by Rita Herron
“Better?”
“Thanks.” She tugged the blanket back over her as if it offered a sense of security.
“I told you who I am,” he said gruffly. “Your turn now.”
She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip and glanced down at her bloody hands.
“Your name’s a good start,” he said. “I can radio my team and let your family know you’re safe.”
Her gaze rose to meet his, pain and confusion clouding the depths.
His stomach clenched as protective instincts kicked in. “Hey, it’s okay.” Keeping his distance, he gestured toward the bruises on her hands. “I didn’t hurt you. So tell me your name and who did this, and I’ll make sure the police find him and put him away.”
Chapter Three
Distrust niggled at her as she studied Fletch. His ID looked genuine, and so did the concern on his face.
But she’d been running from someone and couldn’t remember who or the man’s face. IDs could be faked.
What if he wasn’t who he claimed to be?
She clutched the blanket he’d given her, her mind racing. Although if he’d wanted to kill her, why hadn’t he left her out in the elements? Why warm her and offer her food?
Another few hours outside, and she would have died. Unless he wanted something else...
“Listen to me,” he said as if he realized her train of thought. “I didn’t touch you last night, except to wrap you up and treat you for hypothermia. I know you’re scared and that someone hurt you. Talk to me and I can help.”
She rubbed her temple where her head throbbed, searching desperately for details of the past few hours. Or days. How long had she been out here?
He stood, retrieved something from his bag, then set it in front of her. A radio.
“This is how my team communicates. I’ll call them and prove that you can trust me.”
She wanted to trust him but said nothing. She was bruised and battered. Common sense warned her to be cautious until she figured out what was going on.
A grim look settled in his eyes, but he picked up the radio, pushed a button and spoke into it. “Ranger Maverick, Search and Rescue, unit 9. Come in.”
Static rattled over the speaker.
“Come in,” he repeated.
More static, then a voice, but it was garbled. “Dammit, the storm’s creating too much interference,” Fletch muttered.
He tried it several more times, even walked to the edge of the shelter to see if he received better reception, but nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a shake of his head. “We’ll try later when the storm lets up. I called our location in last night, though, so my team knows where we are.”
He was trying to comfort her, but her nerves raged all over the place.
With a weary sigh, he sank down by the fire and stoked it again. “If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust me, either,” he murmured. “But I swear on my mama’s grave I’m not going to hurt you.” He gestured toward the bruises. “And I sure as hell didn’t do that.”
His tone was so convincing and protective that she relaxed slightly.
“Now,” he said again, “please tell me your name.”
A cry of frustration lodged in her throat, but she swallowed it back. “I... I don’t remember.”
* * *
FLETCH NARROWED HIS EYES. “What do you mean? You don’t remember your name?”
Her tangled hair fell in a curtain over her injured temple and the bruise on her right cheek. She’d obviously suffered abuse or been attacked. Or maybe she had taken a fall.
Fear darkened her eyes. “I don’t remember what happened or how I ended up in the woods.” She rubbed her arms with her hands and scooted nearer the fire. “How can I not know who I am?”
Fletch gave her a sympathetic look. “You sustained a head injury. The gash on the back of your head probably caused you to lose consciousness and may be messing with your memory.”
She lifted a trembling hand and traced her fingers over her head, then winced when she made contact with the knot on the back. “You’re right. It’s probably that.” She exhaled. “But I don’t recall how I was injured.” Her voice trailed off, tinged with misery and fear.
Fletch inched closer to her, then took her hands in his. Her nails were broken, dirt and blood beneath the surface. Maybe there was DNA from her attacker. “It looks like you fought with someone. Do you remember an altercation? If someone attacked you?”
A frown marred her face as she examined the particles beneath her nails. “You’re right. That is blood.” She pushed her sleeves up, studied the bruises on her arms and the discoloration circling her wrists, and her frown deepened.
“Those bruises around your wrists look like rope burns,” Fletch pointed out.
She lifted the blanket and glanced at her ankles. “My feet were tied, too.”
Emotions darkened her eyes, and she dropped her head into her hands and made a low sound in her throat. “God, maybe I was kidnapped.”
“That’s a possibility.” Which meant her kidnapper might still be in the woods, trapped in the storm. Or on the lookout to make sure she was dead.
She looked so lost and terrified that instincts whispered for Fletch to pull her into his arms and comfort her. But that would be out of line.
“Listen, you’re safe now,” he said calmly. “Until you remember your name, we’ll call you Jane. Is that okay?”
“Like Jane Doe,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, unless you want to be called something else.”
She massaged her temple. “No, Jane is fine.”
“When the blizzard lets up, we’ll call for medical help,” Fletch said. “For now, let’s assume the blow to your head caused some sort of temporary amnesia. Once the swelling goes down, hopefully your memory will return.” He paused. “Until then, you need to rest.”
