by BJ Wane
Copyright © 2021 by BJ Wane
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editors: Kate Richards & Nanette Sipes
Cover Design & Formatting: Joe Dugdale (sylv.net)
Published by Blue Dahlia 2021
Doms of Mountain Bend:
DEFENDER
Book 3
BY
BJ WANE
Disclaimer
This contemporary romantic suspense contains adult themes such as power exchange and sexual scenes. Please do not read if these offend you.
Prologue
Sadness and regret weighed Owen Marshall down as he nodded to the nurse who had led him to his daughter’s room. “Thank you,” he said before entering and gazing at his only child lying in the fetal position on the bed. Thirty-two years. How did he let so much time pass without looking for her, asking for her forgiveness? He managed to shuffle over to the bed before his weak knees gave out, forcing him into the chair. Reaching out an age-spotted, arthritic hand, he brushed her gray-streaked black hair away from her still pretty face. Resting peacefully, to look at her he’d never guess she was in the final stages of Alzheimer’s.
I waited too long, and this is my punishment. Mona had been a handful growing up, but she and her mother were close. When his wife died the summer their only child turned fifteen, he hadn’t known how to deal with her rebellious ways. He’d spent more time amassing his wealth in a growing electronics chain than he had at home, and the defiant teenager had become a stranger.
Tears blurred Owen’s vision as he struggled to come up with a way to make amends for kicking her out of his house and his life when she turned eighteen. He hadn’t expected her immediate forgiveness once he found her but had prayed he had enough time left to make up for his shortcomings as a father. Finding her as close to death as he was a crushing weight on his chest. Being unable to even talk to her would surely kill him before the two months the doctors had given him.
Soft footsteps coming up behind him signaled the nurse’s return. She leaned over Mona and adjusted the cover before turning compassionate eyes on him. “I’m sorry. She rarely rouses much these days.”
“How…” He paused to clear his throat. “How long does she have?”
“No one knows, and, here, we don’t guess. Some go quickly once they reach this stage. Others have lived well over a year. Mona slipped into the final stage about two months ago. It’s heartbreaking for everyone when she doesn’t recognize her daughter. The poor girl…are you all right?” Concern colored her voice as she reached a hand out to Owen’s shoulder to steady him when he jerked in surprise.
I have a granddaughter? Elated at this news, he swallowed past the lump in his throat. “She…does she come often, my granddaughter? Is she the one paying the bills here?”
“Yes, to both. When she can’t make it here every week, she’ll call.”
Owen closed his eyes in gratitude. Mona wasn’t alone, hadn’t been alone all this time. Somehow, that made him feel better. Getting to know his granddaughter would also go a long way in easing his last weeks. He pushed to his feet, still wobbly but determined to set as much right as possible, starting with a stop at his attorney’s office to amend his will. It was too late to put Mona back in due to her condition, but, for some reason, God had thought to bless him with another heir, and he vowed not to let her down the way he had Mona.
“Thank you. Please call me when you expect my granddaughter again, if you don’t mind, and don’t tell her of my visit. It should come from me, as well as my explanation for why she’s never met me. I have to return home, but I’d like to speak to her, if she’s willing.” He fished a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
She took it with a reassuring smile, but he could see the questions in her eyes. “Of course. Can I help you to your car?”
“I can make it, and my driver is out front.”
Gretchen followed the frail old man down to the elevator then returned to the nurse’s desk where several curious employees had gathered. Mona and her daughter had touched all of their hearts, and everyone had been surprised when Mona got another visitor after all this time. When she’d been lucid, she’d never mentioned any other family, her daughter and a few friends her only visitors until she’d reached the final stage. Like Gretchen had told the man stooped with grief, Skye had been Mona’s only visitor since.
“He looked familiar,” a nurse said.
“Wasn’t that Owen Marshall?” the receptionist asked in awe.
Gretchen nodded. “Yes. It appears our Mona Anderson is his long-lost daughter, but Mr. Marshall asked us not to say anything to her daughter. He wants to be the one to break that news to her. Now, get back to work, please.”
They split up, speculating among themselves about this new development for one of their patients and what it meant for her family. Unfortunately, they would never know.
Twenty-four hours after Owen Marshall returned to Nashville and met with his attorney, he died quietly in his sleep.
Six months later
The metallic scent of blood roused her right before the painful throbbing across her forehead. With a sense of dread, she lifted a laden hand to her face and encountered something warm and sticky. Slowly, carefully, she forced her eyes open, a frisson of fear snaking down her spine when she saw her hand covered in blood. With a confused groan, she shifted her gaze across the carpeted floor where she lay, seeing the bottom of a dresser along the wall and then a man’s sneakered foot and jean-clad leg hanging over the side of the bed she was next to.
What the heck? Nothing made sense; nothing came to mind about where she was or what happened to her. As she struggled to rise, a door opened and closed somewhere near enough to reach her ears. Alarmed, confused, she stilled, listening to footsteps moving around and then coming closer.
