Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Dear Reader

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Copyright

Why Was She Here In This Cabin
With A Stranger?

No, he wasn’t a stranger. His face was familiar, of course it was, and she’d think of his name in a minute. In a minute she’d remember…

But his name never came to her. And suddenly she was afraid.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He stopped dead. If his face had been unrevealing before, it was flatly blank now.

“Seth,” he said slowly. “Seth Brogan.”

She closed her mouth. Licked her dry lips. Stared at him as if she could force her way through his deliberate blankness, force her way through to what she desperately needed. And asked her next question.

“Who am I?”

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to believe that this is the grand finale of CELEBRATION 1000! But all good things must come to an end. Not that there aren’t more wonderful things in store for you next month, too…

But as for June, first we have an absolutely sizzling MAN OF THE MONTH from Ann Major called The Accidental Bodyguard.

Are you a fan of HAWK’S WAY? If so, don’t miss the latest “Hawk’s” story, The Temporary Groom by Joan Johnston. Check out the family tree on page six and see if you recognize all the members of the Whitelaw family.

And with The Cowboy and the Cradle Cait London has begun a fabulous new western series—THE TALLCHIEFS. (P.S. The next Tallchief is all set for September!)

Many of you have written to say how much you love Elizabeth Bevarly’s books. Her latest, Father of the Brood, book #2 in the FROM HERE TO PATERNITY series, simply shouldn’t be missed.

This month is completed with Karen Leabo’s The Prodigal Groom, the latest in our WEDDING NIGHT series, and don’t miss a wonderful star of tomorrow—DEBUT AUTHOR Eileen Wilks, who’s written The Loner and the Lady.

As for next month…we have a not-to-be-missed MAN OF THE MONTH by Anne McAllister, and Dixie Browning launches DADDY KNOWS LAST, a new Silhouette continuity series beginning in Desire.

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to: Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Loner And The Lady
Eileen Wilks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one has to be for Karen.

EILEEN WILKS

is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.

Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home.

Dear Reader,

I love to write Desires for the same reasons I love to read them. They’re fast, spicy, varied, and give me characters I want to spend time with. Many of my favorite authors are found within Desire’s red covers. So when my editor told me my book would be part of the big birthday party Desire is throwing to celebrate its 1000th book, I went up like a rocket. The only reason I can’t call it a dream come true is because it hadn’t occurred to me to dream so big. Being part of a celebration headlined by authors whose books I’ve cherished for years is like being a rookie invited to step up to the plate in the fourth inning of the World Series—scary, thrilling, absolutely wonderful.

I didn’t plan to write The Loner and the Lady. For a couple weeks I’d been trying to begin a different book, but I was trapped in the first chapter. Finally I cleared my computer screen. “This isn’t working,” I said. “What do I really want to write?” I found myself with Seth on a mountain in the middle of a storm, looking for a lost dog—and amazed when he discovered another sort of stray.

The Loner and the Lady turned out to be what I really wanted to write. I’ve always had a weakness for dark, brooding heroes, so I loved the time I spent with Seth and Sophie. I hope you will, too.

One

Only a fool would be out on a night like this, Seth Brogan thought, scowling as the wind lashed rain in under the brim of his Stetson and sent another rivulet running under the neck of his slicker. Only a fool would come out on the mountain in this weather, looking for a stupid female that didn’t have enough sense to stay home when a storm threatened.

Seth’s drenched jeans chafed his skin with every step he took along the uneven path. His left thigh ached the way it always did in the cold these days, but so far, at least, it wasn’t seizing up on him. Now if he could just find that bitch—his foot slipped in the mud and he cursed—find her before she started dropping those pups. She had to be nearly due, the way her stomach practically dragged the ground.

“Rocky!” he hollered, but the wind snatched the dog’s name out of his mouth so quickly he hardly heard it himself.

Nothing. His frown tightened down another notch. As he followed the murky beam from his flashlight farther up the path a rock shifted underfoot, nearly sending him down.

So he was a fool. What else was new?

He rounded the big boulder that he’d named Mama Bear soon after finding this refuge. His light stabbed beneath the overhang he’d been aiming for, where an ugly yellow dog lay on the sheltered dirt, panting cheerfully.

When lightning seared the sky, he had about one second’s warning. One second to hear something crashing through the scrub to his right, something large and very close, its approach hidden in the maelstrom of wind and renewed darkness after the lightning’s glare. Barely enough time to turn and brace himself.

“What the hell!”

Thunder boomed about two feet above his head. He reached out and caught the slim form that ran and fell right into him—caught it by its shoulders as another fork of lightning stabbed the sky. In the stark, actinic brilliance he saw that he held a woman, a young woman, with fear-blank eyes and blood—oh, Lord. Blood, black as sin in the brief dazzle of light, covered the side of her face.

Thunder followed lightning as fast as the tail follows the dog. The woman jerked under the onslaught of noise and threw herself up against him.

Seth froze in astonishment so complete that, for one foolish moment, the storm ceased to exist. She’d come right at him, right up into his arms as if she hadn’t seen him. Well, he realized, as his arm moved belatedly to steady the frightened creature plastered against his chest, obviously she hadn’t seen his face as clearly as he’d seen hers. Too seared, and maybe halfway into shock.

He felt the sigh that shuddered through her as his arm tightened around her. With that exhalation, she went limp.

He damned near dropped her. She wasn’t all that heavy, but the startling nearness of her, the foreign sensation of touch, dulled his reactions. Clutching her body tighter to him, he searched out the tender spot under her jaw with his other hand. The skin there was sticky with her blood, but he felt the rhythm of her heartbeat, a little too fast but strong enough.

Thank God.

He’d never get her into a proper carry, not when he had to keep hold of the flashlight to have any hope of making it back down to the cabin. But once in a while his size came in handy. He bent, tucked his shoulder into her stomach and stood. His knee protested sharply. He looked over his unburdened shoulder. “Dammit, dog,” he yelled over the wind, “come on!”

Rocky didn’t always come when he called her. She was a stray, after all, and didn’t know him that well, though she’d hung around for a month now. Seth started down the path. He didn’t look back. But his heart gave a relieved thump when he felt a fat, warm body press up against his legs.

“Good dog,” he said, though she probably couldn’t hear him over the storm. “Good girl.”

By the time he reached the cabin, his knee ached steadily and his calf muscles burned and twitched. He knew what that meant. Not much longer, he mentally told his leg as he staggered with his limp burden onto the covered porch that ran along the front of the cabin. Hold up a few more minutes, he told the throbbing muscles as he limped into the cabin’s one large room.

He’d been too low on fuel the past couple days to run the generator, so the only light was a fitful reddish glow from the fireplace in the center of the big, undivided room. It was enough for him to steer his way to the sleeping area on the opposite side of the room, but once there he didn’t dare bend to set her down on the oversize bed. His knee might buckle and he’d fall over on top of her. So he more or less dropped her onto the quilt-covered mattress.

His calf spasmed. “Ah, hell,” he gasped, sinking to one knee, his bad leg stretched out straight. The muscles of his face clenched almost as tightly as the ones knotting his calf as he rubbed the leg. After a moment the spasm eased.

He needed to get the leg warm and stay off it. He knew that but couldn’t do it yet. With a grimace he pulled himself onto the bed beside her and laid his fingers on her throat to check the pulse—still rapid, but was it a little weaker?

He had to get her warm before she went into shock. He threw the bed covers over her, then stood and limped back to the door to shut out the rain.

Rocky had curled up in her favorite spot, the rag rug in front of the fireplace. “Sorry, old girl,” he said to the dog watching him curiously. “I know you don’t like closed doors any more than I do, but we’ve got to get this place heated up for whoever is bleeding all over my bed.”

Seth hung the slicker onto its peg and tossed his Stetson on the table by the door. When he did, the strip of cloth he’d used to tie his hair back came out. He muttered under his breath but didn’t bother retying it as he grabbed his first aid kit and two kerosene lanterns.

