HE “DIED” TO SAVE THE WOMAN HE LOVED.

Now her amnesia might save them both...

Faking his death was the only way for Adam Parish to stay alive. But when a suspicious helicopter crash reunites him with the woman he had to leave behind, Adam knows they’re both in danger. Unfortunately, Chelsea Pierce doesn’t remember who he is—or that she’s carrying his child. On the run from merciless killers, Adam vows to protect Chelsea and their baby. But once he reveals the truth, will he lose the woman he loves a second time?

ALICE SHARPE met her husband-to-be on a cold, foggy beach in Northern California. Their union has survived the rearing of two children, a handful of earthquakes, numerous cats and a few special dogs, the latest of which is a yellow Lab named Annie Rose. Alice and her husband now live in a small rural town in Oregon, where she devotes the majority of her time to pursuing her second love, writing. You can write to her c/o Harlequin Books, 195 Broadway, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10007. An SASE for reply is appreciated.

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Hidden Identity

Alice Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09371-2

HIDDEN IDENTITY

© 2019 Alice Sharpe

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This book is dedicated, with love,

to Annabelle Marie Zi-Ling Yu.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One

It squatted on the tarmac like a bloated dragonfly, a little bigger and a lot older than she’d expected. Painted a drab green with half a dozen random splashes of other colors, it had obviously been in service for decades.

Chelsea had never flown in a helicopter before. She would have thought the stress of the past few weeks might have left her too worn-out for nerves, but nope, turned out that wasn’t the case. She held the bouquet of roses closer to her body and approached a man she took to be the pilot, who, wrench in hand, was peering into the open engine compartment. Was that a bad omen?

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps and broke into a welcoming grin. “You must be Ms. Pierce,” he said as he closed the cover and secured it.

“Chelsea, please. And you’re Mr. Black?”

“Heck, call me Bobby. Everyone does except my ex-wife and you don’t want to know the words she uses.” He tucked the wrench into his pocket, stuck out his hand, apparently noticed all the grease smudges and plucked a rag from his belt instead. Tall and rangy with a touch of gray in his hair, it was impossible not to hear the lingering drawl of Texas in his voice. Chelsea opened her purse and withdrew the requested money order, made out for the amount he’d specified. It was a lot of money for her, and now, as she peered over his shoulder at the aging chopper, she second-guessed her decision to hire him.

Really, would that thing fly? Was it safe?

He apparently sensed her hesitation. “Don’t underestimate old Gertie,” he said, patting the drab metal. “She’s been around, sure—heck, so have I—but we’re both fit as a fiddle. I have our route mapped out. I’ll get close enough to drop those roses.” His gaze darted from the flowers to the money order.

For a second, she contemplated walking away but her peace of mind was at stake and that was no small matter.

Chelsea had found this guy on the internet—he was the only one she could afford—and had spoken to him on the phone. She’d outlined her plan and been assured it was a piece of easy-peasy pie. Then she’d asked her sister, Lindy, to run the food truck for a few days and driven from San Francisco toward Nevada, spent the night in a motel where the cockroaches were bigger than her shoes, counted out fifty dollars for flowers and allowed her heart to embrace the possibility of closure.

And now she was going to give up because the helicopter looked a little...tired?

Steven’s face floated through her mind. Gray eyes that ranged in shade from hazy morning dawn to early evening twilight, lips that caused her heart to flutter, a killer body topped off by a soul as deep as the sea. With him, she’d embraced the concept of forever. And now he was gone.

How did a relationship that lasted only a few weeks produce such profound fallout including so many unanswered questions? Police found evidence of a struggle and gunshots in his empty house but no victims. She’d been frantic at first, then informed by various “officials” that Steven had driven to a small out-of-town airport, retrieved his plane and flown away.

Flown away? He had a plane? Where did he go? And why didn’t he take her with him?

One of the officials, a fifty-year-old guy named Ballard, managed to insinuate Steven was not who he said he was and she was better off without him. She’d already guessed the first part, and she adamantly denied the latter, then told him to get out and not come back.

But where did Steven get an airplane? Why had he never mentioned it or that he was a pilot?

Authorities then located the downed aircraft in the extreme depths of a glacial lake located in a designated wilderness area in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Ballard had shown up again, this time with a smirk on his face. He’d casually informed her that due to a host of reasons, from EPA regulations down to cost effectiveness, the plane was unsalvageable. Gear from the crash had floated to the surface, but Steven’s body remained underwater, probably strapped into his seat from now until time’s end.