Just as she managed to get to her feet, a young woman’s shocked voice drew her attention to the doorway.
“Oh my God, Skye! You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.”
Didn’t what? And who is Skye? Me? God help her, she didn’t know her name, let alone the pale-faced blonde gazing at her in shock with worry and concern etched on her unfamiliar face.
The woman rushed forward before Skye could form a coherent thought, gripping her arm as she swayed. “I…I’m sorry…who are you? What…” She turned her head to see why she was so upset and went cold at the sight of the man lying on his back on the bed, his sightless eyes staring upward, the bullet hole in his chest oozing a bright-red stain across his white polo shirt.
Her knees buckled, a wave of disbelief and terror sweeping through her even as her heart clutched with sadness. She had felt something for this man she didn’t remember, something, at some time, special.
Surprise colored her voice as the woman exclaimed, “Skye, what happened? Don’t you recognize me? Harper, your best friend. How can you not know me?” She looked back at the man and winced. “I thought you were leaving before Alex got home. Are you all right? Did he hurt you? Is that why you shot him?”
“What? No!” Skye went out of her way to avoid stepping on spiders or ants. There was no way she shot that man. She shook her head, wondering why she could remember something like that yet not her name. “I don’t know what happened to him, or even who he is, or where I am.” Tears pricked her eyes when a sudden memory popped up of her and the man making love in that bed.
“Come on, then. You have to get out of here. That’s your gun, the one I bought you when you said you were st
arting to fear Alex.” Harper took her arm in a gentle grip.
Nothing made sense, and, with little choice, she let Harper steer her into a hall bathroom. “Sit down and hold this to your head.” She wet a washcloth with cold water and handed it to Skye as she sank down on the closed toilet. “You get cleaned up, and I’ll be right back.”
Panic gripped her. “Where are you going?”
“Just in the other room to see what I can do to cover for you before we leave. Trust me, Skye. I’ve always been there for you and won’t let you down now.” Harper offered a reassuring smile that failed to erase the worry darkening her eyes.
What choice did she have? She nodded, but when Harper closed the bathroom door tightly behind her, Skye decided she couldn’t bring herself to take anything or anyone at face value. With the compress pressed to her head, she turned toward the mirror and stared at a stranger. She didn’t recognize the wave of black hair, the way it curled under on the ends that reached her shoulders, or the feathery bangs now damp with blood. Chocolate eyes stared back at her, topped with long dark eyelashes and filled with trepidation. The only color on her face was her lips, and she brushed a finger over them and came away with a stain of slight color. Pushing through her fear, she gritted her teeth and found the nerve to creep to the bathroom door and open it a crack. Harper’s low, urgent voice echoed down the hall, and she didn’t know what to make of her words.
“I’m telling you I don’t know. She swears she doesn’t remember. I have to get her out of here, take her somewhere the authorities won’t find her until we figure this out.”
Harper’s conversation sent unexplainable alarm sweeping through Skye, her words describing the frightening reality of her situation all too clearly. But Harper was as much a stranger to her as the man on the bed and she was to herself, leaving her alone and adrift on a sea of uncertainty and trepidation. She crept out of the bathroom, forcing herself to return to the bedroom across the hall where she’d noticed a sliding glass door that led out back. Something, some hidden knowledge was prompting her to run, to not trust anyone just yet. Maybe it was the thought of going to prison for a horrific crime she possessed no memory of committing. That was enough to spur anyone into full-fledged panic mode.
Her identity, her past, and what had happened here might elude her, but other things she could recall with clarity. Right now, she knew she never relied on anyone for anything, was someone who had always handled her problems, her life on her own. And this, whatever had gone down here, was too important, too life-altering to turn her fate over to a stranger, even a well-meaning, concerned one.
Another image filled her head as she slipped into the bedroom, this one of an older woman with gray-streaked dark hair and a row of earrings in each ear. No name came to mind, only a sense she knew her well, and she was someone important, trustworthy, maybe even loved. There was no time to bemoan her lost memory or try to remember what wasn’t right there. Keeping her eyes averted from the bed, she found a purse and quickly checked inside. The driver’s license picture was the same person she’d seen in the bathroom mirror, the name, Skye Anderson, the same as her “friend” labeled her.
Clutching it to her, she listened for a second, still hearing the low mutterings of Harper in the other room, just not what she was saying. Hurrying as fast as her shaky legs and pounding head allowed, she checked the closet, grabbed a few shirts and jeans that appeared to fit her, an extra pair of shoes, and then a canvas tote she stuffed underwear and socks in from the dresser.
When she paused to listen for Harper again and didn’t hear anything, she dashed out the door and made her way around the house to an older model, blue Oldsmobile Alero in the drive that looked vaguely familiar. Praying it was hers, she tossed the clothes in the back, retrieved a set of keys from the purse, and slid behind the wheel. The engine purred to life as Harper came running out the front door, waving to her in frantic agitation.