He lit the lanterns and set one on the table by the bed, the other on the shelf above it. Extra blankets came from the chest at the foot of the bed. His kit went on the floor beside him. Then there was nothing left to do but tend her, and for the first time since moving to the mountain, Seth regretted his refusal to have a phone line run to the cabin. Not that help could have reached them. The storm would render the road impassable for days, and no helicopter could fly in this weather. But he could have talked to a physician, gotten some backup. It had been a long time since he’d used any part of his training.

Her lapse into unconsciousness worried him. A subdural hematoma could send a person into coma hours after the original blow to the head, even if they’d been up and lucid afterward. He checked her pulse again. It was still fast, which didn’t indicate hematoma but might presage shock. She was very pale. Even the warm glow of the lanterns hadn’t put any color in her face.

It was a lovely face. Delicate. He couldn’t help noticing that as he pulled the penlight from his kit. She had a dainty little nose, and lips that were probably pretty when they weren’t all cracked and colorless. He peeled back one of her eyelids, shining his light directly into her eye. The pupil contracted quickly. He let the lid close again.

Even her coloring was delicate. Her eyebrows arched in perfect, pastel half-moons above her closed eyes. Pale lashes rested, motionless, against her bleached cheeks, and short blond hair clung to her scalp like mud.

He checked the other eye. Her pupils responded evenly, thank God.

Blood covered one side of that pretty face. He hesitated briefly—his kit was fairly complete but lacked disposable gloves, since he’d never expected to treat anyone but himself with it. Still, what choice was there? Leaving her untended wasn’t an option.

He explored the left side of her head carefully and found a swelling above her temple, then began cleaning away the blood so he could see where she was hurt. She stirred but didn’t wake. He found several lacerations. It looked as if she’d fallen and scraped or torn the skin on a rough surface. None of the scrapes were deep enough to worry about, and the cuts had pretty much stopped bleeding.

Time for a proper reading of her pulse and pressure. He cuffed her and timed the pulse, watching her chest rise and fall as he counted. Respiration shallow but not too fast, which was good. Pulse over ninety…bad. Blood pressure at the low end of normal. Skin chilly to the touch.

She wasn’t in shock yet. But she was in danger of it. He had to get her warm and pray there was no internal bleeding.

She sure wasn’t dressed for the mountains. Or for a storm. Her sleeveless green top and full pants looked dressy. They had the sheen of silk, too. Linda had worn a lot of silk, expensive things like this. Whatever this woman’s outfit had cost originally, though, it was useless now, muddy and torn.

The top buttoned down the front with those aggravating little cloth-covered buttons that women like. Her skin beneath the cloth had a disturbing chill, and his big fingers made slow work of those blasted buttons. So he quit trying to preserve her ruined clothes and tore the top open.

She had beautiful breasts.

Seth didn’t stop, couldn’t stop in the middle of stripping her chilled body to stare, but he couldn’t keep from looking, either. To save him he couldn’t have stopped looking.

She was soft and white and…perfect. From the coral tips of her breasts, nicely peaked from the cold, to the way her slender waist flared into the curve of her hips, to the pretty nest of curls at the top of her thighs, she was the most perfectly shaped woman he’d ever seen.

Or maybe I’ve just forgotten, he thought, lips tight with anger at himself when he realized he’d been so busy gawking at her that he’d forgotten to take her shoes off before pulling down her slacks and panties. Her well-worn running shoes sure didn’t go with the rest of her outfit. Quickly he pulled the knotted laces free, jerked the shoes off and finished stripping her.

It had been so long. So very long.

He removed everything—socks, watch and a dainty little locket on a chain, dropping them in the pile with her clothes. But he kept his touch impersonal as he checked her as quickly as he could for any injuries that had been hidden by her clothing.

No detectable damage. He could hope that meant he’d found everything. He wrapped her carefully in a blanket, struck with a ridiculous sense of loss when her lovely body was covered. Changing the damp bedding beneath her didn’t take long. By the time he had her settled between clean sheets and fresh blankets with her legs slightly elevated by pillows, her skin was warming, though her color was still bad.

He waited a few minutes, rubbing his knee, then took another blood pressure reading. The results told him plainly that she was responding to the increased warmth, which meant it was unlikely she had any internal hemorrhaging. Relief swamped him.

He decided to get an antibiotic dressing on the facial lacerations. When he applied it, though, she jerked away, dislodging the covers. He paused, waiting to see if she’d wake. Almost hoping she wouldn’t. Because then she’d see him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant for everything he was and wasn’t, everything he’d thought but hadn’t done when he looked at her. His hand lingered for a moment, just a moment, on her soft flesh before he tugged the covers up and stood.

First he added a couple of logs to the fire. Then he got out of his own wet things, rubbed himself dry briskly and pulled on jeans and a shirt he didn’t bother to button. He filled the coffeepot with water and hung it from the hook over the fire.

It was going to be a long night. He’d have to keep an eye on her, try to wake her every hour or so.

He looked over her clothing as he spread it out on the hearth to dry, noting the designer label hand-stitched inside. Damp sheets and quilts went anywhere he found a spot for them. Good thing he didn’t intend to sleep anytime soon. There wasn’t a dry blanket in the place, except for those covering her.

He pulled the big, handmade rocker next to the hearth in the sleeping area and sat, heaving a sigh of relief. His knee and calf ached badly, but he hoped the heat from the fire would help enough that he wouldn’t be too crippled up tomorrow.

He held up her watch and necklace, examining the mellow gold in the glow of firelight. Both were expensive. Neither told him why a woman like her was out in the wilderness at midnight, bloody and wounded.

An automobile accident? It wasn’t completely consistent with her injuries—the lump on her head was in the wrong place, for one thing—but it was all he could think of just then. Highway 142 did lie on the other side of Old Baldy, and the climb wasn’t a difficult one—in dry, daylit weather, for a hiker in good shape. Hard to believe she’d crossed Old Baldy’s slopes in the middle of a thunderstorm, at night, with an injury to her head.

He glanced at the bed where she lay, a small, helpless lump under the blankets. He had no business, no business whatsoever, remembering what she looked like without the covers, without any covering at all. He’d better remember that. Because she was going to wake up. That was the only acceptable alternative. She was going to look at him and realize he’d undressed her, that he’d seen her.

She’d probably hate him for that.

His hand lifted absently to stroke the scar tissue on the left side of his face, scarring that ran down his neck to his shoulder and splashed across the top of his chest. Life wasn’t like fairy tales. The woman in his bed wasn’t going to like knowing that the Beast had looked on her beauty.

Pain came in colors and textures. At the bottom of the ocean, pain was mostly pressure, a distant, enveloping purple, but as she drew nearer the surface, pain turned a crackly, yellowish green.

A bruise-colored feeling. That was the surface, and she didn’t want to go there, not yet. Not when the pain was still so strong. But something, someone, was calling her, pulling her reluctantly nearer…gradually she realized the pain came from her head. It hurt. Completely. Relentlessly. And there was something else…all at once she remembered terror, and fought her way up and out.

Her eyes opened. Someone groaned. And above her, bending over her…

He was big. His inky dark hair hung loose around his face, and his eyes were as black as his hair. His skin was rough, as were the features in his narrow face, and half of his face was ruined.

And she knew him. He’d come to her out of the terrible darkness, catching her when she fell, stopping her flight with his big arms. She remembered seeing his face in the white flare of lightning, seeing his eyes, black and liquid as the night around them, seeing the ruined side of his face and thinking that he was hurt, too, hurt like her. With a sigh of relief she closed her eyes and let herself sink back down, knowing she was safe. Because he was here.

Seth stared down at the woman in his bed. She’d woken. She was going to be all right. She’d woken and seen him…

And smiled.