“So you’re a doctor now?” she asked wryly.
Fletch cleared his throat. “No, but my job requires EMT training.”
She rubbed her arms more frantically. “How can I rest when I don’t even know who I am?”
“Maybe talking would help jog your memories,” he said. “Tell me anything you recall. Something about your childhood? A face? Your favorite food?”
She twisted her fingers around the blanket. “I was dreaming. I think it might have been a memory.”
Fletch held his hands over the fire to warm them. “Go on.”
“I was about seven, and I was sitting on my father’s lap,” she said. “It was Sunday and we were in his big comfy chair by the fire.”
“Sounds like a happy time,” he said. “Do you remember your father’s name? What he looked like?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose as if searching her mind. “No, but we always did crossword puzzles together. That and other puzzles. We were working on a thousand-piece one of a mountain lion. I saw the pieces spread out on a table. Then my mother packed a picnic and we went to the river for the day.”
“Sounds like you grew up in a loving home,” Fletch said with an encouraging smile.
The worry lines bracketing her slender mouth softened. “That was a good memory. But...” Her voice broke. “But later... I had a different dream... I think my parents are dead.”
Fletch sighed. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
Pain wrenched her face. “I... Someone broke into our house and shot them.”
A tense second passed. “Do you think their murders are related to what happened to you now?”
She blew out a ragged breath. “I don’t think so. If my dream was real, it was years ago. I was only twelve.”
“That’s tough for a kid.” Sympathy for her filled him. “Who did you live with after you lost them?”
She murmured a sound of frustration. “I...don’t know. Af
ter that, the rest is blank.”
Another tense moment stretched between them. Fletch understood the pain of losing parents. He missed his every damn day. Sometimes when he was hiking, he thought he heard his father’s voice telling him the names of the trees and where the best fishing spots were. Other times he could hear his laughter echoing in the wind as if he was a little boy, and his father was chasing him and his brothers in the backyard. Their black Lab, Tag, ran in circles following them.
And his mother...in the kitchen baking. Humming beneath her breath. Her hot chocolate in the winter and her insistence on family dinners. Her hugs and smiles every night as they went to bed. The notes she’d put in their lunch boxes when they were in grade school...
But today wasn’t about him, so he cleared his throat. “How about other family?” he asked. “Maybe a grandparent or sibling? Perhaps they filed a missing persons report.”
Another frustrated sound escaped her. “I...don’t know. Maybe.”
“You didn’t have any ID on you when I found you, so I asked my team to have my brother to look for missing persons reports based on your description. He’s the sheriff of Whistler. I’m sure they’re working on it now.”
That seemed to relax her, and she leaned back against the wall.
“There’s something else,” Fletch said.
“What?” Her voice took on an edge. “You know something you aren’t telling me?”
He removed the ring from his pocket, then held out his palm, the wedding band nestled in the center. “I found this not far from where you were lying.” He searched her face. “Does it belong to you?”
* * *
JANE’S VISION BLURRED for a moment as she studied the wedding band. Simple white gold, tiny diamond chips embedded in the band.
Not fancy or expensive. No large ostentatious diamonds or other precious stones.
Exactly the type of ring she felt like she would choose.
Although what did she know about herself?
Fletch eased it into the palm of her hand. “Look at it. Maybe it will spark some kind of memory. If you’re married, your husband’s name, the venue or city where you held your wedding...any detail might help.”
Emotions thickened her throat as she ran one finger over the smooth band. The inside of the shelter suddenly blurred, the room swaying, and she clawed at the floor to remain upright.
Then an image. A man’s large hand. Rough and calloused. Short clipped nails. Olive skin. A tattoo of a wolf on the underside of his arm.
Long nimble fingers sliding the ring on her left hand. Her wiggling her fingers as she looked at it, testing its weight, measuring how it felt to be married.
She jerked her head toward Fletch, something akin to panic knifing through her. “It’s mine,” she whispered.
He didn’t react. Simply watched her with a calm expression. He knew how to be patient. Listen.
Extract answers.
Was he really with Search and Rescue, or did he have a police background?
“Jane, what do you remember?”
“A man’s hand, sliding the ring on my finger.”
“So you are married?”
She fought a wail of panic. “I suppose so. But all I saw was a hand, not the man’s face.” She stood and paced across the small dimly lit space. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Just give it time,” Fletch said gruffly. “Things will come back to you when you’re ready to remember them.”
“What about until then?” she cried.
“Until then you rest and regain your strength while we wait out the storm.”
She folded her arms across her middle. She needed to talk about something else. Something besides herself. “All right. Tell me about you. Do you have a wife? A family?”
He chuckled. “No, not me. But my brother Jacob just got married.”
Her legs still felt weak, so she sank onto the floor beside him. Firelight flickered across his strong, angular face, illuminating eyes that were a deep chocolate brown. His hair was dark, thick, shaggy, and at least two days’ worth of beard stubble grazed his jaw.
