by Rita Herron
* * *
FLETCH STOKED THE fire as he watched Jane at the door to the shelter. She was obviously struggling. How would it feel to wake up with no memory of your name or your life?
Although some things he wanted to forget, like the day his father died. Talking about his family reminded him of the huge hole in his heart left by his father’s death. In his mind, he saw the last few minutes they’d talked. They were having coffee at the diner when the call about the fire had come in.
They were joking about the local high school football game and the quarterback who’d put Whistler High on the map with his record stats. Fletch’s mother was home making her famous pot roast with the baby carrots and peas that he and his father requested once a week. Griff had asked for peach cobbler for dessert. Liam wanted her biscuits. And Jacob her sweet tea.
It had been an ordinary day. A hint of impending rain in the air, but no sign that Whistler was about to experience the worst tragedy in the history of the town.
Then the call... His father leaped up immediately, told him about the fire. Fletch wanted to ride with him, but his father said he’d meet him later at dinner. Neither one of them had any idea how serious the situation was.
Sirens from the fire truck raced by. Griff was on duty, so he would probably be late for dinner just like his father. He decided to keep his mother company till then.
So Fletch paid the bill while his father jumped in his car and raced to his death.
Pain and guilt squeezed at his lungs. If only he’d stuck with his dad, maybe he could have saved him...
Two hours later, just as his mother pulled the peach cobbler from the oven, Jacob called. He’d barely been coherent and said it was mass chaos. They needed more manpower to help evacuate patients from the hospital. Some might be trapped.
Fletch and Liam left their mother to keep the food warm while they drove like maniacs to the hospital. Just as Jacob said, the scene was chaos. Hospital patients in wheelchairs and on gurneys filled the parking lot. Staff members struggled to get out while tending to the needy. Firefighters raced in, geared up, to rescue victims and evacuate the building while other firefighters worked to extinguish the blaze and keep it from spreading. Screams and cries echoed from terrified staff and patients.
As soon as they parked, they hit the ground running and dove in to help. The heat from the blaze seared his skin. Flames burst into the night sky like an orange fireball. They had to hurry.
The next half hour he and his brothers helped carry the injured and sick outside.
Then Jacob emerged, shouting their names. He was pale and panting as he dragged their father out of the inferno.
Jane made a startled sound, jerking Fletch from the depths of the tragic memory. She clenched the tarp edge, her eyes wide.
Fletch hurried to her. “What is it?”
“I thought I saw someone,” she whispered. “A shadow moving. Maybe a man.”
Fletch urged her behind him, then peered out into the storm. Trees bent and swayed in the throes of the turbulent wind gusts, and snow swirled in a hazy sea of white.
She was right. Fletch saw the shadow. Something moved about a hundred feet away. His body tensed, senses honed as he searched the wilderness.
Wait... There it was. A movement again.
The bruises on Jane’s body taunted him. If the person who’d hurt her was still out there, he might have tracked them here.
Fletch rushed to his pack and removed his pistol. Jane’s eyes widened as she watched him, fear glittering in the depths. He lifted one finger to his lips in a silent gesture to keep quiet.
He carried the gun with him to the door of the shelter, braced it at the ready and waited.
* * *
FOR A MOMENT when Fletch retrieved his gun, Jane froze in fear. But the protective gleam in his eyes when he urged her behind him gave her a sense of safety. At least she wasn’t facing this situation alone.
“Do you see anything?” she whispered behind him.
“A movement,” he murmured. “Can’t tell what it is yet. Could be an animal or a hiker who got caught in the storm looking for refuge.”
Which meant he would help them.
Only the tense set of Fletch’s shoulders indicated he was prepared for trouble.
Tension vibrated in the small confines of the lean-to, Jane’s worry rising with each passing second. If only she could remember what happened to her, she could give Fletch insight as to her attacker’s identity.
And if he might still be looking for her.
The blizzard raged on, visibility worsening as the precipitation thickened. Fletch suddenly stiffened and tightened his fingers around his weapon. He’d seen something.
Jane searched the thick snowdrifts, anxiety needling her. An image of a gun in her hand suddenly flashed behind her eyes. A second later, the image disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her confused.
And with more questions.
Did she know how to use a gun? Did she own one?
The few things she’d remembered about her father taunted her. He hadn’t been a violent man and she didn’t recall him hunting, yet he’d kept a gun locked in a drawer in his study.
She closed her eyes and willed a mental picture of him to surface. His study, the big chair by the fire where they worked the crossword puzzles. Wall-to-wall bookcases held leather-bound books. She raked her gaze over the shelves, trying to decipher the titles. Had he liked novels? Mysteries? Were they nonfiction books?
She massaged her temple again, and saw the words Law Review on the spine of a large black book.
Was her father a lawyer?
Fletch shifted beside her, and she opened her eyes. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he heaved a breath.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Bear. She’s moved on up the mountain.” He pointed to a ridge in the distance. “Probably looking for a place to hibernate.”