There was no turning back, not for Steven, and not for her, either. She extended the money order to the pilot.

Bobby’s smudged hand reached for it as a taxi pulled up. It stopped with a squeal of brakes and the passenger door flew open. A man hit the ground running.

“I caught you, thank God,” he said as he ground to a stop in front of the pilot. He didn’t spare Chelsea so much as a glance. “I need to rent that helicopter,” he added. “I need to get to my house outside of Elko, Nevada. There’s a private airstrip there you can use. I’ll pay whatever you want. Just hurry.”

Greed stole into Bobby’s eyes. He licked his lips as he glanced at Chelsea and for a second she was sure he was about to send her packing. The panic of that possibility cemented the importance she’d placed on this sojourn and any lingering doubts fled. If Bobby thought he could ditch her for Mr. Money Pockets, he was in for a fight.

Before she could plead her case, Bobby turned back to the newcomer and sighed. “Sorry,” he said with obvious regret. “I’m already booked. This little lady here, well, me and Gertie are all hers for as long as she needs.”

The newcomer turned the force of his attention to Chelsea. Standing face-to-face with her, he appeared younger than she’d originally thought, closer to forty than fifty. His suit looked expensive, as did the gold ring on his left hand. “How much?” he said.

“How much what?”

“For you to walk away.”

“I’m sorry,” she began, “but—”

“How about twice what’s on that check you’re holding?” he said, his dark eyes intense.

“It’s not about money.”

“What then? Can’t you see I’m desperate?”

She could see that. However, so was she.

He took a deep, shaky breath. “Listen, miss. I know this is abrupt but I can explain. I’m in the middle of a business trip, right? On my way to Los Angeles, or at least I was. Then just as my plane began boarding, I got a call.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “The bottom line is my wife’s been in an accident. Apparently, it’s—it’s bad. I live in an out-of-the-way burg of a town. It’ll take two flights and a long car drive to get me home and all that takes time. This is my only chance of seeing her, of getting to her in time...”

The pilot cleared his throat. “You two could share the chopper,” he said. “Miss Pierce’s destination is about halfway to yours. We could combine the flights.”

“But landing and taking off again takes time,” the man said. “Time I may not have—”

Chelsea interrupted. “I don’t need to land. All I need is for the helicopter to fly low and hover for a minute or two while I...well, I need those few minutes and a little silence. After that, I don’t care where I go as long as I end up back here. As far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to share the flight.”

She had at first read the guy’s demeanor as dismissive or even arrogant, but now that she understood what was behind his impatience her heart went out to him. Who better than she knew the ache of losing someone you love? Maybe this guy still had time to say goodbye. Tears burned behind her nose.

“You’d be willing to do that?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

He took a steadying breath. “Thank you.” He glanced at the money order still clutched in her hand. “You keep that. This is on me.”

“I couldn’t let you—”

“Please.”

“You two choke me up, you really do,” Bobby said with a new grin that made the first one look anemic by comparison. “You both have some papers to sign while I refile the flight plan and then we’ll be off. But I have to warn you Mr.—”

“Smith. My name is Jacob Smith.”

“I’m going to have to refuel at your destination before we fly back here. You’ll have to pay for the extra time and miles—”

“Just tell me how much,” Smith said, waving away his waiting taxi. “And hurry.”

Chelsea was happy to let the two men work out the details as she did her best not to shiver in the weak spring sun. Eventually everything was settled and she was ushered into the helicopter and directed to sit in the second row of seats, closest to the door. The space behind her was piled with duffel bags and taped-up boxes of every size.

Under the pilot’s direction she strapped herself in her seat and set aside the roses. As Jacob Smith stood outside talking on his cell phone, Bobby gave her instructions about what to do when the time came to throw the flowers, then closed the cargo door and ran around the aircraft to climb aboard. She expected Smith would claim the seat next to hers, but he slipped into the front with the pilot. Given his anxiety, it made sense to her that he would want to sit as far forward as possible. She was grateful for the semiprivacy of their turned heads.

Once the switches were thrown and the blades started revolving, conversation was out of the question, although Bobby had pointed out the headset they could use to communicate once she put it on. Frankly, right then she didn’t want to talk to anyone. In her mind she reviewed the directions she’d given him, taken from Steven himself when she asked him to tell her about the happiest day of his life.