For a moment, her stomach fluttered. Fletch Maverick was handsome in a rugged, alpha male way. He could be dangerous.
But he carried you to safety.
Maybe she could trust him...
“Do you just have the one brother?” she asked to fill the silence.
He pulled a wallet from his back pocket, then removed a photograph and showed it to her. “There are four of us. Jacob’s the oldest, sheriff of Whistler. That’s the closest town.”
He’d mentioned him before. And Whistler? Had she been there?
He gestured toward the photograph. “That’s Griff. He’s a firefighter. And Liam’s with the FBI.”
“You’re all first responders.” All ruggedly handsome, dark hair, big bodies, muscles, arresting eyes. Especially Fletch’s. She could swear he was probing into her soul with those dark chocolate orbs.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, spiking the jagged ends.
“Impressive,” she murmured.
He shrugged, his shirt stretching across muscles that she’d felt when she’d nestled in his arms during the depths of her nightmares.
“My father was sheriff of Whistler,” he said, his voice quiet as he looked into the flames. “Five years ago, a horrific fire at the local hospital tore the town apart. Dozens of people were injured, and there were casualties. My father ran in to help and didn’t come out alive.”
Jane barely stifled a gasp. “I’m sorry, Fletch. That must have been horrible.”
“It was.” Pain streaked his face. “Jacob was Dad’s deputy back then and decided to fill Dad’s shoes after he was gone.”
A second passed, wood crackling and popping in the silence. “What started the fire?”
“Arson,” Fletch said. “Bastard who set it was never caught. That drives us all. Every time I’m on the trail, I’m on the lookout for the arsonist in case he’s living off the grid in these mountains.”
A shudder coursed up Jane’s spine. “The mountains are a perfect place to hide.”
His troubled gaze met hers in the glow of the fire, tension simmering. “He destroyed a lot of lives. We won’t give up until we find him and make him pay.”
She wanted to reach for him, touch his hand. In the quiet of the shed, his promise and the loneliness in his voice tore at her heart. Made her feel close to him, as if they shared a bond.
But firelight flickered off the wedding band, and she knotted her hands in her lap.
The ring was hers. She remembered that. And a man had given it to her.
But a wedding...vows...the man’s face...were all lost in the void that now filled her mind.
Fletch had suggested the head injury caused her amnesia. But traumatic events could cause loss of memory, too.
Keep running. One foot in front of the other. If you stop, he’ll get you.
Then his voice. You can’t escape.
What if the man she’d married was the one who’d been chasing her in the woods? What if she’d been trying to escape an abusive relationship, and her husband was the one who’d hurt her and left her for dead?
Chapter Four
Jane’s head throbbed as she struggled to sift through the dark blankness in her mind.
If she was married, was her husband looking for her? Or had he hurt her?
Domestic cases were rampant. Abusive men could be charming. Chameleons who looked handsome in one light and changed their colors in another. Had her husband disguised himself as a good man until their wedding, then revealed a sinister side after the honeymoon was over?
She closed her eyes, desperate to see his face or hear his name, but the effort cost her and intensified her headache. Agitated, she stood and walked over to the doorway of th
e lean-to. She eased the edge of the tarp open and peered outside.
A sea of white filled her vision, the heavy downpour of snowflakes across the land obliterating any signs of greenery. The sky was a smoky gray and the wind howled like a sick animal, adding to the dismal feel.
Fletch was right. It was too dangerous to hike in this blizzard.
For some reason she didn’t understand, she instinctively felt she could trust him. His voice was smoky, gruff, layered with concern and tenderness. And when he’d described his family, emotions tinged his eyes.
Although how could she trust a virtual stranger she’d just met when she obviously had doubts about the man she’d married?
For a brief second, a shadow filled her vision and the world slipped out of focus. Then faces drifted through the fog coated air... A man and woman and a child. Laughter, then the man picked up the little girl and swung her around. The woman stooped, gathered snow in her gloved hands, then threw a snowball at them. The little girl laughed and giggled, then the man and girl made snowballs and laughed and shouted as they had a snowball fight.
Jane tensed, her breathing choppy as she realized there was no one in the snow. That the image was a memory from her childhood. A sense of peace enveloped her that she had had loving parents and a happy home.
Until they’d been murdered.
The realization made her chest ache as if she’d just lost them that second. Maybe because it felt like yesterday or maybe because it was the only real memory she could hold on to.
Why could she remember a part of her childhood and not her name or her husband’s or how she’d ended up out here in the storm, bloody and bruised?
A noise startled her, and a large branch broke and tumbled to the blanket of white on the ground. Then another shadow.
An animal maybe? A wolf? Mountain lion? Bear?
There it was again. The shadow. A movement...
What if it was the man who’d hurt her? Maybe he’d hung around to make sure she was dead...