LITMIR.BIZ

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Oh, God. A giant door slammed shut inside her head, triggering an instant headache. Nothing rational could escape, only a tidal wave of instant, all-consuming fear. “Get away from me!”

      She backed off, instinctively grabbing Harry and putting the big dog between her and the invisible threat that advanced on her.

      “Jessie?”

      “Miss Taylor?”

      “No.” She pummeled her way through the barriers inside her head. A flashback. Only she wasn’t remembering any details about the attack or the attacker. She was only remembering the fear. “Stop it.”

      “Jess!”

      Sam’s sharp tone was punctuated by a bark from Harry. Like an electric shock stopping the defibrillation of a heart, hearing the personal abbreviation of her name snapped her out of that emotional hallucination. The darkness inside her mind vanished as if the combination of Sam and Harry calling out had switched on a light.

      She was aware enough of her surroundings to see Sam’s hand reaching toward her and to feel the bunching of muscles in Harry’s shoulders as he prepared to defend her. “Down, boy. Harry, down.” She waved aside Sam’s attempt to help and commanded the dog to lie at her feet. “I’m all right.”

      “You don’t look it.” Sam dropped his hand to his side and retreated a step.

      She felt faint and embarrassed and completely confused. But she flashed a fake smile and said, “I’m fine. I guess Harry’s spoiled me. I’ve become such a dog person that I don’t like cats anymore.”

      It was such a pitiful excuse for her behavior that it seemed neither man had the heart to question her.

      Jessica studied the ground while both men studied her. Curtis Hancock was the first to break the awkward silence. “Well, I’d best not be late to Trudy’s.” He held out the cat, and she jerked away. Sensing the trigger of her discomfort this time, he set the cat down and shooed it back toward the barn. “I’ll bring a carrier out Sunday afternoon, if that’s all right? I’ll bring Millie with me so she can choose her own cat.”

      “That’s fine. Sunday’s fine.”

      “I hope to see you at the Kents’ tomorrow night. Jessie.” He tipped his hat to her, then nodded to Sam. “Mr. O’Rourke.”

      Jessica stared into the branches of the old elm tree that grew near the corner of her cabin. She concentrated on counting how many of its green leaves were turning gold instead of dealing with the post-traumatic stress flashback that had tried to take her back to that night she’d subconsciously blocked from her memory.

      Her therapist had told her that the memory would try to assert itself. It might come in bits and pieces or all at once. Something like the cat might trigger it, or it might come back when her mind was relaxed and focused on something else. Without any physical trauma to her brain, the only explanation for her selective amnesia was that her mind was trying to protect her from something.

      Something she desperately needed to remember.

      Something she was mortally afraid to.

      She heard the sheriff’s car door shut and the engine roar to life. Without really seeing the white car, she turned and waved as he drove off through her gate.

      “Jess—”

      “Miss Taylor.” Jessica held up one pointed finger to halt Sam O’Rourke’s polite concern and remind him that he was her employee, not a friend. She didn’t think she could handle making nice and keeping her distance right now. “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

      He propped his hands on his hips, hesitating for a moment, standing far too close for her peace of mind. “My apologies. I’ll get back to work.”

      But when he relaxed his stance and headed toward his wheelbarrow, her shoulders sagged. She felt inexplicably abandoned. For a few horrible moments she’d been plunged back into that horrible nightmare.

      But a deep, Irish-laced voice had pulled her free.

      She wouldn’t explain what had happened. But he didn’t deserve her censure. Jessica inhaled a cleansing breath and called after his wide, retreating back. “Find a stopping place and wash up. It won’t take me long to throw together some sandwiches for lunch.”

      He stopped and turned. “Sounds good.”

      Then he strode away, his long legs eating up the ground while she watched the casual, controlled grace with which he carried himself.

      Jessica shook her head and looked away. She had an eye for beauty, that was all. And the way Sam O’Rourke moved was a precise, powerful, beautiful thing.

      She didn’t need to be thinking of him as sexy. And she certainly didn’t expect him to be her savior. Sam O’Rourke was just the hired hand. He had his own problems to deal with.

      Harry whimpered, drawing her out of her depressing funk. She clicked her tongue and urged him to his feet, kneeling down and hugging him tight around his sturdy neck, finding strength in his unwavering loyalty. Finding comfort in the one male she’d let herself trust.

      “I bet I can find a slice of turkey with your name on it in the fridge.” She stood up and rubbed her nose against his damp one. “Shall we go inside?”

      The dog’s ears pricked up with excitement at the teasing tone in her voice. He ambled along beside her as she headed up the steps and into the house.

      She tried to latch on to the dog’s joy at a potential treat and ignore her lingering thoughts.

      Sam O’Rourke wasn’t looking for a relationship and neither was she. Besides, if he could dredge up one ounce of charm to go with that body of his, he could have any woman he wanted.

      And he wouldn’t give a skittish recluse of a woman like her a second glance.

      Chapter Three

      Jess. The name had slipped out as naturally and familiarly as if he’d known her for years instead of fewer than twenty-four hours. He’d shouted the word as if he had the right to personalize a nickname for her, a right to care about the deathly pallor and stark terror he’d seen etched across her face.

      Sam breathed a sigh that did little to ease his frustration and guilt.

      Jess Taylor was afraid of cats.

      Interesting.

      Not that she’d admit it, and it wasn’t terribly helpful to his mission, but it was an interesting tidbit of information to add to her file.

      Sam rolled the dusty, grit-filled wheelbarrow over to the hose and spigot at the west side of the cabin and turned on the water, letting it run until the sun-warmed water ran cold. He was starting to learn all kinds of interesting things about his eccentric employer, few of which were any help in tracking down Kerry’s killer. But he took note of them, all the same.

      Like the fact she cooked food as if she was feeding an army of gourmands. Her idea of throwing together sandwiches for lunch had been a mouthwatering, deli-style feast, complete with homemade sourdough bread, deviled eggs and pecan pie.

      He’d also learned that her legs were about a mile long, and she’d dangled them off the edge of the porch with an abandon that left him fantasizing about what they’d look like in something besides a ratty pair of work jeans. Something short. Covered in shimmery stockings. Or in nothing at all.

      “Damn.” Sam shook his head to dispel the image of long, shapely legs waltzing through his weary imagination. He squirted the hose into the air and let the cold water spritz across the sticky bare skin of his back and shoulders, easing the ill-advised heat that had been building inside him all afternoon. The unseasonable seventy-eight-degree weather and demanding physical labor weren’t the only things that had him all fired up.

      His fingers had itched inside his work gloves, longing to sift through the casual curls

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