish, I'll go with you. I'll stay with you. The doctors will—"

  "Call the police," he finished for her. "They'll have to. Bee, I was shot. They'd need to report it." He hesitated. Lord, why not just tell her? He'd already revealed too much. "The truth is, I'm probably someone you wouldn't want to know. I've had these dreams..." Telling her about them in detail would be too much. The awfiil images already haunted the hell out of him—no need to haunt her as well. "They're...violent. Really violent."

  "That doesn't mean anything. I've had violent dreams and—"

  "No, this is stuff—at least some of it—I know I've seen. I've also dreamed of..." He couldn't look at her. "Prison. I've done hard time, Bee. I can't believe I would dream about it in that kind of detail if I hadn't."

  She was silent.

  "I think if I dig back and uncover my past, I'm going to find out that I'm not a very good person," he told her quietly. "So let's go back to the ranch. Maybe if I'm lucky Casey Parker'11 be there. I can give him that package that came for him, and ask him what his fax was doing in my boot—maybe find some answers. Then I'll take my things and clear out. And you'll be done with me for good."

  Becca pulled her knees in close to her chest, encircling them with her arms.

  "Or," he said, "if you'd rather, I'll leave now, find another ride back. I can arrange to be gone before you return on Tuesday."

  He could walk out that door in a matter of minutes, and Becca would never see him again. And this was supposed to be something she'd want?

  She felt her eyes fill with tears, and she blinked them furiously back. She stood up, unable to sit still another moment longer, wishing this room were bigger, knowing that even if it were the size of a stadium, she would be drawn toward him.

  "Why didn't you tell me any of this last night?" she asked, forcing herself away from him, moving over toward the window. "We talked for hours at that party. I can think of ten different times that you would've had a perfect segue to this subject." She turned to face him. '"Funny you should mention your childhood in New York, Becca, because you know, since a week ago Monday, I can't remember anything about mine. In fact, I couldn't even remember my name until I came to the ranch and you called me Casey Parker...'"

  His eyes looked suspiciously red, too. "Would you have believed me?"

  "I don't know. I might've, yeah. I believe you now, don't I?"

  "I don't know. Do you?"

  She let out a burst of air that was nearly a laugh. ' 'No. Yes. I don't know. I think, amnesia? But then I think, it sounds so crazy, it's got to be true." She couldn't figure out why he would make up this outlandish story. It wasn't to gain sympathy points to get into her bed. He'd already been there.

  The truth was, she did believe him. She trusted him on a level that went beyond logic. Despite his conviction that he'd been to prison, despite his belief that he was some kind of criminal, Becca trusted him with every fiber of her being. And maybe that was just because of sex. Maybe it was just her hormones blocking all common sense. If love was blind, then lust surely was like being in a sensory deprivation tank.

  But when she looked into Mish's eyes, she believed him, whether she wanted to or not.

  Maybe he was a con man, maybe he was seriously mentally ill, maybe she was going to get badly burned. But she was damned if she wasn't going to see this through to the end, find the facts that would either prove her wrong and label her a fool, or provide the missing pieces in Mish's past. Either way, she'd come out further ahead than she would by walking away right now.

  Or letting him walk away.

  Becca turned back to the window, feeling a sense of calm at her decision, feeling the pressure of her impending tears lessen. "I'll call Hazel, tell her to page me if Casey Parker shows up at the ranch again. I'll have her offer him some kind of financial bonus if he'll stick around until we show up."

  "He left the ranch?"

  She looked up at the perfect blue sky, wondering at the sudden note of interest that rang in his voice. ' 'Hazel said he got out of ther
e pronto. Apparently he was ticked off by the fact that another Casey Parker had been there first." She turned to face him, certain she looked like hell, but grateful that at least she wasn't crying. "I think we should take a drive down to Wyatt City. Check out this shelter, try to talk to the men who brought you in."

  Mish looked as emotionally exhausted as she felt. "We?"

  "Yeah," Becca said. She crossed her arms so he knew she meant business. "Unless you lied and last night really was just a one-night stand."

  He shook his head in disbelief. "Becca, didn't you hear anything I said? I'm probably one of the bad guys. I need you to stay away from me."

  "Maybe," she said. "But what about what / need?"

  Wyatt City was as dusty and run-down as Mish remembered it.