She woke to the smell of food cooking and the sound of bird song. Dreams and nightmares sluiced off her like water as she surfaced, a swimmer rising from murky depths. Her head hurt worse than it ever had in her life, and her bladder was miserably full. When she cracked open her eyes, light seeped in like pain.

Bacon? Did she smell bacon frying?

She looked around without turning her head. Moving would definitely be a mistake. The light wasn’t really very bright, she realized as her eyes focused. The closest window showed a dim, rainy day outside, though that didn’t seem to discourage the noisy chorus of birds. Inside was a cabin, a real log cabin with the walls planed smooth and varnished in some places, left rough in others. The effect was unusual but pleasing. She looked up at a high ceiling of glossy boards. The big bed she was in pointed her feet at a fireplace in the center of the room, circled by a low, brick hearth.

Something—no, someone—was missing. Someone who had been taking care of her. “I, uh…” She stopped and tried to swallow. Her throat was as dry as her bladder was full.

He moved into her range of vision from somewhere near her feet. He was big—one of those really big men who, she thought with a slow blink, when seen from a distance, don’t look unusually large because everything is in balance. He didn’t make a sound as he came to stand next to her bed and looked down at her.

Her eyes drifted up to his face. His dark hair hung loose below his jaw line. Livid scar tissue covered him from the crest of his cheekbone on down past his jaw, his neck, disappearing under the collar of his plain blue work shirt. The skin was shiny smooth, the angry color left by bad burns. The scarring distracted her.

Then she noticed the way his hands were knotted into fists at his sides. “What’s wrong?” she croaked, alarmed. Was she even sicker, more damaged, than her pounding head suggested?

His big hands relaxed. “I didn’t know if you were completely awake this time.” His voice matched the rest of him, deep and solid and vaguely reassuring.

“How long…?”

“You’ve been out for over fifteen hours,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her. “I think you’ve just been sleeping, though, not unconscious, since the last time I woke you. Where do you hurt?” He put his big hands on her neck and probed gently.

“My head.” Fifteen hours. She tried, and failed, to think of what had happened to her.

“Anywhere else?” He prodded her lightly. “Here? Or here?”

“No.” Why was she here, in this cabin, with him? The effort to think made the pounding in her head increase until it throbbed all the way along her jaw and down her neck. She gave up and closed her eyes. “I’m very thirsty.”

The bed creaked as he shifted. “It should be okay for you to sit up for a drink. I’ll have to lift you a bit,” he said, and slid an arm carefully under her shoulders, supporting her neck. For all his care, it still hurt fiercely when he raised her off the pillow, and she made a small sound.

“Take it easy,” he murmured, and held a glass to her lips. His low voice cooled the jagged edges of her pain the way the water soothed her dry throat. She managed several sips.

“Better?” he asked in that comforting voice as he laid her back down.

She thought about nodding and didn’t. She thought about lying there until her other problem went away—but it wasn’t going to. She forced her eyes open, wretchedly embarrassed. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He nodded, the undamaged half of his face as unrevealing as the burned side. “I’ll get a bowl for you to use as a bedpan.”

“No way.” Surely, if he helped her, she could make it to the bathroom. She couldn’t stand the idea of some stranger, no matter how kind, helping her with such a private matter.

Some stranger?

No, he wasn’t a stranger. He was…his face was familiar, of course it was, and she’d think of his name in a minute. In a minute she’d remember…

By the time he came back to the bed, the humiliating bowl in his hand, her breath came in quick, fearful pants, like a dog. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He stopped dead. If his face had been unrevealing before, it was flatly blank now. “Seth,” he said slowly. “Seth Brogan.”

She closed her mouth. Licked her dry lips. Stared at him as if she could force her way through his deliberate blankness, force her way through to what she desperately needed. And asked her next question. “Who am I?”

Two

She couldn’t remember?

Seth stood rooted to the floor, holding the stupid bowl. All he could think, selfishly, was that the fear he’d seen twisting her pallid face hadn’t been about him, after all. She was afraid because she didn’t remember who she was.

Finally he got his tongue unstuck. “A blow to the head can affect the memory, but it’s temporary. Mostly temporary. You may never remember everything that happened right around your accident.” If whatever happened to her had been an accident. He’d begun to have some doubts about that.

“But the rest—my name—will come back to me?”

“Sure,” he said as if he knew the answer.

She wanted to believe him, that was obvious from the way her face relaxed. Then she saw the bowl in his hands and stiffened up again. “Are you a doctor?”

He shook his head.

She bit her lip. “I don’t suppose you’re my brother or something?”

He could have told her he was. She’d have accepted it. For some ungodly reason, probably because she had so little choice, she trusted him. Being cared for like this would be easier on her if she thought they were related.

Only how could he lie to her, when she trusted him? “Afraid not,” he said. “But listen, it could be worse.” The corner of his mouth, the one on the undamaged side, creaked up. “You could need a catheter. Trust me, that’s worse.”

In spite of everything, there was a faint, answering spark of humor in her eyes. Big, shamrock green eyes, he noticed for the first time. Green as the grass of Ireland, and somehow twice as pretty with the way her pale lashes left her eyes all open and unshielded.

Her humor died in the painful, awkward moments that followed. She hid by closing her eyes again. He went outside, leaving the door open so she could call him.

When he came back in she was white with pain and exhaustion, too worn-out, he thought, to feel more than mild embarrassment at their forced intimacy. He understood how that felt, too.

He had hoped she’d be able to get some soup down, but she fell asleep almost before he could get the covers settled back around her. Seth let his hands linger briefly while tucking her in, not invasively, he told himself. An innocent sort of touching, through the sheet and two blankets, and far less personal than the task he’d just performed for her.

But he looked at her face while his hands smoothed the covers over her. Her hair had dried to a streaky blond. It wisped around the edges of the pretty face eased by sleep, except on the left side. Dried blood clumped the soft blond strands together above her ear.

Looking at her sleeping face was, Seth understood, an invasion of sorts, an intrusion on her helplessness.

But he felt helpless, too. Helpless to keep from watching her. And wanting her, damn him for a fool. Seth looked over at the round oak table where he’d made a small pile of her things: slacks, panties, top, watch, a locket with a name engraved on it…and a small plastic bag he’d found in one of the deep pockets of that top. A bag half-full of white powder.

She woke up more easily this time, trailing wisps of memory after her. Enough memory to know where she was, so that she wasn’t startled when she opened her eyes and saw rafters and wood above her. Dust motes danced in the sunbeam slanting in the window.

She didn’t know what her name was. But she remembered his. “Seth?”

As before, he appeared almost immediately, his narrow face serious on one side, stiff with scars on the other. “How are you feeling?”

He wore jeans, a plain blue work shirt, and a dish towel stuck into the waist of his pants and apparently forgotten. The incongruously domestic touch on such a rough-looking man made her smile. “Better.”

A lot better, she realized as she shifted, testing her body’s reactions. Her head hurt, yes, but in a normal sort of way, no longer overpowering. Her whole body was stiff. She ached as if she’d been lying in one position far too long.

She breathed deeply and smelled a welcome aroma. “May I have a cup of that coffee?”

He hesitated. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt. I’m out of milk, so I hope you take it black. Sugar?”

“I don’t know.” How very peculiar, not to know how she drank her coffee. And yet she’d known, when she smelled the coffee, that she wanted a cup. “You can give it to me without and we’ll see if I like it that way.”

“You don’t seem very upset about your lack of memory.”

She wasn’t, and that, surely, was odd. But it was good just to lie here and not hurt. Too pleasant for her to waste energy worrying. She smiled. “I feel so much better than the last time I woke up, I guess it doesn’t seem worth getting upset over. After all, like you said, my memories will come back soon.”

He frowned. “You’ll need some breakfast to go with the coffee. I hope you like your eggs scrambled.”