A chill went through Jane. “Do you think she’ll come back here?”
“Could, but I doubt it. Looked like a mama. Saw a cub farther up the trail, so she went toward her baby.”
Relief softened Jane’s fears, and she walked back to the fire and sat down on the blanket again. Adrenaline waning, exhaustion took over.
“You okay?” Fletch asked.
He remained at the door, gun in his hand, like some kind of rugged lawman. But his eyes pierced her with worry.
“Just a headache, and I’m tired,” she said softly.
“Lie down and sleep a while. I’ll keep watch and wake you if the storm lets up.”
His gruff voice was so comforting that she murmured thanks, then succumbed to fatigue and stretched out, wrapping the blanket around her. Firelight flickered, the kindling popping in the quiet of the shelter. Yet outside, the wind howled, brutal and deadly.
Knowing Fletch was watching over her, she closed her eyes and let sleep claim her.
But in her sleep, the nightmares came. The blood... She was running... Death was near. She couldn’t escape it...
* * *
FLETCH KEPT WATCH by the doorway, ears alert for sounds of someone approaching.
He tried his radio again as the hours passed, aware each time Jane startled awake from a bad dream. Her sleep was restless, as if she was fighting off her demons—or her attacker all over again.
Late afternoon, Jane roused, mumbling incoherently. She shouted no, then opened her eyes, trembling as she looked around the shelter. She was still lost in the nightmare, her eyes glazed, her hands clawing at the covers as if she needed to hide beneath them.
“Shh, it’s all right, you’re safe now,” Fletch murmured.
At the sound of his voice, Jane turned her head toward him.
“It’s Fletch, Jane. You fell asleep and were dreaming.”
She inhaled deeply, chest risi
ng and falling with her labored breathing.
“I found you in the snow, collapsed. Do you remember me?”
She slowly nodded, then shoved her tangled hair from her face.
“Did you remember something else?” he asked.
For a moment, her eyes looked blank, then finally she shook her head.
“I’m going to gather more wood, and then I’ll make us something to eat.”
She didn’t speak, so he decided to give her a few minutes to acclimate. He stowed his gun in the waistband of his pants, removed the small pot he carried in his emergency pack and stepped outside. He scanned the land as he left the shelter, then collected more sticks for the fire. He set those inside to dry, then dipped some snow into the pot.
The wind force was so strong that snow had blown across the land and formed knee-deep drifts. His face stung, the fog so thick he couldn’t see three feet in front of him. A noise made him jerk to the left and reach for his weapon, but it was only a large branch breaking off in the wind.
He hurried back to the shelter, anxious to make sure Jane was okay. He sensed she’d remembered something, but she hadn’t wanted to share it.
When he entered the shelter, he found her hunched beneath the blanket, watching him warily.
“I tried the radio again, but it’s still down,” he said softly. “Hopefully the storm will let up by morning and we can get through.” He set the pot over the fire on the grate, then fastened the tarp again.
While the snow melted and the water began to boil, he retrieved two packets of dried soup mix from his bag along with two tin mugs. He dumped the soup mix into the mugs, then poured water over it and stirred. He carried Jane a mug and she reached for it, her hand shaking.
“I figured you were hungry. You need to eat to regain your strength.”
She licked her lips. “You’re prepared.”
He shrugged. “That’s what I do.” While she sipped the hot soup, he sat down by the fire and did the same.
An eerie quiet settled through the shelter. The sound of their breathing mingled with the raging wind outside that beat at the lean-to.
“You want to talk?” he finally asked.
She heaved a breath and shook her head. “I’m just tired.”
Concern filled him and he rose, walked over and gently touched her forehead to see if she had a fever. Her skin felt cool, though.
“Mind if I look at that gash on the back of your head? I’d like to clean the wound to prevent an infection.”
She murmured permission, and he retrieved his first aid kit from his bag. She set her empty mug on the floor and turned her back to him. He gently eased her hair away from the wound and wiped the blood with alcohol wipes. She winced slightly when he touched it, but as he cleaned it, he realized it wasn’t as deep as he’d first thought.
“Looks like it’ll heal on its own,” he said. “Not so deep you need stitches.”
“That’s good,” she said softly.
“Yeah.” The emotions in her voice made him want to squeeze her shoulder for comfort, but he stepped back. “You cried out in your dreams,” he said. “What was that about?”
Her eyes widened, and she turned back to look at the fire, then tugged the blanket around her again. “I was running from a man, but I still couldn’t see his face.”
“Was that all?”
She nodded, then leaned her head onto her knees. Fletch studied her, his jaw tight.
Why did he have the sense she was lying to him? That she’d seen something she didn’t want to tell him about?
Chapter Five
Jane paced across the shelter to avoid eye contact with Fletch. She had had crazy dreams while she slept, bits and pieces of a jumbled life and images triggered by her fears.
At this point, she didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.
A corkboard hung on the wall on the far end of the small shelter, an assortment of handwritten notes and messages tacked onto it that visitors had left to mark their stay or to pass on to others hiking the trail.