  Except he only remembered it from the time he walked out of the Fkst Church Shelter to the time he left on the Greyhound to Santa Fe.

  It was one of those towns with a Main Street that hadn't had a face-lift since most of the buildings went up back in the late fifties, early sixties. It was crumbling. A true work in progress, as far as ghost towns went.

  The old movie theater was boarded up, as was the Woolworth's. Both looked as if they'd gone out of business a decade or two ago, and the space hadn't been rented out since then. A liquor store was doing a thriving business, as was an adult-video rental place, and a bar.

  "Have you considered the possibility that you lived here?" Becca spoke for the first time in what seemed like hours. She took a right turn on Chiselm Street, where a row of post World War II adobe-style houses had been turned into offices. A palm reader. A chiropractor/masseuse. A tax attorney. A tattoo parlor. ' 'You might have an apartment somewhere in town. Or a room. Or..."

  "Yeah," he said. "I guess it is a possibility." He didn't want to tell her about his hunch, his sense that he'd come to Wyatt City for a reason. A reason that he didn't know, but couldn't talk about just the same.

  "Oh, no!" She pulled to the side of the road and hit the brakes a little too hard. She looked at him, her eyes wide. "You could have a wife. You could be married."

  "I'm not," he told her. "I don't know how I know that, but—"

  "You can't know it," she told him. "Mish, the only things we absolutely know about you are that you've never learned to ride a horse, you were here in Wyatt City for some reason two weeks ago, and that you aren't Casey Parker."

  "If I am married..." He shook his head. "No, I know I'm not. I'm always alone. I live alone. And lately I work alone. I don't know how I know that, because I don't even know what it is I do." But he could guess. The list of possibilities was nice and short. Burglar. Thief. Con artist.

  Assassin.

  “'But if that's not enough for you,” he continued,' 'then last night..." He squinted as he looked out of the truck's windshield at the setting sun glinting off the still hot street. "I don't know, I guess you probably could tell— it's been a long time for me. Since I was with a woman." He glanced at her, embarrassed to admit it. "Since I even wanted to be with a woman."

  She laughed, a giddy burst as she tipped her head forward to rest on her folded arms on the steering wheel. 'That's very flattering, Mr. I-know-damn-well-I'm-a-sex-god-but-I'll-pretend-to-be-humble, but the fact is, you can't know you're not married if you've got amnesia."

  "No, there are some things I do just know. I know it sounds unbelievable, that I could know what size jeans I wear, but not even recognize my own face in a mirror. It doesn't make any sense, but Becca, I'm telling you, I know."

  She was peeking out from beneath her arm, and he held her gaze. "And I'm not pretending anything," he added softly. "It had been a while for me. I wanted to make love to you all night long, but somehow the night got away from me."

  Lord, what was he doing? She was wary of him, wanting to keep her distance. So why was he saying things like that, things that would draw her back into his arms?

  Because he wanted her in his arms. And he had absolutely no willpower where this woman was concerned. He knew the best place for Becca to be was dozens—hundreds—of miles away from him, yet he couldn't stop himself from wanting to hold her.

  She lifted her head, still watching him. He could see the heat of her attraction for him in her eyes, doing battle with her wariness.

  He could see paradise lingering there as well, just a kiss and a heartbeat away.

  He turned away. "The church is in this neighborhood, not too far from the bus station."

  Becca hesitated, but he didn't look over at her again, and finally she put her truck in gear.

  "Jarell? He's a popular man these days," the woman who worked in the church office said with a chuckle. She pulled a file folder from a rickety old cabinet, and flipped through the pages. "He's a volunteer, so I can't guarantee his hours won't change, but let's see..." She frowned. "No, he's not working at the shelter this evening—actually, not until Wednesday night."

  "Isn't there any way we could get in touch with him tonight?" Mish asked.

  The woman shook her head, smiling apologetically at both Mish and Becca. "I'm sorry, we can't give out personal information about our volunteers. But there's a good chance he'll be in the kitchen tomorrow afternoon. There's a church dinner tomorrow night, and no one can make meat loaf like Jarell. At least not meat loaf for two hundred."

  Tomorrow afternoon. Becca looked everywhere but at Mish. If they had to wait until tomorrow afternoon to talk to Jarell, that meant they'd have to spend the night here in Wyatt City.

