by Judy Duarte
“Well, I can understand that. My brother isn’t one to open up to anyone, especially his family. So, you’ll have to ask Rowan about the man.”
“I will,” Louanne said, realizing she’d learned very little to help trigger the return of Rowan’s memories.
“Listen,” Emily added, “If Rowan feels like discussing what happened the other night, have him give me a call at home. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to call back here until our father settles down. He’s used to having things go his way and can be pretty unreasonable sometimes.”
“I’ll give Rowan the message,” Louanne said, before ending the call.
After the line disconnected, Emily hung up the telephone receiver in the library, the same room in which Rowan had locked horns—again—with their father, just two weeks ago. The night their father had accused Rowan of being a family traitor, of revealing secrets and discussing old gossip with strangers.
Knowing Rowan, the accusation couldn’t have been any further from the truth. But then, Walter Parks didn’t particularly like or trust his youngest son, let alone know him.
Emily had always tried hard to keep peace between her siblings and the patriarch, but it was getting more and more difficult to do so.
It was odd that Rowan hadn’t placed the call himself, but he’d always been private and evasive. Besides, she suspected that he’d wanted to avoid the risk of having to talk to their father, if he would have answered the phone.
And it was just as well that he hadn’t called. Their father was a difficult man, one who didn’t find much value in reaching a compromise—with anyone.
Walter Parks had commandeered a jewelry business into an empire over the past thirty years, but he’d never been a loving father, unless one counted providing a silver-spoon existence.
All things considered, growing up had been tough on each of the four Parks children. They’d been abandoned by their mother—intentionally or not—and neglected by their father. But things had been even more difficult for Rowan, whose rebellious nature had always riled the patriarch in one way or another.
Maybe her little brother would find the peace he’d always wanted in Texas.
“Rowan’s all right?” Brenda asked, clearly concerned about the man she’d raised.
“He’s safe and sound.” Emily gave the loving, gray-haired housekeeper a hug goodbye. “I’ve got to go, Brenda. I’ll see you later.” Then she grabbed her purse from the sofa.
On the way to the front door, she passed her father’s home office, where Linda Mailer was digging through a box of files. The accountant’s shoulder-length red hair hid her face like a veil.
Linda looked up and caught her breath. “You startled me.”
Why? What had Linda been searching for? Something that didn’t concern her?
Oh, for goodness sake. Was Walter’s growing paranoia contagious and snaking its way into the minds of the entire family?
The shy, thirty-year-old CPA was a bit young for the trusted position, but she was bright, efficient and devoted to her boss—something a man like Walter Parks undoubtedly appreciated.
Emily shook off the crazy suspicion. “I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just leaving.”
“That’s all right. I was so engrossed and caught up in my own world, that I didn’t expect to see anyone.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your work.” Emily gave a partial wave. “Goodbye.”
Linda, with her hands still on the files she’d been perusing, continued her search. She didn’t usually work out of the home office, but today she was reconciling Walter’s personal accounts and needed to gather some information he kept at the house. And so far, she’d only uncovered a handful of what was needed.
She wasn’t sure why she was digging through this box. Curiosity, she supposed. Earlier, Walter had been searching for something in here. He’d run his fingers though his hair and mumbled to himself. Appearing agitated and distressed, he’d suddenly grabbed a file from this box and left the room, which hadn’t seemed to relieve his anxiety.
Walter kept a safe in his den, so Linda assumed that’s where he’d been going. But he hadn’t come back. And about fifteen minutes later, she’d heard his car start up and drive away.
Over the course of an hour, her curiosity had grown. And the old file box had steadily drawn her attention. As she flipped through the contents, not looking for anything in particular, she spotted a yellowed paper—a memo of some kind—resting between two unrelated files. She withdrew the page, intent on filing it properly, but scanned it first so she could determine where it belonged.
She furrowed her brow. That was strange. It was written twenty-five years ago and mentioned raw diamonds and a cargo drop-off location.
It also bore a name that sounded familiar. Van Damon. Wasn’t that also the name of the infamous Dutch warlord in Africa?
What a weird coincidence. Walter Parks couldn’t possibly be involved in gem smuggling.
Of course, the media had been coming down hard on him, lately. And there were rumors—although Linda didn’t believe them.
But as she placed the paper in her briefcase with the intention of taking it back to the main office, something niggled at her.
Back in Texas, Rowan walked into the living room, refreshed from his shower. Through the open screen door, he spotted Louanne standing on the porch and gazing into the horizon.
“Did you get hold of anyone?” he asked.
She turned slowly and rested against the wooden railing. “You and your father had a falling out a couple of nights ago, and it wasn’t the first time. For some reason, you charged out of the house in California. And you ended up in Texas.”
A falling out with his father? Maybe that’s where his sense of anger came from. But what about the grief? Had he been sorry about leaving? Sorry about the rift?
The revelation of his flight to Texas only brought on more questions. “Do you know what we fought about?”
