Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Z oe sat on the toilet contemplating everything she'd learned since waking up.

Who was she?

Zoe Edgars. That's who her license said she was. That felt right. Her license said she lived in Washington, D.C. Why didn't that feel right? Was she from somewhere else? A vision of a barn flashed into her mind. On it was painted a large white outline of the state of Ohio, with a red heart on it. Pleasure and peace washed over her. She grew up there. Ohio was her home. Maybe she'd moved to Washington?

What had happened to her?

When she'd first awakened, her attention focused on all the parts of her body in pain. Her left leg, shoulder and arm, her head, not to mention various spots on her right side and the swelling in her face. She doubted one square inch of her body didn't hurt in some fashion.

Waking up in a strange place hadn't bothered her. For some reason, she knew she'd often done that. With a strange man? That startled her. Even being shot hadn't rattled her as much. Apparently, whatever she did for the government put her in danger of that possibility happening regularly, evidenced by the memory of being wounded in her backside.

She slid her hand under her bottom to touch the puckered and jagged scar on her right cheek.

"Dios mio? What happened?" Maria asked, as she hobbled into the back door of the little house where she'd been staying, blood streaming down her back leg.

"I've…been…shot," she managed to say through gritted teeth.

Maria quickly put her arm under hers to help her move. "Sit and let me look at it."

"No. No…chair. The…bed."

"Of course," Maria said, looking confused.

They maneuvered into the bedroom and she flopped down on her stomach. "I'm going…to need…your help. The bullet's…still in there," she said, pointing to her behind.

"I go get the doctor," Maria said, stepping back.

She grabbed her hand, stopping her. "No. No doctors. No police. Just help me…get it out."

Maria understood. Calling the doctor would get word back to the authorities. "Que necesito?"

"Tequila y un cuchillo."

Zoe fought to try and not pass out. While Maria gathered the liquor and knife, she wiggled out of her jacket that now supported a bullet hole in the lower right section, her trousers and panties, both with matching holes. She took the bottle of tequila from her friend and drank several healthy swallows, then reached back and splashed her wound with it.

"Shit!" she hissed at the burn, her eyes blurring. Once she got control of her emotions again, she nodded at the candle Maria liked to burn in her kitchen at night. "Run the knife through the flame, then you'll need use the tip to pull the bullet out of my tush. Then you'll have to heat it again and lay the blade flat on the hole to seal it and stop the bleeding."

"I don't know if I can," Maria said, looking at the bloody hole in her flesh.

Zoe reached out and grabbed her arm and squeezed. "Yes, you can, Maria. There's no one else I can trust to do this."

Maria seared the knife in the flame, then made the sign of the cross before digging into the wound. Zoe passed out.

The memory zapped out as quickly as it came, leaving Zoe dazed. She remembered everything about that mission. She'd been tracking weapons being sold across the border to cartel leaders. Her local contact had been killed in the same shooting. They'd gotten too close. Her undercover partner in the ATF arrived the next day and managed to get her back to the states before anyone else was harmed. Thankfully, Maria's part in her mission went unnoticed by the cartel members in her town. Last she'd heard, Maria and her immediate family now lived in America as legal immigrants.

She was Zoe Edgars and she worked for the government. That much she remembered. There were so many more questions.

Why was she shot? Was she working on another mission? When was she shot? A day or two ago? Or was it more time? And the big question. Who shot her?

The more she tried to remember, the more her head hurt.

She closed her eyes. Flashes of memories hit her like one of those psychedelic videos from the nineteen-sixties. Images of people, places, events. None of it making sense.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door. Once more she was pulled back to the present.

"Breakfast is ready," Connor's deep voice announced from the other side.

Embarrassed that she'd lost track of time, heat filled her face at the same time a shiver ran through her. The bathroom had gotten cold with the door closed for so long.

"Zoe?" he asked, concern in his voice.

"Yes," she said, reaching over to wash her hands. "I'm done."

He opened the door just as she wiggled her panties up her thighs as far as she could while still sitting.

"This is so embarrassing. I feel like an invalid, or at best a toddler," she grumbled. She hated being sick. Another thing she knew about herself. She hated being weak. She was a terrible patient.

"Hold on," he said, hurrying into the room. "How about I hold you up and you can get them up on your own?"

She nodded, not quite ready to meet his eyes, but thankful he was giving her a little autonomy back.

His warm hands grasped her by the elbows and lifted her until she had her weight slightly on her right leg, then he released his hold for a second, to grasp her around her waist, shifting her so her left side leaned against him.

