by Paula Graves
“Much,” Jane answered before Joe could say anything. “I’ve had enough guns pointed at me for a lifetime.”
Riley’s expression softened a bit. “I reckon you have at that.” He looked back at Joe. “I hear you got winged.”
“It’s nothing,” he answered. “I heard you talking to a killer.”
Riley’s eyebrows notched upward. “A killer?”
“The man you were talking to here earlier. Clint Holbrook.”
Riley frowned. “Agent Holbrook? You know him?”
“Agent Holbrook?” Joe asked.
“With the FBI,” Riley said.
“He’s lying to you,” Joe said. “That man killed a woman in Trinity, Idaho. I saw him kill two Idaho deputies with my own eyes. He shot at Jane and me. He followed us to Reno, Nevada, and sent two bullies to beat up Jane’s father. He’s no more an FBI agent than-”
“Riley’s right,” Jane interrupted.
Joe turned to look at her. “What?”
She looked up at him, her expression troubled. “Clint really is an FBI agent,” she said.
THE MEMORIES had come in a rush. The flash of the badge. The confident air. The knowing look he’d given her as he waited for her to acknowledge his presence.
It had been five days after her eighteenth birthday, and she had been waiting in line at the bus station in Reno, waiting to see how far the $372.00 in her pocket would get her.
He’d quietly come to stand by her, outside the line. She’d felt his interested gaze and finally turned to look at him, and that’s when he’d showed her the badge.
“He said he’d had his eye on me for a while,” she told Joe and Riley, her shaking hands tearing strips out of a paper napkin on the table in front of her.
“Why?” Riley asked, returning to the table with a couple cups of coffee. He set one in front of Joe and slid the other across the table to Jane.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s just a piece of a memory. I don’t know what happened next.”
“Maybe he lied to you, too,” Joe suggested.
“Joe, I checked him out as soon as he showed up a few days ago,” Riley said. “He’s who he says he is. The Denver field office confirmed he’s a profiler who usually works out of headquarters in D.C. Denver claims Holbrook happened to be in Idaho on vacation when he heard about the murder in Trinity, and he called the Denver office to set things into motion to offer his services as a profiler.”
“He played his own people, in other words,” Joe said.
“That would be my guess,” Riley agreed.
“Why did you hang up on me when I called from Boise?” Joe asked, his expression still a little wary as he looked at his old friend. Tension radiated from him, contagious. It made Jane’s stomach hurt.
“Holbrook sent an agent from the Jackson Hole resident agency to babysit me until he could get here. The guy was walking in just as you called.” Riley gave Joe a pointed look. “I was hoping you’d call me at home.”
“I couldn’t risk it.” Joe glanced at Jane. She met his gaze, remembering their whirlwind tour of Boise as they tried to shake Clint and the Idaho authorities off their trail and make it to Reno unscathed.
“Why’d you come back, then?”
Joe turned his gaze back to Riley. “Because I needed help from people I trust. That’s you, isn’t it?”
Riley looked hurt. “God, Joe, how can you even ask that after all these years?”
“We’ve been shot at, framed and chased all over Reno,” Joe responded, his voice tight. “Trust is a bit of a problem for me at the moment.”
“You can trust me. I swear that on Emily’s memory.”
Joe’s eyes grew bright with emotion. He reached out and clasped his friend’s arm. “I know. I just needed to hear you say it.”
“Whatever help you want, you’ve got it,” Riley promised. “What do you have in mind?”
“Right now, I need a new base of operations. Somewhere nobody would think to find me.” He glanced at Jane. “I think I might know the place.”
Riley’s eyes shifted from Joe’s face to Jane’s and back. A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Old Curt’s place up in the hills?”
Joe nodded. “Nobody would connect me to your great-grandfather’s old hunting cabin. And you can’t get there except by foot or horseback.”
“Horseback?” Jane asked.
Both men looked at her.
