Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T he quiet surrounded Connor as he stood where the end of his holler's gravel road connected to the paved one that led into town. It was one of the things he loved about snow. It blanketed everything, muting any sounds. Animals were hunkered down and even birds were quiet. The only noise was the occasional plop of piles of snow off the branches of the evergreens onto the snow beneath. It was nearly to his knees, and he wasn't a short man. His best guess was the storm had dumped nearly three feet in the area.

Normally he wouldn't mind this. It would be an excellent training exercise for Duke. Except right now he had a wounded woman in his cabin that needed one of them to be with her to see to not only her physical needs, but to give her a sense of security. Not remembering things had to be scary as hell. Add onto that the fact someone she can't remember is trying to kill her because of something she couldn't remember? Yeah, she needed to know she was safe.

And he needed her to feel safe. He needed her to build a bond of trust with him quickly. Because he was going to have to tell her about his past, his time in prison, before he took her into town. The last thing he needed was for someone to assume he'd been behind her injuries, that she feared him because he'd been the one to shoot her. If she didn't remember what happened, then his future depended on her belief that it wasn't him. He'd already done time for something someone else had done, he wasn't doing it again.

Turning, he retraced his steps, his tracks making the walk back easier than tromping through several feet of fresh snow. Luckily, he kept the gravel road clean of debris and encroaching underbrush, so there were no surprises to stumble over and possibly break his leg.

He chuckled sardonically. "Wouldn't that be great? Each of us with a broken leg and only one long-eared pup to take care of us?"

On his way back to the cabin, he stopped at the old pick-up truck he'd cleared snow from the windows earlier. It wasn't made for traveling in three feet of snow, but it would serve to get Zoe to a doctor. He climbed in and cranked the engine to be sure it would start once the roads were cleared.

Sitting there, he considered what he knew about Zoe Edgars. She was definitely beautiful, not in a glamour magazine brushed photo sort of way, but her features were pleasing, her nose not too wide or too large, her face a bit oval with high cheekbones. Her lips were enticingly full, not like someone had shot them full of cortisone or whatever it was some women thought made their lips sexy but actually made them look like that cartoon fish from the war movie he'd watched as a kid—the one where Don Knotts' character turned into a fish and stopped a torpedo. No, Zoe's lips looked just plump enough to make him want to taste them, and damned if that didn't point out how long he'd been celibate?

Never once in his life had he taken advantage of a woman and he wouldn't start with one injured and in a state of confusion, so he needed to keep his thoughts about her lips out of his head. Her eyes were something else he'd have to keep out of his head. How the hell did her eyes get so deep blue they looked like bottomless pools of water? Framed by those dark lashes, the same color as her hair, they just seemed to draw him in. Unless of course she was shooting him one of those you're-pissing-me-off glares he'd already witnessed a few times.

Zoe may not remember all the details of her life, but her personality spoke volumes. She didn't tolerate fools well. She also didn't panic, at least not for long. When she woke up in the bed of a complete stranger, she'd seemed confused, but she systematically assessed her situation. A trait he'd seen in people used to dangerous situations—both in the military and in prison. Assess your surroundings and the people in the area, look for an ally or an escape route, perhaps both.

When she'd looked at him with those big deep blue eyes, a flicker of fear and panic crossed them, disappearing as quickly as it came a heartbeat before she asked him who she was.

One last thing he'd learned about his houseguest. As he held her in his arms this morning, he realized she was no frail, helpless woman waiting to be saved. No, she kept in shape. Her frame might be thin, but she was all muscle. Muscle always weighed more than fat. Her body was toned for response to flight or fight if attacked.

Then there was the matter of the gun he'd found in her coat pocket and hidden in the pantry. Add that with her returning memories that she worked for some government agent, had been shot at least once before, he now knew he had a predator in his home—a wounded one.

"Connor, remember one thing. No matter how beautiful a fox or a bear or a mountain lion might appear, there's nothing more dangerous than a wounded predator."

Grandpa's words rang true in his head once more.