“That sounds fine.” Did she like scrambled eggs? Did she like eggs at all? The idea of eating them didn’t disgust her, so she supposed they’d be okay.

When Seth moved she automatically followed him with her eyes, turning her head slightly on the pillow to keep him in sight.

Ouch. Well, it could be worse—had been, in fact, much worse. The swift stabbing pain that accompanied her head movement faded to the same dull ache she’d woken with. She ignored it in favor of studying the cabin…and Seth.

Seth was easy to watch. He got a bowl from the cabinets, moved out of her line of vision, and came back with several eggs cradled in one hand. He had big hands. Long fingers, like a pianist. He cracked the eggs into the bowl, stirred them, and carried the bowl to a large, modern stove, limping slightly.

She was curious about her rescuer, about his big hands and his big, athletically graceful body. Watching Seth was better than struggling with the clouds in her brain. Something about the way he moved, an athletic economy unimpaired by his limp, fascinated her, reminded her of—

Pain lanced through her skull, turning her so quickly away from.the memory that she lost the thread of thought. She blinked, dazed, grateful for the easing of the pain.

She looked away from Seth and her fascination with him. When she moved her head again, cautiously, it didn’t hurt too much, but her hair tugged at her scalp. She reached up and gingerly felt around the sorest place on her head, just above her left ear, and grimaced. Half her hair seemed to be caked together with what she was afraid was dried blood. Her blood.

She went back to her inspection of the cabin. By careful degrees she was able to move her head around on the pillow, taking in most of her surroundings. -

This was not a typical log cabin. The roof rose to a peak in the center, where a metal chimney carried aloft smoke and cinders from the big central fireplace. The oddest thing, though, was the shape, and the lack of interior walls. The cabin’s exterior walls defined five different living areas. Five sides…a pentagon. Like in Washington, D.C. Or like the basis for inscribing a pentagram, the shape used by witches and warlocks when casting their spells.

She didn’t think the cabin had much in common with the Pentagon, no more than her host had in common with the regimented warriors and drones who peopled the Defense Department. He did, however, have something of the look of a warlock. Brooding and mysterious.

Somehow even that thought wasn’t enough to disturb the inexplicable comfort she’d awoken with, a lazy sense of safety that she knew made no sense.

But then, she thought, watching Seth scrape the contents of a skillet onto a plate, her sorcerer had used his powers to save her, not to harm her.

Seth walked toward her, carrying a speckled blue plate that made her think of cowboys and camp fires. He set it, and the mug of coffee he held in his other hand, on the square table next to the bed. Then he turned away.

“Seth?” she said, when he went to a tall chest against the wall. “I, ah, I hate to bother you, but I don’t think I can sit up without a little help.”

He turned around, holding a blue shirt identical to the one he was wearing. “I’ll help you sit up and get this on.”

Get the shirt—oh, no. Tentatively she moved her leg and felt the sheet beneath, sheet and blankets above—all directly against her skin, nothing in between her and them, which meant…She moaned, grabbed the covers with one hand and pulled them up to her nose. That made her head hurt, so she squeezed her eyes shut.

A thread of humor laced his voice. “I think I’m the one who’s supposed to close my eyes, not you.”

He was amused? She opened her eyes and frowned.

If he’d been amused, he didn’t look it now. His face was as impassive as ever, frustratingly so. And she was still naked, quite entirely naked, whether her eyes were open or closed. She sighed. “Do we know each other at all?”

“We do now.”

“That’s a lousy answer,” she said, but she let go of the edge of the covers. There wasn’t much point, was there? He’d undressed her and—oh, Lord! That horrible bedpan yesterday! If she’d been in any shape to pay attention, that should have clued her in to her lack of clothing. “I guess I’ll need some help.”

He sat on the bed beside her. With one arm he scooped her upper body off the bed. The covers fell to her waist. The movement made her head pound and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She tried to help him get her arms into the sleeves, but she was so dratted weak, her efforts were probably more hindrance than help. When she looked down to button the shirt, she got dizzy and nearly toppled over, so he took over doing that, too.

She closed her eyes again. Illogical, maybe, but it gave her the illusion of privacy. It also left her oddly attuned to his scent, a unique blend of soap, coffee and male…to the movement of his hand…a sensation of warmth, the slight rasp of the cotton against her skin, her nipples, as he tugged button and buttonhole together…the careful way his hand shifted to avoid touching her breasts.

By the time he finished, her head pounded miserably. She was dizzy. And aroused.

She knew she should have felt embarrassed. He’d probably noticed her involuntary reaction to the intimacy of being dressed by his careful hands. But embarrassment, like fear, seemed like too much effort. So she just smiled at him when he settled her against the pillows he’d arranged to prop her up.

“Whew.” Her heart thudded in rhythm with her head. “May I have some of that coffee now?”

He looked at her doubtfully, but whatever his objections, he didn’t voice them.

He helped her hold the cup. The coffee was strong, dark and hot. His hand on top of hers, steadying the mug for a few sips, was strong and warm, too. He set the mug down and held the plate of eggs and buttered bread for her, but she managed the fork herself.

Apparently she wasn’t a fussy eater. The overcooked eggs went down fine. At least a reasonable portion of them did—he’d given her enough to feed a fullback.

Once she persuaded him she really couldn’t eat any more, he gave her three aspirins and made her drink half a glass of water before he’d let her have the few last sips of coffee.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning back fully on the pillows. So many questions…they’d seeped in while she ate. “I have a lot to thank you for.”

He didn’t help her. Just sat there and watched her with his dark, dark eyes.

She licked her lips nervously. “How long have I been here?”

“Yesterday and last night. Part of the night before. I found you stumbling around Old Baldy in the middle of a storm.”

“What’s Old Baldy?”

“A mountain. Not especially high. Fifty years ago the top of it sheared off in an avalanche, so that today it looks bald. What do you remember?”

“You.” And the bedpan. She bit her lip and glanced around. “I remember waking up in this room. Where are we?”

“The Davis Mountains, not far from McDonald Observatory.”

“Near Fort Davis?”

He nodded.

She knew where that was. Texas. She felt a strong, diffused sense of relief. The knowledge carried a sense of familiarity. Fort Davis was in the far southwestern portion of the state, a desolate area half desert, half mountains. The Davis Mountains were the highest range in the area, high enough to wrest some rainfall from the thin, dry air.

They weren’t gentle, though, these mountains. They were rugged and rocky, home to porcupines, skunks, rattlers and the occasional mountain lion. Storms here could be deadly, gorging the little creeks with floodwater…

…blinding her with a darkness that bled rain. Rocks sliding under her feet—falling, getting up, pushing on through a curtain of night and rain, and hurting, hurting from the fear as much as from the blow to her head—her head hurt so bad, so bad—

No, she thought. No! And as the nightmare faded away, so did the crippling pain in her head.

“…all right? Sophie?”

She opened eyes she didn’t remember closing. Seth knelt by her bed, his hand on her shoulder.

“What?” she asked breathlessly. “What did you call me?”

“You had on a locket. That name is engraved on it.” His dark eyebrows drew together in a frown. “It says, To Sophie on one side. With Love, on the other.”

She wanted to react to the name, tried to find a feeling that went with it. But her momentary breathlessness was gone, leaving only exhaustion behind.

“Do you think that’s your name?”

“I don’t know. When I reach inside, I feel…like I’m stuffed with clouds instead of memories. You can’t really touch clouds, can you? There’s nothing there.” Her eyes were so tired. “But you can call me Sophie. It was on the locket. Maybe—probably—it’s my name.”

“All right, Sophie. Go on back to sleep now. Everything will seem better when you’re rested.” His voice was a quiet, cool ribbon in the darkness behind her closed eyes, a ribbon she held on to gladly as she sank into the soothing blankness of sleep.