Louanne shrugged. “I don’t know, but it sounds as though you and your dad haven’t gotten along for years.”
Assuming her suspicion was right, Rowan couldn’t help wondering why. But, since the answer was nowhere to be found, he let that question drop and asked another. “Did you find out who Emily is?”
“She’s your sister. And she was worried about you. It was a good thing we called, because she’d just received word that your motorcycle was found in a ditch, and no one had any idea what had happened to you.”
Maybe Rowan shouldn’t work so hard at trying to remember. He’d gotten mad and taken off with the intention of putting a lot of crap behind him. So why not let well enough alone?
Because not being able to remember, to understand, put him at a disadvantage. So, hoping to unleash a flood of memories—or maybe just a trickle—he asked, “Did you find out who Sam is?”
Rowan assumed the man listed at the top of his telephone list had the number one spot for a reason.
“Your sister doesn’t know a man named Sam. Could it be a woman? Maybe a nickname for Samantha?”
“You’re asking me?”
She slid him a crooked smile, one that made a single dimple in her cheek. “Sorry.”
Yeah. He was sorry too. The dark hole that used to be his memory was still just as large, just as empty.
He studied the tall, willowy woman who’d taken him in. The familiar face that drew him to her, those golden-brown eyes that tugged at him. There was a sadness about her, and he wasn’t sure why.
“And what about you,” Rowan asked. “Where is your family?”
She seemed to ponder his question, and for a moment, he wondered whether she’d answer. “There’s not much to tell. For the most part, it’s just Noah and me. My parents died in a small plane crash on their way to a cattle auction last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. More so now that I don’t have a chance to tell them how much I loved them, how much I appreciated what they’d
provided for my sister and me.”
A frown marred her brow, and he had the urge to console her. To step close and take her in his arms. Breathe in her earthy, flowery scent.
He jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans instead.
She appeared to be a strong woman. Independent. And not afraid of hard work.
Too much work, he suspected. Did she get any help on the ranch, other than what the old man named Pete could provide?
“Where’s your sister?” he asked.
“She’s in Australia right now, shooting a movie.”
“Your sister is an actress?” He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice, his expression.
Louanne smiled, this one kind of wistful, but revealing a matching set of dimples. “It was always a dream of hers. And I’m proud of her. She made that dream come true.”
Would he recognize the name of the actress? He hadn’t seen many movies lately.
He hadn’t seen many movies lately.
Rowan blinked, sobering as he realized he’d just dug up something from his past—albeit nothing important. But it was a start.
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Tallulah Brown.”
The tall, glamorous brunette with bronze skin and a body made for a skimpy bikini had starred in the newest James Bond flick.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knew who the shapely actress was. And he began to wonder if that’s what he’d recognized in Louanne. A resemblance to her movie-star sister.
“You look like her.” He realized that was another thing his mind had processed without revealing something he might actually find useful.
“Thanks. I guess.” Louanne chuckled. “I’m afraid Tallulah’s far more eye-catching and memorable than I am.”
Maybe so, but Louanne had a wholesome beauty that didn’t need makeup or fancy clothes. And his gut instinct suggested she would look pretty damn good in a bikini, too.
He wondered whether she chose to wear worn, bleached-out jeans and plain, button-down shirts because she couldn’t afford anything different, anything new. He scanned the porch of the run-down ranch house. Chipped white paint. A bent window screen. A warped front door. Most things needed to be repaired, refurbished or replaced.
Money was tight, he suspected. And it had been for a very long time. The upkeep on this place had to be an uphill battle, one the single mother appeared to be losing.
Tallulah Brown, on the other hand, had to be doing pretty well. “Doesn’t your sister help with any of the expenses?”
Louanne tightened her grip on the wooden porch railing, then released as a splinter poked at her palm.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, clearly unaware of how his question had prickled her, how it had triggered thoughts of the past. Thoughts of the secret she kept.
He waited for an answer, but she didn’t know how much to tell, how much to reveal. She’d been keeping quiet, protecting her identity as well as her secret for so long, that she felt awkward talking about something that was simple. Easy to understand, at least for her.
It probably seemed reasonable, to an outsider, that the girls share in the ever-constant monthly expenses, both expected and not.
“I can’t ask for my sister’s help. Or rather, I won’t.”
“Why not?”
Pride, she supposed, although it went much deeper than that. “When my parents died, Lula begged me to sell the Lazy B. She couldn’t see pouring money into a hundred acres that, over the years, wrung out every dream our parents ever had, along with each drop of their blood, sweat and tears.”
“And you refused to sell?”
He probably suspected she held an emotional attachment to the time-battered house, to her parents’ memories. But that wasn’t the case. Louanne had actually agreed with her sister about putting it on the market. Lord knew they needed the money.
Last spring she and Pete had sold off half the cattle to pay the taxes and make ends meet. Several times, their neighbor to the east, Jim Simmons, had offered to buy the property and the remaining cattle, but Louanne desperately needed a place to hide, a place to bear and raise her baby where Richard would never find her. And since she’d followed Lula’s lead and created a more cosmopolitan past than growing up on a small, struggling cattle ranch, she felt relatively safe here.