Turning off the truck once more he headed around the cabin. He stopped at the edge of the porch steps and scraped off the snow, ice and debris that had caked onto the bottom of his boots. Stepping onto the porch, he peeked in the window to see Zoe sleeping in the bed with Duke curled up beside her. The hound lifted his head and cocked it sideways. Connor motioned for him to stay, and Duke laid his head back on the center of Zoe's abdomen.

Lucky dog.

While the pair slept, he needed to measure out and cut better fitting splints. But first he needed to do a little snow removal—porch, steps, path to the road, and most importantly the roof. Last thing he needed was the roof caving in from the weight of three feet of snow on top of it. The cabin was well built, sturdy, had lasted more than a hundred years because generations of the Davis clan had maintained it, especially in floods and snowstorms.

He walked to where the porch wrapped around the south side of the house and pulled down the long-handled rake mounted to the cabin's outer wall. During his years living here with his grandparents, they'd had more than one hard winter and Grandpa Mac showed him how to use this particular rake to scrape the snow off the roof. He said that even though it was a tin roof and the melting snow wouldn't get inside, the weight of the snow could cause the wooden rafters below the metal to break and the whole thing collapse inside. It was their responsibility to be sure that didn't happen.

Once he had all his maintenance work done and those splints cut, he'd have to tackle the bigger problem, hurting Zoe.

?

Hazy grey and blue surrounded her. Dressed in a flowy white gown, she held her hand out. A male hand took it in his.

"With this ring, I thee wed," his deep voice said with laughter.

She shouldn't feel excited, or nervous. This was how it was supposed to be. Marrying him was the right thing to do.

He slipped the gold band onto the third finger of her left hand.

The sound of a camera clicked. Flash from a light.

His lips claimed hers in a hot, but brief kiss as another camera flash blinded her.

Suddenly she was cold. Darkness surrounded her. Thunder overhead.

A muzzle flash sparked from a gun in front of her.

Glass shattered.

Falling, falling. Hitting something. Falling again.

The sound of screams echoing around her.

"Zoe! Zoe wake up," a deep voice demanded. A different one. A new one.

She blinked and looked up to see crystal green eyes staring at her.

Connor .

"You were dreaming," he said, his hands still gripping her shoulders.

"It was memories, I think," she said, the images already fading away.

"What kind?" he asked, loosening his grip on her, to slowly ease her back against the pillows.

She shook her head, trying to pull the memories back into her consciousness. "It was mushed together. You know. Your brain is jumping around like a kid playing hopscotch."

Connor sat in the chair by her bed once more leaning forward with his elbows braced on his big thighs. "Let's start with what had you screaming."

"I was falling, then I hit something, then I was falling again."

"Probably your trip down the mountain," he said, confirming her own idea about that.

All the aches in her body agreed with his assessment.

"What triggered that memory?"

"Gunfire."

"You saw who shot you?" he asked leaning in more intently.

She closed her eyes to concentrate on what she saw. The darkness and thunder, rain pouring down, then the flash of the gun firing. Opening her eyes she shook her head slightly in frustration. "No. Just the flash from the gun as it fired. It was raining. Everything was dark until the muzzle flashed. It's all I saw."

"Makes sense. In the dark you would be blinded by the light from the flash if it occurred at close range."

She cocked her head to the side. "How do you know so much about gunfire?"

"My time in the Army. Three tours."

That made sense. His ability to track her with his dog, climb a mountain, set her leg and carry her back to his cabin. The man had some sort of military training.

"Was that all you remember?"

She shook her head. "There was a memory before that."

He patiently waited for her to process what she'd seen. She stared off out the window at the snowy landscape. If her memory was correct, she'd gotten married. When? Where? To whom? Was she still married? Would he be looking for her?

"I was at a wedding," she blurted out, once more meeting his gaze.

"Okay," Connor said.

"I think it was my wedding."

"You think?"

"I'm not sure. There was a vow given by a man. A ring was put on the finger of a hand. Cameras flashed."

"Cameras? Not cell phones?"

"It felt like flashes from an old-fashioned camera."

"Anything else?"

"A kiss." Ignoring the sense of embarrassment at telling this man about a kiss with another man, she considered everything she'd seen. "I think the ring was put on my hand." She lifted her left hand, ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder to stare at it. "There's no ring, nor tan line. So, if it was put there, it was a long time ago. The kiss didn't feel off…"

"Off?" Connor asked, lifting one brow.