By the time Seth’s patient woke up that afternoon it was drizzling again, and he was worrying.

Normally it didn’t bother him when bad weather made the road to his cabin impassable. Even when the timing was unfortunate, like now, and he was low on propane or other supplies, he didn’t mind being cut off from civilization.

But normally he didn’t have an injured woman with beautiful breasts stretched out in his bed, wearing his shirt. Only his shirt.

Dammit, he did not need this. He liked silence. Solitude. He sure as hell did not want to be responsible for another human soul.

He glanced out the front door. Rocky lay on the porch, protected from the fresh drizzle. Being responsible for a dog was enough, more than enough. He didn’t want the woman here.

But here she was, and neither of them had much choice about it. Seth sighed and looked at the book on the desk in front of him: A History of Texas Wildlife. Normally he enjoyed reading about his hobby, but today he couldn’t concentrate.

He had a good view of his bed and its occupant from this desk. At least, he did if he turned his head to the right and looked through the crowded miscellany on the open shelves that divided the office from the sleeping area. So he noticed right away when she stirred, because he’d been looking that way a lot more than he’d been looking at the book he was supposedly reading.

Dammit. He wasn’t going, to go running in there just because she was moving around beneath those covers. If she needed anything, she’d call him. He wasn’t going to…wasn’t going to listen to himself, apparently, because he pushed his chair back and was already halfway there when she called him.

She lay in the bed and looked up at him. The scrapes on the left side of her face were scabbed over and ugly. She smiled. “Every time I wake up it smells good in here. Is that chicken soup?”

Why was she always smiling at him? He frowned, wanting her to stop. “I had to clean out the freezer. I’m too low on fuel to run the generator, so everything’s defrosting and I need to use up what I can. I’ll get you some.”

“First things first.” She tried to push up.

“Hey!” He got his arm behind her, bracing her. “You aren’t ready for push-ups yet…Sophie.”

She tipped her head, acknowledging his use of what might be her name. “Well,” she said, her breath coming a little unsteadily, “I’ll agree to wait on the push-ups, but I refuse to consider that bedpan again. There is a bathroom behind that door, isn’t there?”

He nodded.

“Good.” She smiled again. “But I might need a little help standing.”

Good grief. Seth wasn’t about to let the fool woman walk there. He disregarded her protests and carried her into the one area of the cabin separated from the rest by four walls and a door. He didn’t like leaving her there, but agreed reluctantly when she agreed, with equal reluctance, to leave the door slightly ajar so he could hear her if she needed him.

Then he waited, scowling at the rocker and absently rubbing his thigh.

This is ridiculous, he told himself. She wasn’t that special to look at. Different, yes. Pretty. Well, all right, more than pretty. She had incredible eyes. And her breasts—but he wasn’t going to think about her breasts.

He knew about beautiful women, though, didn’t he? He didn’t miss that part of his other life. Sure, it had been awhile since a woman paid any attention to him, other than to look away fast. Two years and one month, or one year and nine months, depending on whether he counted from the accident or from his discharge from the hospital. But it was stupid for him to get flustered, to want to hang around her just to look at her. He hadn’t acted like that around a female since he dated Cindy Grover in high school.

He knew better. Especially with a beautiful woman. Especially considering the white powder he’d found on her.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t notice his scars, either. She’d seen them first, just like everyone did. But she saw the rest of him, too, saw both sides of his face, not just the half the surgeon hadn’t patched together all that well.

The thump from the bathroom nearly stopped his heart. “What the hell are you trying to do?” he demanded as he jerked the door open and saw her sitting on the platform that skirted the big sunken bathtub.

“I slipped when I sat down, that’s all.” The expression she faced him with was mule stubborn. “There’s dried blood in my hair. I’m smelly. I have to take a bath.”

Forget it, he started to say. But her expression told him he’d do better to outsmart her instead of arguing. “You can’t do it yourself,” he said. “I’ll take your clothes off, lower you into the tub, and stay in here with you.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. She looked at the deep, oversize tub he’d specially ordered when he was building the cabin. Then she proved him a fool. “Okay.”

He should have known better. Seth pointed that out to himself as he filled the big tub while she waited, at his insistence, back in bed. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He’d turned on the wall heater to get it warmed up in here for her. The amount of fuel it burned was negligible, after all. As for the fuel used to heat the water—well, he’d turn the hot water heater off again once her tub was ready.

He should have realized how contrary she’d be. She reminded him of the mare he’d owned years ago, back in high school. That mare had been a sweet-natured beast, affectionate and biddable. Every once in a while, though, she zigged when she was supposed to zag. That was how his collarbone got cracked the weekend before graduation.

He scowled at the faucet as he turned it off, then took his time rolling up his sleeves before testing the temperature of the water. Was it too hot? She was so soft. Delicate. How hot was too hot? Maybe he should let some of the water out, add more cold—

“Seth?” she called from the bed. “Is the water ready?”

The water was ready, he admitted silently. He wasn’t ready, but he stood anyway. He’d better go get her before the stupid woman tried to hobble in here on her own.

She wasn’t smiling at him now. In fact, she couldn’t seem to get her gaze past the third button on his shirt when he stooped down and picked her up. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re having second thoughts—”

“No. No, I’m embarrassed, I’ll admit, but I’m dirty, Seth. I have to have a bath.” Shy as a butterfly, her glance lighted on his for a moment. “I trust you.”

Well, now, that meant they were both fools, didn’t it?

She was as perfect as he remembered. Exquisite, with her soft, white curves peeking out here and there as he unbuttoned the blue shirt. He tried not to look—tried, at least, not to get caught looking—while he helped her ease her incredibly naked body into the tub.

Her nipples weren’t hard now, as they had been the first time he saw her breasts. Which was good, he told himself as he released her to the water. He must have gotten it warm enough in here for her to be comfortable. God knows his own temperature was nothing to judge by. It had shot up with the first button he’d unfastened while she sat there, docile and patient.

The little moan of satisfaction she gave as the warm water closed around her almost had him groaning, too. He turned away quickly. “There’s soap and a washcloth on the ledge,” he said gruffly. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

She thanked him and started bathing. She made little splashing sounds, which had him picturing the way the water beaded on her bare skin. After a minute she started humming. It was a country tune. Well, he told himself, desperate for distraction, she was from Texas, judging by her accent and the way she’d recognized her location. Everyone in Texas knew some country songs, whether they—

A splash, too big and too loud, made him spin around.

She was all the way under the water.

Probably she would have been okay anyway. Probably. She hadn’t knocked herself out again or anything, and was already pushing herself up when he got his arms around her and pulled her sopping body up against his chest.

“Dammit, woman.” His heart galloped like that blasted mare had the day she refused the jump and broke his collarbone. “Dammit all. You’re getting out right now.” But he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“No, listen—” She pushed against him in the feeblest way. He managed to relax his hold a little. The face she tipped back to look at him was as pale as milk, like it had been when she was unconscious. The smile she tried on wouldn’t stay put. “I’m all right. Really. I bent over to get my hair wet so I could wash it, and I got dizzy for a second. But it passed. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re fine and I’m Little Boy Blue.” He grunted as he shifted, needing to get his legs under him better before he lifted her. Kneeling like this made his thigh hurt.

“No-please!”

He paused. His shirt clung to his chest, wet with water from her very naked body. Her breasts—the breasts he’d been trying not to look at—just brushed his chest. His blood sang a hot, hot song.

“It’s the blood,” she said. “I can’t stand having that dried blood in my hair any longer, Seth. Please.”

This was a mistake. He was positive this was a mistake. So he was stern with her. “All right.” She was getting some color back in her face already. That was good. “I’ll wash your hair, though, not you. You took twenty years off my life when you went under like that. I won’t let it happen again.”

This Wouldn’t take long, he told himself. Her hair was already wet, so he just had to do the shampooing and then pour some water over her head to rinse. He dug around under the sink until he came up with an old mason jar to pour with.