As quickly as she could, she used her right hand to haul her panties up, then made sure the tails of the over-sized shirt covered her front and back.

"Thank you," she said, this time looking up into his fascinating pale green eyes. She saw nothing but compassion in them.

"No problem. Let's get you back to bed."

Just like before, he scooped her up in his arms without waiting for protest or consent. Oddly, being held so carefully by such a powerful man comforted her. The strange sensation surprised her. She might not remember all of her past, but she figured she wasn't used to being supported in a man's arms like this.

As he carried her towards the main room of the cabin, heat from his body and the fireplace relaxed her. The smell of bacon, eggs and toast hit her senses.

"The best thing in the world is breakfast," a blond boy said.

"You'd eat anything if it had bacon on it," a slightly older brown-haired boy said.

"I prefer sausage and gravy," an even older boy said.

"Eww, sausage gravy," she said, making a face. "I'm with Luke, bacon and eggs is the best."

"How about homemade waffles?" a blonde girl, Sami, said. "Grandma Sophie's are the best."

"Oh, yes, that's the best," she said and they both giggled.

"What's going on in your head?" Connor asked, drawing her out of the memory.

She blinked and stared at him. "I like breakfast."

"That's good, since I just made us some."

"No, I meant I just remembered I really like breakfast. Bacon, eggs and my grandmother's waffles. But not sausage gravy."

"Good to know. I won't make biscuits and gravy," he said laying her in the bed as easily as he could, the action causing her pain anyways.

She hissed, closing her eyes to let the surge of pain from multiple sources dissipate.

"Sorry," he said.

"Not your fault," she said, her eyes still closed. "It's going to hurt for a while."

A whimper sounded beside her. She opened her eyes to see Duke laying his head on the bed again. Reaching out, she rubbed his head, making his floppy ears move. "I'm okay, Duke."

"Bed," Connor said, and the dog loped across the room to lay on the little bed near the wood burning stove.

She looked at Connor questioning why he sent the dog away.

He brought over a flat piece of wood and set it on her lap, then laid a plate of bacon, eggs and toast on it. He handed her a fork and set the glass of water on the board, too. "He's still young and has to learn not to beg while people are eating."

"Ah."

"Is he the only dog you have?" she asked, then took a bite of bacon. It tasted like manna from heaven.

Connor retrieved a second plate of food, then sat in the chair near the bed, balancing the plate on his thigh and a mug of coffee on the floor beside him. "I train rescue dogs. They need to learn to focus on their handlers, so it's best done one on one at first. Then they're introduced with a pack once they go to their new owners, who finish their training."

Talk stopped as they both focused on their breakfast. She tried not to wince too much when she had to use her left hand. Who knew just moving her lower arm slightly to hold the plate or the board still on her lap would move the muscles around her shoulder wound, too?

"Duke," Connor said when he was nearly finished with his food.

The hound bounded across the room and came to a sitting position at Connor's knee. He handed the dog a small piece of his bacon. The dog looked so happy as he gulped it down.

"I should've saved him a piece of mine," she said, then paused. "Unless that would mess up his training?"

"It's too early in his training for that, besides you need the protein more than he does." Connor took his plate and mug to the sink, then reached into the cabinet and pulled out a small packet. He brought it over and laid it on the board. "This is all I have for pain."

"Thank you," she said, tearing open the sealed plastic packet containing two Ibuprophens.

He took the seat again and watched her take the medicine. "So your memory's back?" he asked as she was drinking water to wash down the pills.

She swallowed and shook her head. "I know I work for the government and was shot once while working undercover. I also had some family members memories from when I was a kid, but that's all."

"You've been shot before?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

She made a face to cover her embarrassment. "My butt."

When no sound came from the big man, she swallowed her pride and looked at him, expecting him to be fighting the urge to laugh. Instead, his features were very bland, as if she'd not just mentioned a very intimate part of her body.

"That's interesting, but not what I meant," he said. "Where was the mission?"

"Mexico," she said, feeling really embarrassed now. "Apparently, I was looking into sales of illegal arms to cartels there."

"Is that why you got shot this time?"

She considered his question, tried to get her brain to focus on her latest shooting. Blurred images flashed in her mind.

Rain pounding the windshield.

The wet road curving in front of her beyond the wipers whipping back and forth.

Headlights blinding her in the rearview mirror.

Pain hit her at once. She moaned, closing her eyes and flopping her head back against the pillows.

"What's wrong?" Connor's concerned voice sounded like it was in a tunnel.

She fought to open her eyes. "Every time I try to think about what happened my head hurts worse."