"It felt natural, wanted. Not something forced on me, so I'd assume I was a willing participant."

He choked out a scoffing laugh. "If you were getting married, I'd hope so."

She narrowed her eyes his way. "I meant that if the kiss felt wanted, then I must've been marrying him because I wanted to."

"That's the usual reason."

His patience was beginning to piss her off.

"Then why can't I see his face? Why don't I remember his name?"

"Can't answer that," he said. "But the fact that you're starting to remember things is a good sign, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, yes?—"

"Both times you've remembered things was when you weren't trying to. So, try not to focus on remembering, since it obviously irritates you when you can't."

"And what am I supposed to think about instead?"

"What you like to eat." He stood and pulled a red plastic toy with a twisted rope tied to one end off the shelf. "Duke."

The hound bounded off the bed to sit beside him at the door. Connor petted him on the head, then opened the door and flung the toy out into the snow. Zoe strained to see where it landed, and it must've gone a good twenty yards into the woods.

"Fetch," he said, and Duke set off like a rocket.

Connor closed the door, added more wood to the stove, then opened the top of his nineteen-fifty era refrigerator. "I've got chicken and dumplings or a lasagna."

"You cook?" She shouldn't be surprised, he'd fed her a delicious breakfast earlier.

"Not these. Mrs. Baily down the road. I pay her once a month for casseroles. These are two of my favorites."

"Which one do you recommend?"

"Chicken and dumplings. Closest thing I have to chicken soup and they say that has healing properties."

"Sounds good to me."

A bark sounded at the door.

Connor opened it up, picked up the toy Duke had deposited and threw it again. "Go," he commanded, and the dog took off again.

"How long will he do this game?"

"As long as I let him. It's good exercise and keeps him use to following his commands," he said, opening the container, then pulling out a large cast iron pot from the shelves. He dumped the contents into the pot and set it on the top of the woodburning stove to heat.

"Why don't you use the electric range to cook? Doesn't it work?"

"It works. No use wasting electricity over there when the woodburning stove has been both heating the cabin and cooking food for nearly a century. Seems like a waste of money."

Another woof sounded outside.

He opened it and there stood Duke with his treasure.

"One more," Connor said, before hurling the toy as far as he could and giving Duke the command.

"Aren't you worried about him wandering off?" Zoe asked as he closed the door.

"He's mostly been trained to not wander beyond the creek to the right of the cabin, the road to the left and about fifty yards in front, or up the mountain behind without me being with him," he said, retrieving what looked like a sheet from the pantry and setting it on the chair. Then he went back to stir the contents of the pot.

"Mostly?"

"Excuse me?" he asked over his shoulder.

"You said he was mostly trained to stay close. What happens if he doesn't?"

"I whistle."

Duke woofed at the door again.

Connor opened the door. "Do your business," he instructed the hound then closed the door.

He brought the retrieval toy inside and put it in the exact same spot on the shelf as before. Afterwards, he refilled the dog's water bowl. Next, he pulled another skillet off a hook on the wall, placed it on the stovetop, then went back to the refrigerator, coming out with a bag of what looked like biscuits and a stick of butter.

"Mrs. Bailey again?"

"Best biscuits in the county."

She watched as he cut several pieces of butter from the stick and dropped them into the hot skillet. Then he set four biscuits in the pan, paused and added a fifth. Once more he returned both the biscuits and butter back to the place where he'd gotten them.

"You're one of those guys," she said.

He froze as if she'd hit him, so she hurried on to reassure him she meant no insult.

"One of those, a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place sort of guys. My dad was one, so was his father. Probably where he learned it from." She didn't mention that sometimes those kinds of men turned out to be borderline obsessive-compulsives. So far, he hadn't actually done any weird repetitive behavior that seemed to go along with that diagnosis, and besides, she was at his mercy. No point in pushing him into any sort of psychosis.

Geese. Now she was psychoanalyzing him.