“Do I know how to ride?” she asked.
BY NINE o’clock, Joe and Jane were heading into an icy rain as they wound their way up Sawyer’s Rise. Riley had supplied them with oilskin ponchos for the ride, but the brisk wind drove rain into every available opening, leaving them both soaked before they were halfway up the mountain.
The borrowed Glock 9mm lay heavily in the holster tucked into the back of Joe’s jeans. It was a strangely comforting feeling, having it there, even though Joe hadn’t used his own service weapon more than once or twice in his career as a cop.
Livestock thieves he could usually handle without resorting to gunplay. Clint Holbrook was a different animal altogether.
Over the soft moan of the wind, Joe heard a rattling sound. He turned his flashlight toward Jane and saw her teeth chattering in the cold. She clung to the reins with white-knuckled fists, her thighs clamped tightly to Bella’s sides as the chestnut mare picked her way up the rocky incline. Realizing the light was on her instead of the path ahead, she turned her head and squinted at him.
“Almost there,” Joe called.
“Damned good thing,” she said flatly.
He grinned and turned the flashlight back to the path, urging his own horse, Jazz, up the narrow trail with a murmured command and a squeeze of his knees against the gelding’s sides.
Within a half hour, they reached the top of the rise, where Riley’s great-grandfather Curtis Patterson had cut a small clearing to build his hunting cabin. It was a good bit more primitive than the cabin he and Jane had shared in Idaho, but it was shelter, with an electric generator, a water pump, a large fireplace and a wood-burning stove. A small horse shed behind the cabin would shelter the horses for the night in relative warmth.
“I’ll settle the horses,” he told Jane as they dismounted in front of the cabin’s wooden porch. “The place is unlocked-nobody comes up here but Riley and me.” He took the reins from her icy hands and nodded toward the cabin door. “Go on in and see if you can get a fire started. I’ll be inside in a second.”
He led the horses to the shelter and tied them in two of the shed’s four stalls. Riley had been up there recently, he noticed with relief. There was fresh hay in the stalls and a large plastic barrel full of fresh horse feed. He gave each of the animals a rub down and made sure their beds were warm and dry before he gave them a little feed and some water, forcing himself not to skimp on attention to the horses just because he wanted to get back to the cabin where Jane was waiting.
Would she remember this place? Pieces of her lost memory were coming back to her, more and more every day. And the cabin was special to them.
Would Jane remember why?
JANE STRIPPED to her underwear and hung her clothes on the back of a chair in front of the cold fireplace. For the second time tonight she was soaking wet, but the quick shower at Riley’s house had been a tropical vacation compared to the drenching she’d received on the ride up the mountain.
She was relieved to see someone had already left the makings of the next fire, with two fat logs and several kindling twigs already piled up, ready to use. Now she just had to find the matches.
Shivering, she wrapped a blanket around herself then searched the cabin until she spotted a small alcove that appeared to serve as a kitchenette. Scrabbling through the drawers, she found a box of matches and carried them back to the fireplace.
A strange sensation prickled the skin on the back of her neck as she opened the box of matches and withdrew one. This place seemed…familiar. In some ways, it was not so very different from
the nicer cabin belonging to Angela Carlyle’s family in Idaho. Rough plank floors, sturdy pine window frames, a stone fireplace instead of brick.
But the Carlyle place was just that. A place.
This cabin was a memory. Elusive, just out of reach.
She tried not to force it. That never worked. Instead, she struck the match she’d removed from the box and turned toward the fireplace.
The outside door opened, letting in a blast of cold, damp air along with Joe. He stopped in the doorway, staring at her for a moment. Then he shut the door behind him and walked toward her, his pace unhurried. His gaze moved over her body, as tangible as a touch.
Her heart rate tripled in the time it took for him to reach her. He took the match from her hand just as its heat began to reach her fingertips and tossed it into the fireplace. The kindling caught fire, shooting off sparks and light.
