by Rita Herron
“A few hours. I removed the bullet and bandaged your leg.” She wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. “Hopefully tomorrow you’ll feel better.”
“Have to get you out of here.” He used his elbows to prop up, but she gently coaxed him to lie back down.
“You need to rest. It’s dark now.”
“You have my gun?”
She patted the pocket of her jacket. “It’s right here.”
“Where did you learn to shoot?” he asked, his voice breaking as he fought sleep.
Jane racked her brain for the answer. “I don’t know. It just came instinctively.”
“Because you’ve had training,” Fletch murmured. “And you can fight...”
Jane massaged her temple. “Maybe I took self-defense classes. Or... I think my father had a gun. He must have taught me.”
Fletch’s brows furrowed, and he blinked as if trying to stay awake. Then slowly his lids closed and he succumbed to the fatigue. Jane patted his shoulder, then checked outside again. Thankfully she didn’t see anyone lurking around or hear sounds of an intruder.
Her head ached, so she returned to sit by the fire beside Fletch and keep vigil. If his fever spiked higher, she’d use his radio to call for help.
The night loomed long and cold and lonely, though, and eventually when he was resting peacefully, she stretched out beside him again. Her bones felt chilled from the cold, so she crawled beneath the blanket and curled close to him.
Fletch was right. Shared body heat definitely was better than going it on your own. His big muscular body radiated such warmth, strength and power that it lulled her into a sense of safety. She suddenly wanted to tell him everything.
“Fletch,” Jane said softly.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know if it’s important, but I’ve been having a recurring nightmare. Maybe it’s a memory. I don’t really know.” She rubbed his back, needing comfort. “I keep seeing dead people in my mind. Couples who’ve been murdered. I...don’t know if it’s real or not.”
Different scenarios raced through her mind. Maybe those faces belonged to a story she’d seen on the news. Or...maybe she was a journalist who’d covered the murders. Or...maybe she knew one of the victims personally...
Or...what if someone wanted her dead because she’d witnessed one of the murders?
* * *
FLETCH FLOATED IN and out of reality. Haunted by his father’s death and the fire that had stolen his life, for a minute he was back in Whistler. He and his brothers were breaking the news of his father’s death to his mother. He felt helpless as she fell apart. Chaos in the town followed over the next few days as reality hit. Numerous people were dead. Cora’s baby was missing. Shock spread as police revealed that someone had intentionally set the fire.
He jerked himself from the tragic memory, his body shaking with emotions. Behind him, a warm body touched his.
“Shh, it’s okay, Fletch.”
A woman’s voice. Soft. Her fingers caressed his back in a soothing gesture.
He turned toward her. Wanted her closer. To feel her comforting arms.
Soft breasts pressed against his chest. Her breathing turned erratic. A leg wove between his.
His heart pounded, heat flaring inside him, and he drew her closer. Couldn’t help himself. It had been a long damn time since he’d been with a woman. Since he’d allowed himself to let down his defenses.
Since he’d felt so needy.
Part of him didn’t like it. Yet her breath bathed his neck, and he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled her tighter against him, then lowered his head and closed his lips over hers.
Hunger seized him, and he moved his mouth across hers, seeking, tasting, savoring the sweet touch of her lips. She returned the kiss, stroking his calf with her foot as his tongue explored her hungrily. He threaded his hands through her hair and tilted her head back to taste the sensitive skin of her neck.
She made a low sound in her throat, then pressed kisses on his jaw and cheek as she tunneled her fingers through his hair. He moaned and rolled her sideways to climb above her when a pain shot through his leg.
At the same time, she flattened her hands on his chest. “Fletch, wake up,” she whispered. “We can’t do this.”
The sound of her voice startled him back to reality and out of the depths of his dream. Only he wasn’t dreaming.
He’d been kissing Jane.
Her eyes were doe-like in the dim firelight, her mouth parted, lips red and swollen from his kiss. Silently cursing, he pushed himself off her and rolled to his back a few inches away.
“Dammit, Jane, I’m sorry.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, half delirious from the desire still pumping through him.
The air became charged. Heated.
“I can’t believe I did that,” Fletch murmured. “I...was dreaming. But...that’s no excuse.” Maybe on some level he’d known exactly what he was doing.
And that he was doing it with Jane.
But he’d crossed the line. Jane was a married woman with amnesia.
A woman he was supposed to keep his damn hands off and protect.
* * *
JANE TURNED AWAY from Fletch and pressed her fingers to her lips. She could still feel his sexy mouth moving over hers, feel his hands stroking her hair and back. Feel his thick length pressing against her belly.
He had been asleep.
She’d been asleep as well, lost in the throes of memories that threatened her sanity.
One moment she’d dreamt about a suburban neighborhood where she’d gathered with friends. The men were grilling burgers while the women spread side dishes and desserts across a picnic table. While the meat barbecued, she sipped wine and chatted with the ladies who were discussing the latest book club pick.
The houses were traditional, owned by thirtysomething married couples who shared common interests and a neighborhood swimming pool where the children laughed and played in the summer.