He’d responded, “Today. Here with you. Now.”

There’d been a long pause as she lost herself in his kisses. Eventually she’d rephrased the question. “Okay then, the happiest day before we met?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “That’s easy. There’s this little cabin not that far from here,” he’d said, and then proceeded to describe a mountain getaway in such detail she could not only see it in her head, but was also pretty sure she could find it on a map. “It was one of the last places I visited with my parents. I’ll never forget it.”

Once she’d finally accepted his death and the repercussions that would live with her forever, the need to somehow bring peace to her life became imperative. She’d thought of visiting the lake where his plane was entombed in water. But then she’d remembered this cabin and chosen past joy over current pain.

The helicopter rose off the ground and her stomach lurched. Ninety minutes. She retrieved the bouquet of roses, glanced at the gold foil handwritten note she’d attached to the stems and clutched them to her chest. Their perfume bathed her face as she closed her eyes.

* * *

SOMEHOW, DESPITE THE loud and constant whirring of the blades, she managed to fall asleep, but awakened with a start. Gazing out the window, she saw little but tree-covered mountains in every direction. Where were they? She put on the headset. She could see the tops of both men’s heads but there was no conversation going on between them.

“Are we getting close?” she asked.

Bobby threw her a thumbs-up. His voice crackled through the headset. “We’re almost there. Look down. See the river?”

This time when she gazed out the window she glimpsed the unmistakable glitter of water winding its way through the trees.

Bobby’s voice came through the comm system again. “Remember to wait until I tell you to open the window. I’ll get down close, but first I’ll circle the area so you can check it out.”

“Sounds good.”

“I told you not to do that,” Jacob Smith interjected.

“We’ve been over this already,” Bobby snapped. “Like I said, this part of the flight is Chelsea’s.”

“You will go nowhere near that house, is that clear?”

“Why not?” Chelsea asked.

“It’ll...waste time,” Smith said, his voice tight.

“No, it won’t,” Bobby insisted.

“It’s okay, do as he says,” Chelsea told Bobby. She was looking for peace and closure, not arguments. “I’m fine.”

Smith’s grunt sounded smug. Or maybe just relieved. But the tension between the two men was palpable. What had gone on while she slept?

Within a few minutes, the trees began to thin and a small meadow appeared, just as Steven had described, right down to the wildflowers carpeting the ground and the old rock wall bordering three sides. She sat forward as a small cabin came into focus. Bobby headed straight for it despite Smith’s continued insistence that he stop. She tried to ignore their bickering. A curl of smoke drifted upward from the chimney and that surprised her for some reason. Silly that it should—Steven hadn’t been here in years and hadn’t known who owned it now or even if it was still here.

Broad stone decks surrounded the small residence while budding tree limbs brushed the roof. She could all but feel Steven sitting beside her, eagerly looking out the window, pointing out details, his breath warm against her cheek. Her hand pressed against the glass as her gaze swept over the meadow they once again circled. The river where Steven had caught his first rainbow trout glistened nearby.

The last time she’d seen him he’d asked her to marry him. After her enthusiastic yes, they’d made love and somehow it had been different, more profound, perhaps, more meaningful than ever before. Afterward, they’d talked for hours about the kind of house they’d build. Looking at this cabin, it was clear he’d channeled his vision from this very spot.

“Goodbye, my love,” she whispered with her fingers against the glass.

“It’s time, Chelsea,” Bobby said. She took off the headset, craving solitude. The chopper moved away from the cabin toward the river. Was someone inside the cabin, watching their departure and wondering why they’d been subjected to this noisy intrusion? No matter, the chopper would be long gone before anyone had a chance to complain.

She unclipped the straps that held her in her seat, scooting forward a little to slide open the window as the wind immediately whipped her long dark hair across her face. The river below flowed in endless rhythm and she pictured a young Steven, fishing pole in hand, walking the grassy banks.

Was she angry with him? Yes. He’d omitted key facts about himself, been cagey, maybe even dishonest, and that went against everything she’d thought she’d known about him. But mostly, she just felt alone and cheated and sad.

Loud voices yanked her attention back to the front of the helicopter. She could only see Bobby’s face and he looked livid. A sudden jerk was quickly followed by a distinct shudder, and now they made a slow turn back toward the meadow. Her stomach rolled. In her rush to find something to hold on to, the roses fell from her grasp and slid across the floor. Peering between the front seats, she saw Smith’s hand close around Bobby’s wrist as he clutched the control stick. The shouting between them continued while the chopper’s erratic movements became even more pronounced.