And not in Austin, where he was likely to focus his search.
“Yes, I refused to sell.”
“Because of the memories?”
“Yes,” she said, the lie resting in the midst of the truth. “I came home because of the memories.”
But not the ones he imagined. She returned because of the black, heart-pounding ones provoked by Dr. Richard Keith, the father of her baby. And because of a haunting threat he’d made. A threat that held enough promise to make her flee from college just months before she could finish her graduate work in English.
I’ll see you back in my bed…or in a casket, six feet underground.
Louanne had covered her tracks and returned home, where the Lazy B provided refuge and safety for herself and her son—unless Richard took time to unravel her lies and carefully laid plans.
“It looks as though you could use a little financial help.” Rowan perused the old house and the yard.
“We’re okay. Noah and I don’t need anything fancy.” Just a roof over our heads, warm beds to sleep in and enough food to eat.
“Fancy isn’t what I meant.” Rowan scanned the outside of the weathered, clapboard house. “Maybe your sister would contribute to a new paint job.”
“I don’t need her help.” Okay, so that wasn’t true, but Louanne didn’t have the nerve to ask for a loan or for any financial assistance from Lula, particularly when her sister had been so adamant about selling the place.
Life wasn’t easy. But it was safe.
She crossed her arms, hoping Rowan would sense how stubborn she could be when necessary. But before he could respond, Noah cried out from his crib, alerting Louanne that he wanted his mommy and her comfort.
Relief settled around her. She was more than ready to escape the questions, the reminders. More than ready to put the memory behind her for a while. Rowan seemed as interested in digging up her past as he was in uncovering his own.
And Louanne was determined to keep her tracks covered and her secret safe.
Later that afternoon, after Aggie had taken Noah for a walk, Louanne put on a ham hock and a pot of beans to cook. She’d become pretty adept at creating nourishing and tasty dishes that didn’t cost very much to prepare.
While dinner simmered on the stove, she reached into the cupboard, where her mom and dad used to hide the candy treats they kept for special occasions. She’d continued the practice for Noah, even though he wasn’t old enough to eat hard candy.
She popped a lemon drop into her mouth, savored the tart, citrusy taste and suspected an ulterior motive. Maybe the treats were for herself, so she could enjoy a sweet memory every now and again.
After setting the dining room table, she wandered into the living room, where Rowan had stretched out on the tweed sofa that had been in the same spot for as long as she could remember. Her dad used to nap there, too, on Sunday afternoons. After the church service and a hearty dinner with his wife and daughters.
It was a bit odd to have a man in the house again, even though Rowan’s stay would be brief. But it was kind of nice, too. She liked the way her heart beat a bit faster whenever she looked at him, whenever he looked at her. Maybe because it made her feel alive again.
When she’d given up graduate school and come home, she was thankful to find refuge. But she also struggled with the realization that she’d come home to wither and die.
It helped that she no longer lost herself in a fictional world behind the covers of a book, or that she no longer worked on the next great American novel. Exercising her imagination would only make her sorry life more miserable. Make her long for something she couldn’t allow herself to have.
Louanne eased closer to the sofa, drawn to the man who was still very much a stranger. Yet for some reason, she felt the need to protect him, to help him heal in body and spirit.
She studied Rowan as he slept. A lock of black hair flopped onto his forehead, and his lips parted in slumber. Her eyes traced the faint white line of the old scar that cut into his eyebrow, as well as the new gash Doc had stitched. But neither imperfection was enough to hamper his looks.
He was a handsome man, almost pretty. And she wondered whether he wore his hair unkempt to harden his appearance.
Devil or angel?
Maybe a little of both.
His wound seemed to be mending. There wasn’t any sign of swelling or redness. She had a feeling Doc would call to check on his patient. He always did.
While she stooped to check Rowan’s stitches, he moved. And she froze, not wanting to disturb him. Not wanting him to see her fuss over him.
Rowan woke to the scent of wildflowers, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Louanne standing over him. Her gaze locked on his, and she chewed her bottom lip. Feeling guilty for being so close?
“I…uh.” Her lips parted, and her sweet, lemontinged breath nearly made him sit up and beg for a taste. “I thought I’d look at those sutures and make sure they’re all right. I don’t think you were supposed to get them wet.”
“Go ahead and check them,” he said, liking the way she hovered over him. The way she wrinkled her brow. The way that golden-brown gaze clung to his.
She didn’t move away. And she didn’t appear overly interested in his wound. She remained close enough to touch, caught up in something, just like he was.
He wanted to kiss her, to hold her. To feel something other than the nothingness that held him captive. His hand seemed to have a mind of its own, as it slipped under the single braid she wore, finding the back of her neck and drawing her lips to his.
It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if she would’ve pulled way. Objected. Given him hell for being so forward. But there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to avoid the overwhelming urge to taste her.