Feeling guilty, Skye lifted her hand and backed out of the drive, taking off down the street without a clue where to go from here. She got as far as the nearest shopping center when the shakes forced her to pull over. Nothing made sense, she thought after stopping. Certain streets and buildings were familiar, others weren’t. Her relationships with the woman, Harper, and the dead man were as much of a blank as her life prior to rousing with a head injury in that bedroom, which she didn’t recognize.
Swallowing back nausea, she reached for her purse on the passenger seat, hoping it held clues to more than her name. She pulled out the driver’s license again, staring at her face. Images of an older woman with the same midnight hair and dark-brown eyes flashed through her head until pain urged her to close her eyes. Leaning her head against the seat, she took shallow breaths until the discomfort subsided, wondering if she should stop in at a health clinic to get checked out. Then she recalled the body and nixed that idea.
How long did she have before the cops started looking for her, naming her a person of interest, or worse, a suspect in her husband’s death? Husband. Strange to think she’d been married to the man, lived with him for who knew how long, slept with him, and yet possessed no recollection of their life together. She shuddered to think of going to prison for something she didn’t even remember doing, or what could have been so awful as to drive her to commit such an act.
Searching through her purse again, she found a bank ATM card, checkbook, and cell phone. Turning on the phone, the first number that popped up was to the Mercy Convalescent Home. Without a clue who she knew there, she went through the other contacts and found numbers for Harper Donaldson and Alex Gregory. Glancing at her driver’s license again, she noted her last name Anderson, which raised more questions. Were they married recently and there hadn’t been time to change her identification to her new name, or did she opt to keep her maiden name? It was strange how she knew some things, but others were a complete blank. The city she was in was Boise, Idaho, the month, August, but she hadn’t a clue how long she had lived here, what she did for a living, or if she had family other than a now-dead husband.
Thinking too hard increased the pounding in her head, so she decided to shove aside all questions and searches for answers until the wound healed or until she heard the police were looking for her. At that point, she couldn’t see a way around turning herself in and praying for the best. She hoped to God she wasn’t the type of person who would commit cold-blooded murder.
Chapter One
Stress, fear, and confusion forced Skye to leave Boise a week later. After going to the bank and cashing a check for as much from her limited funds as she could, she’d holed up in a motel room for the past six days. In all that time, not a word had been aired about the murder of a man named Alex Gregory. Between checking the Internet on her phone until it died and staying glued to every local newscast, she’d lived on edge waiting to hear a warrant had been issued for her arrest. But – nothing. Not a word, and that was scarier than her lapsed memory.
With no one to turn to, and fearing to trust anyone at this point, she left the comfort of staying around familiar surroundings, concerned about running into someone who knew her and would grow suspicious when she didn’t recognize them. She was in no position to answer personal questions. Exhaustion dragged her down as she drove the endless stretch of highway, recognizing the wide-open ranges of prairie land and looming mountain peaks. A small group of white-tailed deer caught her attention, and she envied them their freedom. The gaps about her life continued to hold her prisoner, and now she was concerned about the only person who claimed to know and care about her. Did something happen to Harper to prevent her from calling in Alex’s death, or had she been lying about their friendship? Skye prayed she wouldn’t have another death on her conscience if she ever got her life back.
The next hint of civilization was a sign announcing the city limits of Mountain Bend. Noting the small population, Skye contemplated the merits of sticking close to an area where no one knew her, where she could move about without fretti
ng over running into anyone from a life that still eluded her. Taking the next exit, she found the renovated mining town with no problem, and breathed easier when nothing looked familiar. Following the signs, she drove through the one-street business section, saw the sheriff’s office and courthouse, and decided not to push her luck by stretching her legs on this street. She assumed the few cars and people were because it was Saturday.
Around the corner sat the library, and, turning down that street, she parked and took in the quaint shops, deli, grocery, and feedstore. Cars, trucks, and SUVs lined both sides of the street, and shoppers were out in abundance. Leaning her head back, she blew out a breath when the instant recollection of a nearby tourist attraction of a restored, 1800s mining town popped into her head, but no memory of having visited the place. Her stomach rumbled, but she was too tired to take the time to eat inside at the deli or find something at the grocery. Hoping there was at least one fast-food joint, she drove down the street and found one at the next turn.
Conscious of her dwindling finances, she picked up a burger and bottled water and continued out of town again, still unsure of her plans. She ate while she drove, but a full stomach just increased her fatigue. With her eyes drooping and nerves shot for the day, Skye veered off the main road at the first turnoff and slowed her driving through the wooded, off-the-beaten-path until she could no longer see or hear the traffic. Stopping, she peered through the sparse trees and made out yet another pastureland, this one dotted with grazing black cattle.
Maybe she could stick around here for a while, she contemplated, sipping her water. If she could find a campground with facilities, that would save money until something gave way – like a return of her memory. She had a medical card in her purse, and Mountain Bend was sure to have at least a doctor’s office. That could be an option in another week or two, if she still couldn’t remember, and if there remained no news on Alex’s death. She was paranoid enough to delay buying another phone charger and accessing her cell Internet, but the library in town was an option for researching media announcements.