"Then don't think," he said, coming over to take the empty glass and the board from her. "Get some sleep and maybe your memory will come back on its own."

"Is that your recommendation, doctor?" she asked, immediately hating how cranky she sounded. It wasn't this man's fault she couldn't remember her own life. If it weren't for him, she wouldn't have a life at all. "I'm sorry, that was rude."

"Not a problem. Feeling out of control of your life sucks." Without expanding on that, he carried the board and glass to his kitchen area and returned with a tape measure.

"What's that for?" she asked as he pulled the quilt off her left leg.

"I told you I made those splints on the spur of the moment on that ledge."

"I remember."

He pulled out the end of the tape and measured the length of her lower leg from her knee to her heel. "While you take a nap, I'm going to see if I can make better fitting splints from some two by fours I have left over from the bathroom remodel. Then we'll rewrap it to help stabilize it."

"That's going to hurt, isn't it?"

"Probably, at first," he said, measuring the width of her leg from the front to back, then covering her leg once more with the quilt. "But if it's more stable, you might be able to bear some weight on it in a day or so."

"You think we'll be snowed in that long?"

"Depends on the weather, but it could be a day or two or as long as a month."

A month? Her heart pounded in her chest and she fought to catch her breath.

"Hey, it'll be okay," Connor said, laying his warm hand on her uninjured soldier.

"I can't stay here that long. People will die."

"What do you mean people will die?"

Zoe blinked, her mind going blank once again. She met his gaze, fighting the fear that she couldn't pinpoint. "I don't know. Something's going to happen. Something I need to stop, but I don't know what it is."

"Okay," he said, rubbing her shoulder. "Do you know when this thing is going to happen?"

She tried to pinpoint it down, but her head throbbed and her heart raced. "No. No. I just know I need to tell someone something soon."

"Take some slow, deep breaths."

She wanted to hit him but cast him a narrow-eyed look instead. How could he be so damn calm?

"The deep breaths will slow your heart rate," he said. "Concentrating on that will relax your thoughts, maybe help you remember what you know."

Despite how futile she felt about his instructions, she did focus on taking one deep breath then exhaling. Repeated it several times.

"Do you think whatever is going to happen will be today?"

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday, January ninth."

She thought about that date. No alarm bells went off. "No, that date doesn't make me feel panicky."

"Okay. What did make you feel panicky?" he asked, slowly rubbing her shoulder and upper arm. The strong, firm, steady movement felt so good.

"When you said we'd be trapped here a month." She stared up at him, reaching up to grab his hand in hers. Her breathing quickening again. "A month will be too long. It's going to happen sometime in the next month."

"Okay. Try not to let the panic get you again," he said, squeezing her hand. "It's not happening today, probably not tomorrow, so being snowed in right now is to your benefit."

"How?"

"It gives you time to heal some. Rest might let your memory come back. You had visions while in the bathroom, right?"

She choked on a sudden laugh. "Yes, but I can't spend the next twenty-four hours sitting on your toilet."

"No. I might need to use it at least once." The corner of lips lifted. The first sign of amusement she'd seen in him. He released her hand and took a step away from the bed. "But, if you're not stressed trying to remember the information, your brain might work it out when you're least thinking about it. If you're worried about how long you have to stay in this cabin with me and Duke, why don't I take a trek up the road a bit and see how deep the snow is? Might give me an idea how long before I can take you to town?"

"You're going to leave me here alone?" She hated the sudden fear that coursed through her. What if whoever shot her found her?

"No," he said, pulling on his thick coat and reaching for his hat. "Duke. Protect."

The hound bounded on the bed and laid right against her right side, his face pointed at the door.

Connor nodded and opened the door. "I won't be long."

There was just enough of an angle from the bed that she could see out the window and watched Connor stand still for a moment or two, his breath like steam. Maybe he was reconsidering leaving her alone in the cabin, unable to move around. What if something happened while he was gone?

Okay. She wasn't going to buy trouble before it happened. It wasn't what she did.

She paused and considered that thought. Tested it. Yes, that was true. Despite what her family believed, she didn't buy trouble, but wasn't afraid to tackle it when it came her way. Family. How much family did she have? The breakfast memory confirmed she had lots of relatives. Were they brothers and a sister? Or cousins?

The throbbing in her head eased. Slowly she sank back into the pillows, her eyelids growing heavy. She realized she was slowly stroking her hand up and down Duke's warm body pressed into her side.

"You keep an eye open for him, Duke. Okay?"

The hound lifted his head and laid it on her thigh.

As she relaxed, her mind drifted back to her family once again. Would any of them worry that she was missing?