LITMIR.BIZ

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we’re going to have to get you to a doctor, darlin’.”

      “No.”

      The word was barely audible. Surprised, Caleb glanced back to her face. Her eyes fluttered open. They were blue…a soft, baby blue, rimmed by dark, thick lashes. For one split second, in the space between heartbeats, Caleb felt as if the floor had dropped out beneath him. Stunned, he quickly shook the feeling off.

      “No doctor,” she said hoarsely, staring at him through a glaze of pain. She lifted one hand and wrapped her slender fingers around the lapel of his jacket. “No doctor, no police.” Shivering, she squeezed her eyes shut. “They’ll find me…please…don’t let them find me…please… no one…”

      “Who?” Caleb asked. “Who will find you?”

      “Please.” Her whispered plea faded, but the urgency in her voice and bottomless eyes echoed in Caleb’s mind. Her head rolled back, and her hand slipped from his jacket.

      He ran his hands under her sweater and down her skirt; she recoiled instinctively at the intimate intrusion. No ID, no purse or wallet, he noted. A chain around her neck sparkled in the firelight. Caleb lifted the necklace and fingered the letters engraved in gold: Sarah.

      Had someone sent her? he wondered. He’d been careful, but it was possible they’d managed to find him here after six months. He knew that sooner or later they would make an attempt to get to him, but would they send a woman in after him, especially one so young and obviously inexperienced? It was hard to imagine, which made him all the more suspicious.

      Thunder shook the walls again. She’d have her wish tonight, anyway, he thought with a frown. He had no phone to call anyone, and even if he had, no one was getting in or out on the main road now.

      He looked at the woman in his arms. Sarah.

      “Well, Sarah, darlin’, looks like you’re staying here with Wolf and me for now.” He sighed, then gathered her close and stood. “Let’s say we get you out of those wet things, shall we?”

      

      * * *

      

      A marching band pounded in her head. The trumpets wailed and the trombones blared. She tried to move, but the effort set off the drum section. Lie still, she told herself, not understanding the origin of her pain, but fully understanding the sensation. Breath held, she waited until the first sharp wave of agony passed through her.

      The beating in her head slowed and settled into a dull ache. The marching band moved on, replaced by silence. No, not quite silence, she decided. She heard the drumming of rain now, the howl of wind. And breathing. The sound of deep, steady breaths.

      Whose breathing?

      She fought back the unreasonable panic that rose suddenly in her. Stay calm, she repeated over and over until her heart slowed its thunderous pace. Logic told her that control was important, composure essential. She counted to ten, willing her nerves to be still.

      She lay on her back, on a soft mattress; a pillow cradled her head. She moved her fingers, felt the smooth warmth of the blanket covering her. I’m in a bed, she realized, but knew it wasn’t her own.

      The scent of wood smoke seemed to surround her. Camping? The mountains? Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes.

      It was like looking through a lens out of focus. There were shapes and color, but everything was blurred. She blinked several times, waiting for the images to take form.

      The ceiling was open beam. Dark, heavy boards, rough-hewn. The walls were logs. A cabin? She glanced to her left. A small lamp glowed on a pine dresser, filling the room with a soft yellow light. Rain beat against a window over the dresser. It was dark out. She shivered involuntarily and closed her eyes again, not understanding her sudden and intense fear. She waited, letting the emotion pass.

      She heard the breathing again. Deep, slow. Steady. She opened her eyes and glanced to the right.

      A man. Sitting in a rocker beside the bed. His head hung forward, and she couldn’t see his face. But his hair was black as the night, his hands large, his chest and shoulders broad. He wore a blue flannel shirt and faded jeans. He was sound asleep.

      She tried to sit, but the movement was like swinging a hammer inside her head. She drew in a breath, waiting for the pain to subside.

      A strange bed. A strange place. A strange man.

      She opened her eyes again, and this time he was staring right at her. Her breath caught.

      Shadows hid half of his face, giving the illusion of a mask. A phantom. He said nothing, just looked at her, his expression as dark as his hair. She felt as if she’d stepped into a stage play and he would rip the mask away to reveal his horrible disfigurement. A scream bubbled deep in her throat, but she hadn’t the strength to release it. Her heart raced as he stood and moved closer.

      Other than a scar over his left eyebrow, there was no disfigurement, she realized with intense relief. In fact, he was rather good-looking, in a rugged, masculine way. A face that appealed not on an aesthetic level, but a primitive one.

      He stood over her, and she lifted her gaze to his. He was tall, much too tall, she decided, hating the way he towered over her.

      “How’s your head?” he asked.

      His voice was deep, husky. She’d heard it somewhere before, but it hurt too much to try to think of where. “Who—”

      Her throat felt like sandpaper. The bed dipped low as the man sat beside her and slipped his hand behind her neck. He carefully lifted her head and offered her a drink of water from a glass on the nightstand. The cool liquid eased the tightness in her throat.

      “Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. The room was in focus now, and the persistent throb in her head quieted. “Where am I?”

      “Why, Sarah, darlin’,” the man said, “after all we’ve meant to each other, you don’t remember me?”

      Confused, she stared at the man. Was that sarcasm she heard in his voice? “Why…why did you call me Sarah?”

      He lifted one dark brow. “What should I call you?”

      She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

       What should I call you?

      The pounding in her head increased. Her name.

       What was her name?

      “I—I don’t know,” she said weakly.

      He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t remember your name?”

      She closed her eyes against the encroaching pain. “No.”

      The weight on the bed shifted, and her eyes flew open again as the man climbed under the covers beside her.

      That’s when she realized what she was wearing. An oversize white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of thermal underwear.

      “What are you doing?” she gasped, struggling to move away. The man draped an arm around her waist and held her still.

      “Refreshing your memory,” he said. “Is this familiar?”

      He slid a hand over her hip.

      “No!” she cried out and moved his hand away. But somehow, the touch was familiar. Yet not.

      He raised himself on one elbow and stared down at her. “It’s me, Sarah. Caleb. Certainly you remember your husband.”

      Her eyes widened. Husband?

      “You can’t be my—I can’t be your—”

      She bit her lip. How could she not know her own name? Her own husband?

      “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “I—I don’t remember you…or us…”

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