Bracing her with an arm at her shoulders while he poured shampoo into the palm of his other hand was awkward. It brought him much too close to—well, to everything, all those warm, bare inches of her. Shoulders. Arms. Skin that looked even more delectable all wet, with little drops of water beaded on it, than he’d imagined it would.

“Seth? I can sit up.”

Did she sound any different? Uncertain? She wasn’t getting scared of him, was she? “Sure.” He took a quick peek at her face, which was flushed. But the bathwater was pretty warm. No wonder she was flushed.

She was also very close. His soap definitely smelled different on her.

He cleared his throat. “I guess you can’t tip over while I’ve got my hands in your hair,” he agreed, and straightened enough to use both hands to lather the shampoo into her hair.

Mistake. Oh, yes, this was a huge, glaring, enormous mistake. He hadn’t made one this large in years. He hurt. He was hard, and hurting, and he had to sound…normal. Unaffected.

“Almost done,” he told her with dreadful, forced cheer. He urged her head back and poured water over her sudsslick head, water that ran down her back, glistening with soap bubbles. Quickly he rinsed again. He ran his fingers through her short, water-darkened curls to check for lingering soap, doing his best not to look below her forehead in front, but that left his gaze traveling down her back, down her straight spine to her narrow waist and on to the round cheeks of her bottom.

His skin was too tight and too hot. His thoughts thinned and his hands lingered rebelliously at their task as the rest of his blood went south to that most willful, demanding part of his body.

Her wet hair was silkier than that old mare’s nose had been. Her eyes drifted closed and her lashes lay, long and pale, against the petal smoothness of her skin. Skin that was all pink and white, like blossoms. So pretty. Like her breasts, where the nipples now pointed out perkily.

Uh-oh.

His mouth opened as he stared at those hard little nipples. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked up.

Her eyes were open. They’d darkened from grass green to pure mystery. He heard her breath catch as their gazes locked. He reached out with one hand, brushing her cheek as gently as he knew how. “Don’t be scared,” he said. Don’t be frightened. I won’t let my scars touch you when I kiss you now, when I touch that wonderfully soft, wet-skin of yours and suck those perfect breasts and—

Rocky’s deep bark from directly behind him startled Seth so thoroughly he almost fell into the bathtub.

He pulled his hands back, clenching them into fists. Closed his eyes, and counted to ten. He’d been about to…very ready to…and his body still insisted on it, on the warmth and skin-to-skin closeness, and especially the part where he put himself inside a woman, inside this woman, and watched what happened to her shamrock eyes while he moved within her—

Rocky nudged his foot with her nose.

He opened his eyes.

Sophie hadn’t moved. She sat in the cooling bathwater and stared at him with big, trusting eyes, her face still flushed with desire, looking as vulnerable as a new-hatched chick.

Which, he told himself with painful honesty, is what she was, in a sense. She didn’t know who or what she was, had no memories to act as defense against the man-woman hunger that flared white-hot between them.

If, that is, she was telling the truth.

He thought she was. He didn’t see how anyone could lie so convincingly while concussed. But amnesia, the sort of complete amnesia she claimed, was as rare as whooping cranes. Which was all the more reason for him to back off.

“That dog’s always hungry these days,” Seth growled as he grabbed the big towel he’d left on the ledge beside the tub. “Come on, get out before you catch a chill.” He didn’t actually lift her out. Didn’t trust himself enough. Just slid his arm around her and held on while she got her legs under her. Together they got her sitting on the ledge again.

He promptly shrouded her in the big, blue towel. “How’s that? Better?” Definitely better for him, with her all covered up like this. He started drying her hair with a second towel, which was another improvement. Now he couldn’t see her at all. “Rocky’s appetite is something these days. But then, she’s probably eating for eight or ten, judging by the size of her stomach.” He tried to wrap the towel around her head, turban style, so she wouldn’t get chilled. “It looks as if those puppies are going to pop right out of her skin.” Did he sound as stupid as he felt? He hadn’t talked this much in months.

“Seth-”

“Ready to get back in bed? Hold on one more minute, and I’ll have a clean shirt for you.” How in the hell would he keep his hands off her while putting a shirt on her? How would he keep himself from learning the feel of those hard little nipples and the soft skin around them?

She touched his arm. “Seth?” Her band was small and warm and much too welcome. Her eyes searched his—lovely eyes, a little eager, a little scared.

He made his expression harden. He couldn’t afford to let her find whatever she was looking for in his face.

She glanced away, at the dog who’d plopped down beside him. “I didn’t know you had a dog.” She pushed the towel turban out of the way when it slipped down, and gave him a shaky smile. “It’s all right. I know you’re not going to ravish me or anything.”

She sure as hell knew more than he did, then. “Come on,” he said grimly. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

Seth was a bully. An oversize, gentle, worrywart of a bully. Sophie figured this out by the time he stuffed another pillow behind her and told her to behave and be still while he got her some more juice to drink with the supper she was finishing. He wouldn’t let her get out of bed. He’d barely let her feed herself. He hadn’t let her bathe herself…

Oh, but she couldn’t regret that. She should, shouldn’t she? She ought to be ashamed of the way she’d felt about having him look at her body—all hot and luscious, like melted fudge flowed in her veins instead of blood. Eager.

She wanted to feel that way again. Wanted him to look at her. Wanted…him. Was she the kind of woman who was casual with her body, then? The kind who, when she saw a man she wanted, thought that was reason enough for intimacy?

Or did she just want Seth?

He was back with her juice. “You haven’t finished your soup.”

“It’s delicious, but my appetite is a little off.”

He studied her, then took the almost empty bowl away. “All right. But you’re looking tired,” he said in his definite way. Bossy. “You need some more rest.”

“I’m not sleepy, Seth. I’ve slept for most of the past forty-eight hours.”

“You were unconscious for fifteen of those hours, and you get dizzy when you try to do anything. I’m no doctor, but that sounds like a concussion to me. You need to stay in bed.”

She ignored the last statement. “What are you, then? You’re not a doctor, but you seem to know what you’re doing.”

He hesitated, then set the bowl down. “I’ve had some paramedic training. These days, though, I’m a student.” He tried to pull the covers up.

She swatted at his hand. “You are not tucking me in again. What are you studying? Medicine?”

“No. They don’t offer medical degrees through correspondence courses.”

Correspondence courses? “Yet you think you can boss me around.” She tipped her head to one side, pleased when it didn’t feel as if it were going to fall off. “I know. You’re getting a degree from The Terminator School of Nursing, right?”

“No.” But for all the terseness of his reply, his face relaxed. He was almost smiling.

Had she seen him smile? Since he rescued her and her memory started, had she once seen him really smile? She wanted suddenly, urgently, to know what he looked like when he was happy. “Ah,” she said. “I’ve figured it out. You’re embarrassed to admit it because you’re a man, but you shouldn’t be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cooking.” She gestured at the bowl on the table beside her. “You’re taking cooking courses, and you’ve been practicing your lessons on me.”

He shook his head. His hair swung loosely around his face, and she wondered if the scarred side was as sensitive as the other, if that skin felt the tickle of hair as acutely as unmarked skin. She wanted to find out. To touch him, and learn where he was sensitive…

His thin, cleanly shaped lips almost turned up. Almost. “Not cooking or nursing.”

He liked being teased, she decided. He wasn’t giving anything away, but he liked her teasing. The knowledge sang through her veins like a heady liquor. “Magic,” she said softly.

He looked startled.

“I’ve figured out your secret. The five sides to your cabin give you away. You’re a warlock, or at least you will be one when you graduate from Dr. Faust’s Correspondence School of Magick. I’ll be able to prove it,” she added, “if I can find your gramarye.”

“My grammar?” His lips twitched. “Do warlocks worry a lot about dangling participles, then?”