  She stood quietly aside as he thanked the woman, then followed him out of the church and into the hot evening air. They walked in silence until they got to Becca's truck, parked just down the street from the bus station.

  Mish turned to face her. "When we left Santa Fe this morning, I didn't think quite as far as tonight. I'm...sorry. I'll pay for the motel rooms."

  Rooms. Plural. Did he really want to stay in separate rooms tonight? Was it possible that, unlike her, he hadn't spent the entire day bombarded by vivid memories of sen sations from the night before? Could it be that, unlike her, he wasn't dying for the chance for them to kiss again?

  All day long, all she wanted was to take him in her arms and kiss him.

  Becca closed her eyes. Please, God, let him be right. Have him not be married...

  "We should go have dinner and—"

  "Does it make sense," Becca interrupted him, trying to sound matter-of-fact, when in truth her heart was pounding, "to pay for two when we're probably going to end up in one? Rooms," she added, probably unnecessarily.

  His eyes looked luminous in the early evening light. "Do you really want that? Even knowing...who I am?"

  She reached for his hand. "You say that as if you're convinced you're some kind of monster. Why? Because you were carrying a gun and you don't believe in banks? For all we know, your license to carry that gun was in your wallet, which was stolen. Yeah, the bullet wound on your head is a little harder to explain away, but it is possible that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, isn't it?"

  "Becca—"

  "So, okay, you dreamed of prison. I've rented movies enough times to be able to have pretty vivid dreams of prison, too. Dreams are dreams, Mish. They're not the same thing as memories. I sometimes dream that my teeth are falling out. It happens to be a common stress dream, with no basis in reality, fortunately." She took a deep breath. "So, yes, I really want us to get a room. A room. A room with a shower, a pizza and a cold six-pack of beer. Let's lock ourselves in and forget about all this for a few hours. You know, for someone with amnesia, you're not very good at forgetting things."

  Mish smiled, and her heart leapt. But then his smile faded. "What if it turns out that I'm someone terrible? What if I'm an assassin? A hit man?"

  Becca had to laugh. "Only a man would what-if himself into the middle of a Clint Eastwood film. And that guy over there? See him? The one climbing into that van with the tinted windows?" She pointed down the street.

  As they watched, a man
with short brown hair and a barbed-wire tattoo encircling his upper arm, carrying a cardboard tray with three large coffees, climbed into the back of the van. Another man, this one a movie-star-handsome blond, climbed out.

  The blond looked as if he could make a fortune on the rodeo circuit from just his smile, but he wore sneakers on his feet instead of cowboy boots, and a baggy pair of cargo shorts instead of jeans. His shirt hung open, revealing a chest of Baywatch quality. He made half circles with his head, as if relieving the kinks in his neck as he made his way across the street to the Terminal Bar. It was named after its proximity to the bus station, no doubt, rather than its dire medical condition.

  "They're not just waiting for the bus from Las Vegas, for the shorter guy's wife Ernestina to return from a visit to her sister, Inez, who's a dancer at Caesar's. No, they're probably sitting there, staking out the bus station on the off chance you'll show up. Right?"

  Mish looked at the man heading into the bar. His eyes narrowed, and he looked closer.

  "Mish." Becca pulled his chin so that he faced her. She kissed him lightly on the mouth to get his attention completely. "What if you're not a hit man? What if you're the UPS man? Or what if you sell washers and dryers at Sears? Or maybe you're extra-adventurous and you specialize in overnight fresh fish deliveries to towns like Las Cruces and Santa Fe?"

  He smiled at that, and she unlocked the door to her truck. ' 'If you want, we can drive around for a little while. See if anything sparks a memory."

  Mish nodded, glancing at the van sitting in front of the bus station. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like to do that."

  Becca climbed into the truck and started the engine, switching on the air-conditioning right away. God, it was hot.

  Mish swung himself in the passenger's side, picked her beatup cowboy hat up off the seat between them, and put it on his head, tugging the brim low over his eyes.

  And as they drove past the van, he slouched way down in his seat.

  "Today I am a very fountain of information," Wes said as Lucky swung himself back into the van after making a quick pit stop at the Terminal Bar. "The captain called when I was taking a nap. I don't know how he does it, but somehow he always knows when I'm sleeping."