He moved away from her, stripping off his wet jacket. Jane forced her gaze away from him, reaching for the hurricane lamp sitting on the mantel over the growing fire.
She found a wick trimmer sitting beside it on the mantel and set about lighting the lamp, wondering how and when she learned such a skill. Had it been here, in this cabin? Had Joe taught her?
She thought maybe he had.
She turned to look at him. Her breath caught. He stood closer than she thought, close enough to touch. Stripped to his damp jeans, his rain-slick body glistening in the warm glow of the fire, he seemed like a creature formed from the fabric of her deepest fantasies. Elemental, masculine and hers for the taking.
“I’ll get the sheets for the beds,” Joe said, his voice ragged.
“No, let me,” she said, forcing her reluctant body toward the tall pine armoire standing at the foot of the closest bed. She had already opened it and taken out a set of sheets before she realized that she’d known exactly where to find the linens.
She turned back to the bed, afraid to let herself look at Joe, not yet ready for the trickle of memories to become an inundating flood that would wash her away. Clinging to her control like a shield, she returned to the bed slowly, stripping back the thin dustcover protecting the mattress, and started to make the bed.
She heard Joe’s approach, slow steady footfalls across the plank floor. The heat of his body warmed the chilly air, the sensation bringing with it a steady stream of images racing through her mind. A crackling fire spreading light and warmth. Soft sheets beneath her back. Joe’s body, hard and beautiful and relentless over her, driving her to the edge of madness and beyond. Her soft growls of release, echoed by his as they fought for every last ounce of pleasure.
Were those really memories? Or were they fantasies, her secret longings come to life in her imagination?
She finished making the bed and turned to face Joe, trembling. His eyes were wide and dark with an emotion that answered her questions.
“You’re remembering,” he said softly.
Chapter Sixteen
Clint Holbrook unknotted his tie and settled back in his chair, looking around his shabby hotel room with disdain. If he never had to chase Sarah to another backwater hellhole again, it’d be too soon. What was her fascination with places like this? He’d shown her a life of ease, where she wore beautiful dresses and expensive jewelry and wanted for nothing.
Ungrateful bitch.
He might have been in love with her once, he supposed, the way a sculptor might obsess over his latest masterpiece. Until he saw that the flaws in the marble would never go away, no matter how he much he chipped and polished.
She was what she was. No changing that now. This time, he needed what she’d taken from him. And then he’d be done with her. For good.
His cell phone rang. It was Prescott from the Jackson Hole Resident Agency. “Got something for me?” Clint asked.
“I’ve e-mailed the passenger manifests you asked for.”
Clint thanked Prescott and pulled out his PDA. He scanned the list of passengers flying between Jackson Hole and Reno over the last few days. One of the names caught his eye. It might be a coincidence, he thought. Not an uncommon name. But she’d flown to Reno the night before, and returned the next day. What kind of trip was that?
He made a note to find out where Melissa Blake lived. He’d give her a visit bright and early the next morning.
“YOU REMEMBERED where the sheets were kept.” Joe’s gray eyes glowed with a mixture of hope and fear. “You went right to the armoire. Tell me you remembered.”
Tears spilling down her cheeks, she nodded. “I remember this place. I remember you.” She flattened her hand against the center of his chest. His heart hammered wildly against her palm, matching beat for beat the pulse thundering in her ears. “I remember…this.”
He threaded his fingers through her damp hair, lifting her face toward his. “Yes.”
She put her other hand on his chest and smoothed her palms over his damp skin in slow circles, his hair rough beneath her fingertips. A strange certainty descended over her, easing the tremors rattling her nerves.
This was right. They were right.
She looked up at him through her tears. “We made love the first time right here. On the Fourth of July, after the big parade but before the fireworks.”
He smiled, his thumbs moving over her cheeks, dashing away her tears. “We heard the booming from the cabin.”