Diamond chips sparkled on her wedding band in the sunlight as she’d reached for her wine glass.
Only nowhere in the picture did she see her husband.
She certainly didn’t remember climbing in bed with him at night.
Loneliness permeated her soul, and she’d felt Fletch’s arms around her. She hadn’t been able to resist his warmth and comfort.
But it was wrong. Kissing Fletch when she knew nothing about herself except that someone wanted her dead.
What if the couples at that neighborhood gathering were the ones murdered?
“Jane? I’m sorry,” Fletch said again.
She shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize, Fletch. We were both half asleep.” She lifted her chin and turned to face him. “Nothing really happened, so let’s forget about it.”
His gaze latched with hers, questions and doubt darkening his eyes. She wished she could give him the answers he needed. The ones she craved herself.
“I’ll be right back.” Needing fresh air, she grabbed the tin Fletch had used to melt snow in for coffee, stepped outside and studied the desolate terrain. Thick layers of white still blanketed everything in sight. Tree limbs hung heavy and bowed beneath the weight of frozen ice. Melting snow dripped from branches and puddles had begun to form, turning the frozen ground into a slushy mess.
Early morning sunlight fought through the treetops and slanted rays across the ground and rocks. She gathered enough snow to melt for coffee and some more small twigs and branches, then carried them inside.
Fletch had managed to sit up and was digging through his pack. She made quick work of adding the twigs and sticks to the fire, then stoked it and set the tin of snow on top. They worked silently but in tandem and made coffee. While they sipped it, she warmed her hands over the fire.
“Last night, you mentioned something about couples being murdere
d.” He studied her over his coffee. “What was that about?”
She traced her finger around the rim of the tin mug. “I was dreaming. I don’t know if what I saw was real or nightmares. Everything’s all jumbled in my mind.”
He remained silent for a moment, the air between them filled with a sensual awareness she didn’t want to feel for Fletch. One she couldn’t act upon, not again.
She might as well talk it out. They’d be back to civilization again soon, and his brother, the sheriff, might be able to fill in the blanks.
“I dreamed about murders,” she said. “I saw faces of women and men who’d been killed, pictures of their bodies all bloody and ghostlike as if I was there. I don’t know if I saw them on the news or if there’s more to it. If it was real and if it’s connected to me.”
Fletch’s eyes darkened. “Did you recognize any of the victims?”
She massaged her temple where a headache pulsed. “No, although in another dream I saw myself at a neighborhood barbecue in the suburbs. There were couples there.”
Fletch leaned forward, his expression earnest. “Was one of the victims at the neighborhood gathering?”
She closed her eyes, struggling to discern the faces, but everything was blurred, filled with scattered bits that didn’t fit together like different puzzles where the pieces had been mixed up.
“I...don’t know, Fletch.” She raised her head and looked into his eyes, terrified of remembering.
Terrified of not.
* * *
FLETCH STRUGGLED TO shake the memory of that kiss from his mind. But it was damn hard.
Especially when he looked at Jane’s vulnerable expression and wanted her again.
“It’s a good sign that you’re starting to remember things,” he said. “Those bits and pieces may not make sense now, but eventually you’ll figure out what it all means.”
She bit her bottom lip, her eyes filled with doubt. “I was thinking, Fletch. What if someone showed up at that dinner party and murdered my friends?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You mean a mass shooting?” He ran a hand through his hair. “That would certainly be traumatizing. I don’t recall hearing anything about a mass shooting at a neighborhood barbecue recently, and that kind of thing makes national news. But I can ask Jacob to explore that angle. It might be a lead.”
“The man I shot could have been the shooter, and he wanted to silence me because I witnessed the murders.”
“That’s a possibility,” Fletch said. If it was a triggering event, it might give them a timeline for how long Jane had been held captive. And with the evidence he’d collected, it might lead them to a name.
Although if the man had committed multiple murders, he obviously had no conscience, so why hadn’t he shot Jane and ended her life, too?
Fletch eased the bandage on his leg away from his wound to examine it. Jane had stitched up the incision like an expert. The wound was clean, no signs of infection.
There was definitely more to Jane than what was on the surface.
Jane’s hair fell in a curtain over her cheek as she checked the incision. He had the insane urge to push it away from her face and draw her back to him for another mind-blowing kiss.
But that would be stupid. And unprofessional.
Suddenly anxious to get them off the mountain, he sat up. Another night with Jane alone and he might give in to his attraction toward her.
He needed to consult with his brother. If a mass murder had occurred as Jane suggested, Liam might be working the case.
Jane handed him a fresh bandage, and he applied it while she packed up the supplies and extinguished the fire. He gritted his teeth and pushed to stand, testing his weight on his leg. Surprisingly it held up.
“Are you sure you can walk?” Jane asked, her voice filled with concern. “You could call your team to send medics after you.”
He damn well did not want to go down the mountain on a stretcher, not unless he had to. His team was needed elsewhere.