She studied the board and the crude messages, listing dates and times people had sought refuge from the elements, or when they were just weary from hiking the miles and miles of wilderness. Most who planned to hike from Georgia to Maine gave up somewhere along the way.
The terrain, weather conditions, long days of isolation and the physical exertion were too difficult. Enthusiasm for adventure waned as injuries and illness occurred, bitter cold set in, and insects and rodents infested the lean-tos with dangerous bacteria. Longing for hot showers and warm food intensified as the monotony of trail mix and dried food became increasingly harder to endure.
One message caught her eye. A note with dried flowers shaped into a heart. She smiled at the thought that a couple might be leaving each other love notes along the way.
She closed her eyes, willing images of her husband to surface. If he hadn’t hurt her, then maybe someone else had, and her husband was searching for her.
Hands knotted, she scanned the others and noticed another one, more cryptic. I’LL FIND YOU.
Her heart hammered as her attacker’s words echoed in her mind, and she looked down at her hands. Blood still stained her skin and darkened her fingernails.
“Jane, are you all right?” Fletch’s gruff voice broke into her thoughts.
She hated living in the dark. She wanted answers. If she wasn’t trapped here, she’d go to the police. What would they do?
“We probably should take samples under my nails to give to the police when we get out of here, in case I scratched my attacker.”
Fletch’s brows rose. “I thought about that, but I didn’t want to do so without your permission.”
Her gaze met his, and for a moment doubts set in again, kidnapping cases taunting her. If Fletch had attacked her, he could have brought her here and pretended to take care of her to win her trust.
She’d heard of kidnappers keeping victims in seclusion until they developed Stockholm syndrome.
“Jane?”
She frowned, wondering why that thought had occurred to her. Logically her theory made sense, but when Fletch examined her wound, his touch had been gentle, not harsh like a man who’d ever hurt a woman. If Fletch had wanted to kill her, he could have left her in the woods to freeze to death.
The radio buzzed, a sound that startled her in the silence.
Fletch jumped to his feet and hurried toward his radio. He tapped the receiver. “Fletch here. Over.”
A rattling sound. More static.
“Fletch here. Can you hear me?”
“Todd. Checking on your status.”
“Holding our own at the shelter. News?”
“Blizzard supposed to pass around four a.m. Warming tomorrow.”
Jane sucked in a breath. Once the snow stopped and the temperature rose, they could get off the mountain.
What would happen then?
“About the missing woman, Jacob called.”
Fletch glanced up at Jane. “Go on.”
“Said...” A sudden gust of wind snapped the air, the sound of tree limbs falling outside thundering as limbs crashed against the shelter.
“Todd?”
“S...” Static crackled and popped, cutting off the man’s voice.
Fletch made several more attempts to reconnect but failed.
A frisson of nerves danced along Jane’s spine. Jacob was Fletch’s brother, the sheriff of Whistler.
Had he learned her identity?
* * *
FLETCH SILENTLY CURSED as the radio died again. Dammit. Jacob might have figured out Jane’s identity or if she had family looking for her.
Knowing who she was might lead them to answers about her attacker.
He tried the radio again, but static popped and the connection failed.
Exhaling in frustration, he decided to wait a little while before making another attempt. At least his team knew their location, and for now, Jane was safe.
“You were right about your nails,” he said quietly. “There might be DNA there.”
She stretched her hands in front of her and studied them. “I do want to know,” she said, although fear laced her voice.
He removed a small tool and a baggie from his pack, then walked over to her. Her eyes flickered with unease at the sight of the tool.
He offered it to her. “You can do it if you want.”
Relief echoed in the breath she exhaled. “No. I...trust you.”
Their gazes locked for a brief second, heat flaring to life in the dim confines of the shelter. The days were shorter now, and night was already setting in. He stooped down beside her, then eased her small hand in his. Her fingers were long and slim, her nails broken and jagged from the attack. Her ivory skin looked pale in contrast to his bronzed skin, her hand soft and delicate next to his calloused one. Her eyes bored into his for a second before she broke eye contact.
She was a beautiful woman. Her features were put together in a sexy kind of way, her eyes a pale startling green. At the moment, they were intense and full of pain and questions.
A hint of sexual awareness tugged inside him, heating his blood.
Dammit, not the time. He had to wrangle his libido under control.
Focusing on his task, he lifted one finger of hers, gently eased the tip of the tool beneath her nail and scraped particles of dried blood and dirt. Hopefully there were skin cells from her attacker, too.
When he finished, he handed her sanitizing wipes to clean her hands.
She thanked him, then used another wipe over her face and throat. The slender column of her neck was smooth but marred with a bruise as well, as if someone had tried to strangle her. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the discoloration was showing, handprints evident on her skin.
Son of a bitch. Only a coward would hurt a woman.
Fresh anger shot through him at the thought. Strangulation could have dangerous aftereffects not recognized at an initial examination.