"Always know your enemy, girl. Size them up and down. Know everything you can about them. Their strengths and their weaknesses. Knowledge is your best weapon. The smallest bit of information could save your life."

"Zoe?" Connor's deep voice asked. "Are you okay?"

She blinked, clearing her mind. "Yes. I just remember something someone said to me once."

"No image with the voice?" he asked, letting Duke back into the house, then stirring the food in the pot, which was starting to smell very good.

The hound curled up on the floor in front of the stove. She would've liked him back on the bed. He was warm and felt comforting. But he wasn't her pet or even her trainee, as he appeared to be with Connor, so she'd just have to let him be.

"You only heard a voice?" Connor asked, restating his earlier question. While she'd been staring off into space listening to the advice in her head, he'd settled back onto the chair and was taking his knife to the sheet of material, cutting it into long strips.

"Why are you doing that?" she asked, watching his almost hypnotic movements, the sheering rips of the material filling the quiet.

"I'm going to re-splint your leg and I want the straps to hold it in place. Hopefully letting you bear weight on it." He tore another piece loose. "Your turn. The voice?"

He wasn't going to let it go.

"It was an older man. Giving me advice."

"Did it seem familiar to you or was it like a commercial?"

She snorted.

He stopped mid rip on the sheet to arch a brow her direction.

"I may not have my memory, but I doubt some commercial announcer would be talking to me," she explained. "No, this was familiar."

"A father?"

She shook her head. "No, older."

Suddenly a vision popped into her head. An older man with a salt and pepper mustache and a thick head of silver-gray hair cut neatly around his ears and combed back like he'd been doing since just after serving in the Navy in WWII. Navy. "Grandpa Zach."

Zach.

Another picture flashed in her mind. A younger man. Tall, lean, dark brown hair, blue eyes like hers. Then another image of her and that boy wrestling as kids.

"What are you seeing now?" Connor asked, drawing her attention and the image fading.

"Another Zach. As a man and as a boy." She smiled. "My twin brother."

"Good. You're remembering family. Anyone else?"

A woman with kind eyes and hair as dark as hers. "Grandma Sophie. She always smelled of cinnamon or bread. She was a baker."

"She liked to bake cookies and stuff, huh?"

Zoe shook her head. "No. I mean yes, she liked to bake those, but she actually ran a bakery out of our house." Another image, of a tall man with dark blond hair and a beard grinned as he wrapped his arms around her mother who was laughing at something he'd said. Dad . "When my Grandpa retired from the police, he started delivering for her all over town."

"What town?"

"Columbus," she automatically answered.

Columbus. Something about it. She concentrated on the name. Suddenly, her head began to throb.

"Owww." She shot straight up in the bed, slamming her eyelids closed tight and holding her head in both hands, which shot pain down her left shoulder and arm.

"Hey. Easy." Connor was beside her on the bed in a flash, sliding his hands under hers and holding her head still. "Take some slow breaths. In and out."

Zoe followed his directions, focusing on breathing alone. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath slower and deeper, the pain in her head fading with the effort.

Slowly he eased her back against the pillows, sliding his warm hands from her face. "You okay?"

Opening her eyes, she stared into his. "Yes. The pain's going away."

"What triggered it?"

"Me trying to remember something."

"Can you tell me without causing yourself more pain?" The concern in his face eased the pain in her head a little more.

"Columbus. There's something about Columbus that I need to remember," she said, then paused, to take a few more slow breaths. The last thing she wanted to do was bring the pain back. "But every time I focus on what it is, my head hurts. Same as when I try to remember why I was shot or how I got here."

"I carried you here."

She shot him a disgruntled look. "Not here." She waved her hand around the cabin. "Here, as in this part of the country."

He lifted one corner of his lip beneath that beard and moved back to his seat. "Then stop trying to think about those things."

"I can't. There's something I need to remember. Something important." She tapped her chest. "I feel it in here. It's like a ticking clock. And if I don't figure it out someone's going to die."

"Someone? One person?"

"I don't know," she said, once more regulating her breathing. "Why? Did you ask that?"

"Because last night you told me that everyone was going to die."

She stared at him a moment, stunned by his words. "Who the hell am I and what have I done?"