“Gram-ar-ee. You know, a magician’s occult knowledge. A book of spells.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Ah, you must not read any fantasy.”

“Do you?” he asked casually.

“I—” She stopped. Blinked, and fumbled mentally through the clouds that hid her memory, and came up with handfuls of fog. “I was going to say that I used to,” she said slowly. “It was there for a minute, the knowledge that I used to read fantasy. But it’s gone.”

Thank goodness…

“But for a minute you knew,” he said softly. “That proves your memory will come back.” He supported her neck with one of his big, fascinating hands while the other urged her to lie back on the nest of pillows he’d built for her. “All you have to do is take it easy. Everything will come back in time.”

He probably thinks he won that round, Sophie thought as Seth pulled the covers back up, his hands gentle, his face far too controlled. After all, she was lying down again, resting, like he wanted.

But that wasn’t because of anything he’d done. Her own mind had distracted her after the glimpse of her past vanished back into whatever limbo it came from.

I was glad, she thought, bewildered, as Seth left on quiet feet. I was glad I couldn’t remember who I was.

What was wrong with her? What kind of person was she? She craved a man she didn’t know. And apparently she would prefer anything—or nothing—to reclaiming her own identity.

Three

In the morning after breakfast, Seth excused himself to go up on the roof and check out possible storm damage since, he said, the radio had reported the passing of the storm cell that had dumped all that rain on them. His guest managed not to comment on the foolishness of a man with a bad leg climbing around on the roof. At least he didn’t seem to be limping today.

She took advantage of his absence to check something else out.

“Sophie.” She said the name out loud, weighing it on her tongue. She smiled. “Sophie,” she said again. A friendly name. Comfortable.

Her hand went to the delicate chain around her throat and the locket suspended there, with that name engraved in flowing script. She liked the feel of the dainty necklace, liked that one tangible link with her past.

Surely “Sophie” was a diminutive of some other, longer name. “Sophronia?” She had to smile at that one. Surely not. “Sophia,” she tried, but the name sounded heavy and formal, and she couldn’t summon any recognition.

She felt decidedly ambivalent about her name hunt. Part of her wanted to know. Part wanted to hide, wanted to lie here in Seth’s bed where she felt safe and curiously free.

A loud clatter overhead recalled her to what she was supposed to be doing, and she started unbuttoning the shirt she’d slept in. Seth’s trip to his roof gave her privacy to change into another of his shirts and the pair of panties that he’d washed out for her.

Why did she find the idea of Seth washing her panties more embarrassing than the idea of Seth washing her?

Sophie sighed as she drew the blue cotton down her arm. It was a nice arm, she thought. A little scrawny, maybe. Pausing with the shirt half off, half on, she made a muscle and giggled at her nonexistent biceps.

Apparently she was not into bodybuilding.

She glanced up. Continued sounds reassured her that Seth was still busy with his roof. In the bath last night she’d been so aware of Seth looking—or studiously not looking, at first—that she hadn’t especially taken note of her body herself.

Sophie slipped the shirt all the way off and looked.

Her breasts were small. Her nipples were rather large, a sort of blushy tan color, but. the breasts themselves were definitely on the small side. Oh, well. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about sagging when she got older.

She frowned. Someone had said that to her. Someone, a woman quite a bit older, when Sophie was…was…but the thought trailed into a wisp. Vapor.

Maybe she was already “older.” What an unsettling idea!

She stretched a leg out. She had pretty good muscle definition in her legs, she thought, but that didn’t give her much of a clue as to her age. A dedicated runner or aerobics teacher might stay fit and firm well into her forties.

“I don’t want to be forty,” she muttered. She wasn’t supposed to be forty. She was—well, she didn’t know, but surely not forty.

She had to smile at herself. How absurd. She was more upset at the possibility of having passed her fortieth birthday than at her missing memories. Did she know on some level that she wasn’t that old yet? Or was she feeling a purely human resentment at the passing of years?

She managed to squirm into her panties without making her head explode, and the bit of throbbing the movement excited eased off quickly. Pleased, she studied both legs.

Well, she thought, flexing one knee, she did have rather nice legs, whatever her age was. Her thighs were firm, and her calves…she ran a hand up from the ankle, and grimaced. Good muscle definition, but bristly. Maybe she could borrow Seth’s razor later.

Or maybe she could borrow it now.

She glanced guiltily at the roof. She really shouldn’t borrow his things without permission, but if she asked he’d probably insist on carrying her. She wasn’t sure if the injury to his leg was temporary or permanent, but she didn’t want his overly developed sense of chivalry making him hurt himself. Besides, she needed to be alone. It wasn’t just a razor she wanted to find in the bathroom.

She needed a mirror.

She swung her legs off the bed. If she took it slow, she reasoned, walking to the bathroom shouldn’t be too hard. Her head was much better today.

She scooted to the edge of the mattress and stood. The room moved.

It was a strange sensation. She clasped her hand to her head as if she could stop the slow gyrations of the room by clutching her head. Maybe it worked. After a moment, the world did steady itself and she started moving.

Her legs were mushy. Spaghetti al dente. She decided it would be wise to have something to hang on to, and swerved to take advantage of the furniture that lay between her and her goal. She paused to catch her breath, gripping the back of the couch where Seth had slept last night. Ridiculous to be all winded from such a tiny bit of exertion, but the room chose that moment to do its dance again. Black fluttered at the edges of her vision while the floor stood itself up on end and smacked itself against her outstretched hand, then knocked the breath from her lungs.

“Sophie!”

She didn’t think she passed out again, but there didn’t seem to be any time between hearing Seth cry out her name from the doorway and feeling him gather her up tenderly against him. Cursing her the whole time.

“…what the hell you thought you were doing? Of all the fool ideas—does that hurt?” He ran his hand up her legs. “You’re a complete idiot, you know that?” He gently eased her head back against his shoulder to study her face intently. “Your pupils look the same,” he muttered.

She wished he’d go back to touching her legs. The shivery sensation she’d had when his hands skimmed up her bare calves was fading. But this position had possibilities, too. His dark hair was tied back, emphasizing the elegance of the bones that underlay both sides of his face, the smooth and the damaged. His face was so near, with her head pillowed on his shoulder. He’d hardly have to move at all to…

To kiss her. Seth couldn’t believe he was thinking about kissing her when one minute ago she’d nearly killed herself, toppling over just as he came inside. Lord, but he’d probably lost five years off his life. She’d scared him that badly. But right now her body was warm and soft against him and her lips were so near, gently rosy and curved up in that smile of hers, as if she knew what he was thinking and liked it, liked the idea of his mouth on hers. Her eyes had the slumberous look of a woman who wanted a man.

The thought that she might actually want him jolted through his body, making him instantly hard and throbbing.

Her hand crept beneath his hair to the back of his heck, where her fingertips skimmed a hesitant circle.

His body responded to the uncertain caress with pure, ravenous hunger. “Good Lord,” he breathed, and jerked back.

She blinked, but if his sudden rejection stung it didn’t show. Unless the huskiness in her voice came from hurt feelings instead of arousal. “That was really weird,” she said. “The room went haywire on me all of a sudden.”

“Try ‘stupid’ instead of ‘weird.’” He shifted her so he could stand. “Didn’t you know I would help you if you needed to use the bathroom?” He interrupted his scolding to grunt as he stood, bringing her up with him.

“Oh, Seth, don’t. Your leg-”

Great. She’d noticed him limping. “It’s fine. Now, do you need to go to the bathroom?”

She ignored his question. “I’m fine, too. Or almost fine, anyway. I can walk. You might have to help me a bit, but I can walk.”

He obviously shouldn’t have given in to her pleas that morning to be allowed to make it into the bathroom on her own two feet. It had given her delusions of health. “You are one damn fool woman. Now which do you want—back to bed, or to the bathroom?”