“I’m fine.” He raised a brow. “My gun?”
She gestured toward the floor beside where they’d lain entwined. “Give it to me,” he said. “We might need it on the way.”
He hoped to hell not, but precautions were necessary. For all he knew, the man who’d shot him might not have been acting alone.
She handed him his weapon. She’d already set the safety, so he jammed it in the waist of his pants.
His radio beeped in, and Jane retrieved it from his pack and handed it to him. He pressed it to his ear and stepped outside, motioning for her to wait inside while he scanned the area for danger.
“Fletch, it’s Todd. Jacob’s here.”
Fletch froze, heart hammering. “I’m here. Over.”
“I heard you were shot. Are you okay, man?” Worry sharpened his brother’s voice.
“Yeah, Jane Doe removed the bullet and stitched me up.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Where is she?”
“We holed up in a shelter last night, and are about to set out. She’s inside waiting for me to give her the all clear.” He was just about to tell Jacob about the mass murder theory but Jacob cut him off.
“Good. Let her wait a minute.”
Fletch didn’t like the raw edge to his brother’s voice. “What’s going on?”
“Fletch, a woman matching the description of your Jane Doe is wanted for murdering her husband in Asheville.” Jacob paused, his breathing strained. “Be careful, man. Her name is Bianca, and, according to the report, she’s dangerous.”
Chapter Nine
Fletch glanced back at the doorway where Jane stood. She looked pale yet beautiful in the early morning light. Her dark hair hung in waves over her shoulders, her green eyes serious as she searched the area.
Jacob’s statement echoed in his ears. Jane matches the description of a woman wanted for murdering her husband in Asheville. Her name is Bianca, and she’s dangerous.
“Are you sure?” Fletch asked.
“I talked to an officer there myself,” Jacob said. “He texted me a picture of the crime scene. It was a bloody mess. Husband, Victor Renard, was shot square between the eyes.”
Just like the man Jane had shot.
She had known how to handle the gun. Had made a shot that, for a beginner, was almost impossible. But she’d killed him in self-defense.
That heated kiss taunted him.
Dammit, just when he’d started to trust her...
“There has to be more to the story,” he said, angry with himself for allowing Jane to get under his skin. “When I found her, she was bruised and suffering from a head injury. After we started hiking, we came on another shelter where we found rope and a rag. Jane claims she was tied and gagged and left there.”
A heartbeat of silence passed. Jacob cleared his throat. “Could she be lying?”
Jacob scrubbed a hand over his face as memories of another woman lying to him flashed back. Hannah Miller. She’d fooled him with her damsel-in-distress act.
But this was different. Wasn’t it? “Her injuries are real and she was almost dead when I found her. Rope burns marked her wrists and ankles. And I saw the gash on the back of her head.” He couldn’t imagine the wound being self-inflicted.
“What did she tell you about what happened?”
“So far not much. She appears to have amnesia. Could be caused from the head injury or trauma.”
Another moment of silence. “Do you believe her?”
“Yeah, I do. Her frustration over her memory loss seems genuine.” Fletch paused. “She also mentioned having nightmares where she thinks she might have witnessed a mass murder. Something about a neighborhood barbecue.”
Jacob cleared his throat. “Let me dig around some more and see what I can find out on Bianca and her hu
sband. And I’ll look into mass murders although nothing about one at a neighborhood barbecue rings a bell.”
“Thanks. We’re heading out to hike down the mountain now.”
Jacob’s breath rattled over the line. “Be careful, little brother. And watch your back. If Jane Doe is Bianca Renard and she’s on the run from the law, she could turn on you at any minute.”
Fletch assured him he’d stay alert for trouble. Although he’d given Jane his gun the night before and she’d done nothing except take care of him.
Which meant her amnesia was real or she was a damn good liar.
Either way, he’d watch her every second.
* * *
JANE SENSED SOMETHING different with Fletch as they started down the mountain. Ever since that radio transmission, he’d been quiet and suspicion laced his eyes as if he was scrutinizing her every move.
Finally, a mile down the mountain, she leaned against a tree to catch her breath and confronted him. “What’s wrong, Fletch? Do you have information about me?”
Fletch rubbed at his thigh. It was obviously hurting him, but he hadn’t complained or allowed it to slow him down. “First, you tell me—have you remembered who you are?”
Jane’s pulse hammered at the distrust in his voice. “No, why? Do you know who I am?”
Fletch shrugged. “Jacob received a missing persons report on a woman matching your description.”
Jane’s breath stalled in her chest. She sensed she wasn’t going to like what Fletch had to tell her. “What is my name?”
“He’s not a hundred percent sure it’s you,” Fletch warned. “I couldn’t send him pics because there’s no phone reception here on this part of the mountain.”
Anxiety needled Jane. “Just tell me what he said, Fletch.”
Fletch released a weary sigh. “The woman’s name is Bianca Renard.”
Jane shifted, mentally repeating the name in her head. Bianca... That didn’t seem right.
In fact, Jane felt more like her name than Bianca.