Laughter bubbled up in her throat as she pictured the scene so clearly, as if a cloudy glass wall standing between her and her memories had shattered, letting her see beyond. Though some pieces remained blurry, they couldn’t hide the truth from her anymore.
Not about Joe. Not about who he’d been to her. Who she’d been to him.
She remembered lying with him, naked and spent, as the first fireworks blast had rattled the cabin walls. “You dared me to go naked to the bluff to watch the fireworks,” she said aloud, slapping his chest lightly. “Cowboy Joe, who knew you had a naughty streak?”
He nuzzled her neck, his laughter tinged with wonder and relief, like a condemned man given a miraculous reprieve. “You certainly knew by the end of summer.”
Fire scorched her nerve endings where he touched her. She arched her neck, giving him better access. “I’m still missing quite a few memories,” she murmured.
He pulled back, which wasn’t quite what she’d intended. “So you don’t remember everything?”
The serious tone of his voice made her stomach knot. “Not everything. Does that matter?”
His brow furrowed with uncertainty, and she kicked herself for saying anything at all when he’d been doing such magical things to her throat with his lips and tongue.
Whatever she couldn’t remember, whatever had happened to end the idyllic summer she was finally starting to remember, she didn’t want it to destroy what was happening here between them.
“I remember enough,” she murmured, sliding her hand up his chest. “I remember…I remember you feeding me chocolate in bed,” she said.
The furrow in his brow disappeared.
“I remember that you can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
His lips quirked. “I was told that serenading a woman was a very romantic thing to do.”
She stroked his jawline. “Only if you can actually sing. But I also remember that you’re a whiz with birdcalls. You taught me a few, right?” She tried one, the shrill call of the American dipper. It was about the only one she’d ever been good at, despite its difficulty.
Joe laughed. “I forgot how good you are at that.”
“I’m good at a lot of things.” She curled one hand around his neck and pulled him down to her, parting her lips for his kiss.
He resisted for a moment, his body tense, but when she brushed her tongue against his, he surrendered, his hands sliding down her spine to settle on her hips. He backed her toward the bed, she hit the mattress and tumbled backward onto the cool sheets, bringing him down with her. She deepened the kiss, demanding more.
He gave it to her in hot, maddening ki
sses that trailed down her throat and over her collarbone to settle over the lacy cotton of her bra. He suckled one nipple briefly through the fabric before pulling the fabric aside with a frustrated groan.
He laved her hardened nipple, sending fire streaking through her body from that single ignition point. She threw her head back against the sheets, sensations tangling with memories. His mouth on her belly, tracing a slow, heated path downward. His fingers moving between her legs, seeking, exploring, teasing until she cried out for him to end the sweet torment. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what was real and what was memory.
She felt his hand slide slowly over the curve of her hip. She caught it, pulling it between their bodies, urging his touch lower and lower. He drew back and gazed at her, a question in his eyes.
“Please,” she whispered.
A wicked smile curving his lips, he moved his hand beneath the soft cotton of her panties and slipped his finger inside her, his touch bold, sure and achingly familiar. He knew her, even more than she knew herself at the moment. The intimacy of his touch was proof of that.
He knew how much she liked being touched that way, she remembered, her head swimming with images and sensations from the past. He knew when to tease and when to demand, playing her like an instrument until her whole body sang. He’d always found new ways to bring her to the edge with just his fingers and his soft, hot murmurs of encouragement.
He hadn’t forgotten. She felt herself slowly coming apart beneath his touch.
“Is that good?” he whispered against her breast.
“Yes,” she moaned as he found a sensitive spot. It had been a long time, and her body responded strongly, hurtling toward completion with coltish eagerness. Her back arched when he pressed the knot of nerves beneath his thumb. “Joe, please-not yet-”
He rolled away from her and stripped off his jeans. She started to reach for him, but he held back a moment, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t really plan for this-but maybe we’re lucky-” He leaned over and opened the drawer of the nightstand.