She sighed. “Bed.”

Sitting with her on the bed was easier on his knee than bending to lay her down. He certainly didn’t do it because the trusting warmth of her body, or the arms she’d wrapped around his neck as he carried her, were already dear to him. Desire was understandable. Predictable, under the circumstances. “Dear” was—well, ridiculous.

“Why were you up?” he asked, scowling. She sat right up against his thigh, much too close. He’d have to move, in just a second. “If you didn’t need the bathroom, why were you heading that way?”

Her teeth gnawed on her lower lip. She looked away. “I wanted to borrow your razor.”

He stared. “You wanted to what?” He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe she’d risked herself over something so trivial. “How could you be so stupid? And if you absolutely had to shave your legs, why didn’t you wait until I came back in so I could help you?”

“Because I didn’t want you to help me! Because—” Now she turned her face to him. Her eyes glistened like rainsoaked grass. “Because I wanted to find a mirror. I don’t know what I look like, Seth, and I wanted—I wanted to be by myself when I found out. I don’t know why.”

Oh, Lord. He ran his hand through his hair.

She didn’t know what she looked like. What an idiot he was, not to have realized she’d need to see her face. “There’s no mirror in the bathroom.”

“But when you shave—”

“I don’t need a mirror to shave.” He didn’t need to look at her, either, when he talked to her. So he didn’t. “There’s a mirror in the pickup. I’ll take you out there. But I’ll let you be alone to look. I won’t intrude.”

“Seth,” she said, sounding as if she was about to cry. He felt like more of a fool than ever. He should have anticipated this. “Oh, Seth,” she said again, “do your scars bother you that much?”

His gaze jerked back to her.

Her lips trembled into a smile. “I’m sorry. I guess you don’t like to discuss it, but learning that you don’t have a mirror in your house, well…” She lifted her hand and touched him on the left side of his face.

He couldn’t move. He tried, he could have sworn he tried to move, but her fingers were kitten-soft. Then she moved. Drew closer. And brushed her lips across his cheek in a gentle kiss.

He carried her out to the pickup. As they crossed the porch, Rocky sighed a gusty canine sigh and heaved herself to her feet. She’d assigned herself two jobs when she moved in with Seth last month: chasing deer and rabbits away from his gardens, and accompanying him whenever he went outside. She obviously didn’t consider advanced pregnancy reason enough to shirk her duties.

Sophie gave him a hard time. She wanted to walk, but he pointed out how muddy the ground was, how she might slip, and how he was already carrying her and had no intention of putting her down, so she might as well quit being so bossy and relax.

“Me, bossy? You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the one who’s studying with the Terminator School of Nursing.”

She went on to explain to him exactly how bossy he was as he and the dog skirted the biggest puddle, and he nodded agreeably. Her fingers still clutched at his shirt too tightly, but the hint of panic fluttering around behind her eyes had eased off as soon as she started arguing.

He knew just how frightening it could be, having to face your image in a mirror for the first time. Of course, her situation wasn’t like his had been, but the fear might be similar.

He opened the pickup’s door and slid her onto the seat. “It’s dirty,” he said apologetically. “I use it to haul stuff.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Her tone was as absent as her straight-ahead gaze, and she still clutched his shirt.

“I’ll let you be alone now,” he said, and patted her hand to remind her that he couldn’t leave until she turned him loose.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said suddenly.

He waited.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.” She looked at him. “Stay with me?”

In answer he gently scooted her over and sat down behind the steering wheel.

She took a deep breath, reached for the rearview mirror and angled it toward her.

Seth tried not to watch her. She might have changed her mind about doing this alone, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be staied at. He bent and scratched Rocky behind the ears, and he waited. But Sophie was quiet for so long he had to look.

She held her head tipped so she could study the left side of her face, where the scabbed-over scratches made ugly tracks. Her fingers traced those scabs anxiously.

“They’re pretty shallow,” he said gently. “It may take them awhile to fade completely, but they shouldn’t scar.”

Her head jerked toward him. “Seth, I didn’t mean to—”

“No one wants to be scarred. Especially not a beautiful woman.”

Her eyebrows went up in two surprised half circles as if she didn’t believe him when he called her beautiful. She shook her head slightly and looked back into the mirror. “I don’t think I’m forty yet, do you?”

“I don’t think you’re thirty yet,” he said dryly.

She sighed. “I guess I’m finished staring at myself.”

She was quiet while he carried her back inside, not chattering and smiling. He was sure he liked it better that way. If she’d stay quiet he could pretend she wasn’t here.

When he bent to set her back in the bed, her arms tightened around his neck briefly. And she did it again. Kissed him, right on his scarred cheek.

“Thank you, Seth,” she whispered, and turned him loose.

The next day Seth still felt that kiss. Both kisses.

Bright, blue-lit skies shone down on the scrub oaks that staggered up the slopes surrounding his small valley and the cabin he’d built after leaving the hospital almost two years ago. The radio weatherman said another front was moving in, but it was supposed to miss this area. The skies should be clear for days.

Sophie rebelled.

He’d managed to ignore her yesterday by working in the south garden and the drying shed for hours, something he’d needed to do anyway if he didn’t want his harvest to date of seeds to go to waste. She’d pestered him with questions last night. Not that he’d minded telling her about his gardens. They weren’t that big a deal, after all. The world wouldn’t be a different place if he did manage to breed a commercially useful Mexican persimmon. So what if he’d taken a few courses? It was just a hobby, like he told her.

Apparently Sophie had no intention of letting him ignore her that way today. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and she wanted out.

At lunchtime Seth gave in. The blasted woman wasn’t going to stay still and rest, and he couldn’t have her scaring him again like she had yesterday. So he helped her out onto the porch, where they had sandwiches.

Of course, after they finished eating, she was still convinced she wasn’t sleepy.

Rocky lay on her scrap of blanket at the south end of the porch. Seth sat on one side of the old table he’d found in an abandoned shack near Ridgemore last year. Sophie sat on the other side in the big rocker he’d brought out for her, a pillow beneath her bottom and a smaller one behind her head. A quilt covered her legs, at his insistence. The scabbed-over stripes on her cheek faced him when she glanced at Rocky. This afternoon she wasn’t smiling at Seth. She was grinning.

And winning. “Gin,” she said, laying her cards down on the weathered table, where she had been trouncing Seth at cards for the past two hours.

Fool woman, getting all excited about a game of cards. He made a disgusted noise. “You’re an obnoxious winner. I should have insisted on Scrabble.”

“You didn’t want to take advantage of me,” she said smugly. “I have a head injury, after all. Scrabble might be too hard on me.” She tipped her head, trying to see the scores he was adding up. Sunlight tangled in the different shades of blond in her hair. “How much do you owe me now?”

“Sixty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars,” he said dryly. “But wait until you see the medical bill I’m sending you. I hope your insurance is paid up.”

“No problem.” Her smile tilted some before she got it straightened. “We’ve agreed I’m rolling in money, right? My clothes, my watch, all my possessions look pretty high dollar.” Her hand went to her throat, where the locket gleamed, golden. “Even if my insurance isn’t paid up, I’ll take care of my debts.”

Maybe she wasn’t as unfazed by her lack of memory as she seemed. She kept touching that locket. “I’ve got a clumsy tongue, haven’t I?”

“You can’t watch every word you say. Almost everything, I’m learning, has ends trailing back into the past.” She patted the cards into a neat stack. “My deal.”

“It’s been your deal since you grabbed that deck of cards out of my hand.”

“Yeah,” she said, her slow smile striking sparks in her green eyes. “But you’ll go on humoring me, because I’m convalescing.” She shuffled the cards, bridging their corners between her busy hands like a card shark, and began dealing. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about those big sticks you’ve stuck in the ground over there.” A bob of her head indicated the construction he’d begun on the level ground roughly south of the cabin.

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