LITMIR.BIZ

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is a coping mechanism—a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. I would forward a guess that your husband is a very controlled man.”

      He seemed to be holding his breath as he paused and waited for her confirmation.

      “Yes.” Chance kept everything neat and tidy. She’d often thought it was because he was afraid to lose any more of himself. As if by keeping his things in order, he could keep himself in order, too. Sometimes, when he didn’t know she was watching him, she could see his internal chaos reflected in his eyes, in the painful gathering of his eyebrows. And he’d been successful at his job because everyone knew that in the middle of turmoil and tempers Chance Conover could be counted on to keep a cool head and bring back balance. No one ever seemed to notice the river of unrest just below the surface.

      “He never talks about what happened then,” she said, feeling hurt once again that he’d never trusted her with that part of himself.

      “Avoidance is another sign of PTSD,” Dr. Benton said. “But time alone won’t heal him.”

      “He was doing fine….” Wasn’t he? Her mind scrolled back through their time together. She saw it then, the distance, that slight space he kept between himself and everything—even her. Her hand tightened against Chance’s, afraid to let him go.

      “Internally, things weren’t in order,” Dr. Benton continued. A slightly manic light gleamed in his eyes, as if her husband’s troubles were a treasure to be prospected. “Trauma is stored in the brain’s limbic system, which processes emotions and sensations. Just because he’s repressed the memories doesn’t mean they aren’t there and affecting him. What I’d like to do is take him through the steps of recovering those memories and see him through the healing process.”

      Dr. Benton was practically panting as he waited for her answer.

      A headache thrummed at her temples. He was going too fast and not giving her enough facts to make a good judgment. What was best for Chance? “How will you do that?”

      He smiled. “There are several techniques we could choose from—hypnotism, guided imagery, dream work, sodium amytal.”

      “Truth serum! You’d drug him?”

      “It’s a very safe technique,” Dr. Benton assured her, then rushed on. “Once he’s retrieved his past, I’ll show him how to put these memories in the context of other psychological symptoms, how to live with the feelings the retrieval is bringing back, how to deal with cognitive distortions.”

      “Cognitive distortions?” This was all too much.

      Dr. Benton seemed annoyed at the interruption, but with quick motions of his hands explained, “There are two forms of memory. Explicit memory is the ability to consciously recall facts or events. Implicit memories are behavioral knowledge of an experience without conscious recall. As an example you can read, but probably can’t remember how you learned the skill.”

      “So you’re saying even though he might not remember who he is, he’ll remember skills he’s learned.”

      “Precisely. At first he may be flooded with implicit sensorimotor memory. He’ll get the picture or the feelings or the terror the memories bring back, but not the explicit memories that could ground or explain the meaning of the sensations or images. He’ll need someone to guide him through the process of re-creating the entire scene in order to deal with what happened to him and get on with his life.”

      Taryn frowned and shook her head. He made it sound so easy. Still, something kept her from agreeing readily. “Chance isn’t one to rely on anybody. I doubt you’d get him to agree to therapy of any kind.”

      The doctor leaned so far forward she feared he would slip right out of his chair. “At the moment your husband is unable to make decisions for himself. You could have him admitted. Once the therapy starts, I assure you, he’ll be thankful for your foresight.”

      “Chance likes to make his own decisions.”

      “That’s understandable, but right now he’s not in a position to make an informed judgment. Therapy is his best option for complete recovery.”

      “I don’t know—”

      “No.”

      The word came strong and sure from behind her. Taryn whirled and could hardly contain her joy at the sight of her husband’s open eyes.

      “Chance!” She squealed and threw herself at him, clasping him into a hard hug. “I knew you’d come back. I knew you’d be all right.”

      The fact that Chance had turned his head away from hers, that he was holding himself tight and stiff as if her touch was something alien took a moment to register. “Chance?”

      The look in his eyes was cool and withdrawn and looked as impenetrable as concertina wire on a prison fence.

      “Chance?”

      Wanting to hang on to him in any way possible, she reached for his hand. He pulled it free of her grasp and shoved it beneath the sheet.

      “Get out. Both of you. Leave me alone.”

      “Chance?” He wasn’t making sense. He wasn’t acting like himself. “I’m here for you.”

      “Out!”

      His whole body shook, and Taryn couldn’t say whether it was from fear or cold or anger, only that his unseemly behavior scared her stiff. This wasn’t the Chance she knew and loved.

      Dr. Benton tugged at her elbow. “Mrs. Conover, perhaps—”

      “No.” She ripped her arm out of Dr. Benton’s grasp and took Chance’s face between her hands. Short-cropped bristly black hair, slightly crooked nose, sharp cheeks, kissable lips and all, this was the face of the man she loved. He was still there inside that body—had to be—and she was going to find him. “Look at me, Chance. Dammit, I said look at me!”

      His dark gaze met hers, cold and hard. Like smoke in the night, specters of torment arose behind the surface. Even as she looked, the man she loved was disappearing inside those tortured shadows.

      “Chance.”

      He didn’t know her. He didn’t remember their life together. He didn’t recall the love that fused their souls, making them one. Right before her eyes, he was turning into a remote stranger. The pain inside her chest was nearly unbearable.

      “I won’t let you forget, Chance.” She cursed her croaky voice, her sniffles, her tears. “I’m your wife. I love you. I won’t let you forget who I am, what we had together. We’ve been through too much for you to just throw it all away. Do you hear me?”

      The machinery monitoring his pulse, his heartbeat jumped to life. The vein at his neck throbbed hard and fast. Panic churned in his eyes.

      He shoved her away and turned his head. She stumbled backward. Both her hands covered her mouth, holding back her sobs. If he’d taken out his service weapon and shot her on the spot, he couldn’t have shocked her more than he had at this moment. Never had Chance lifted a hand to her—to anyone—in anger.

      He doesn’t know who he is, she reminded herself. He’s not hurting you on purpose. He’s confused. He’s scared. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

      “Mrs. Conover,” Dr. Benton said, “it’s best you leave now.”

      “No. I have to stay.” She wouldn’t let him forget. She’d be here, a constant reminder of his past. He’d have to remember.

      The machinery’s beeps got quicker, the neon lines sharper.

      “He needs his rest,” Dr. Benton insisted.

      “He needs me.” Just as she needed him. Just as their baby needed them both.

      The machinery beeped faster. The lines jagged erratically. Chance grabbed at the wires connecting him to the monitoring equipment.

      “If

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