She scooted back in her seat, refastening the buckles with shaking hands. The headset slid toward the door with the roses. She hooked it with her foot before raising her leg and grabbing it. She pulled it over her ears and winced as the shouts became unbearably loud and heated.

“You just had to circle the damn house, didn’t you?” Smith roared. “You idiot.”

“Get your hands off me. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Land this damn thing,” Smith insisted.

“Now you want to land? I thought you were so hot to trot.” There was a moment of tense silence. Smith released his grip on Bobby’s wrist. A second later, Bobby swore.

“Are you kidding me? Put that gun away.”

A gun!

“Land the helicopter,” Smith said and now Chelsea, too, saw he held a dull black revolver and it was pointed at Bobby.

“You’re going to get us all killed,” Bobby bellowed.

“You’re overshooting the meadow,” Smith growled. “Land in the meadow.”

Chelsea glanced out the window. They were moving over the trees now. Green tops swayed just a few feet below but at least the chopper seemed stable. But why did Smith want to land? Wasn’t his whole point speed? And why in the world did he carry a gun?

Bobby suddenly lunged toward the armed man as though trying to grab the weapon. A shot reverberated in the small cabin, deafening, terrifying. Bobby grabbed his right arm as blood oozed through his fingers. “You—you maniac!” he yelled.

“Land this damn thing,” Smith repeated as he jabbed the air with the gun. As if sensing Chelsea’s horrified gaze, he turned to face her, pinning her to the seat, his once mournful eyes now cold and menacing. Chills raced along her spine as he turned his attention back to Bobby.

The helicopter moved sideways like a flying crab, tilting slightly on its left side. A sudden crash came from behind them, immediately followed by a rolling shudder that vibrated through the metal hull.

“We lost the rear rotor,” Bobby gasped.

“Land!” Smith demanded.

“It’s too late for that. Get that gun out of my face!”

The chopper spun, the nose lower now, and plummeted down through the greenery as Bobby obviously worked to accomplish a life-saving landing. His labored breathing played in her headset like a dirge. Seconds passed in blinding speed. Chelsea held on to the straps, her thoughts moving from the drama in the front, to the love she’d lost, to the future now slipping through her fingers.

A microsecond later, the skids hit the forest floor and all the cargo behind her shot forward like missiles, flying at her head and shoulders and at the backs of the two seats in front of her. She had a moment to assess the fact that she was still alive and then they were moving again, this time tearing through the underbrush, what remained of the blades crashing against tree trunks, skids catching on undergrowth, branches protruding through Chelsea’s open window then snapping and breaking, flying into the chopper, aimed at her. Everything came to a sudden, grinding halt. The windshield shattered as the forest invaded the front with the finesse of a bulldozer, pushing the passenger and pilot seats back toward Chelsea. The baggage that had bombarded her from behind now flew into her face, burying her.

Steven! her heart shouted as she lost consciousness without forming another cognizant thought.

Chapter Two

Adam Parish took off his black-rimmed glasses and set them aside, pulled his shirt over his head and faced his image in the mirror. The bullet wound on his left shoulder looked better than it had. There would be a scar, but it wouldn’t be the only one on his thirty-two-year-old body, and at this point, who cared?

That sentiment—who cared?—had been his calling card for so long it had become a second skin. It had turned him cynical and suspicious—not suspicious enough as it turned out, but there was no denying his mother’s sweet, trusting little boy hadn’t made it into adulthood.

Except for a brief moment when everything had changed.

But like most miracles, his had come and gone like the sweep of a clock’s hands and he was back to square one.

He applied a clean bandage to his shoulder and taped the gash over his eye. His short beard softened his jawline while the spikey blond hair on his head always struck him as comical. He had one week to go before he cleared out of here and then he’d—

A thumping noise outside lifted every hair on his arms. Even before he separated the blinds above the bathroom sink and angled his head to peer outside he knew what he would see. A low-flying helicopter approached the cabin from over the meadow.

Oh, no...

Within seconds, he grabbed the glasses, shrugged on his shirt, rescued his gun from the top of the toilet tank and stuffed it into his waistband. He ran to the back door and snatched the loaded rifle he kept there, then let himself out and moved to the northeast corner of the deck, where he could track the helicopter.

One thought drummed in his head: they found me.

He expected the aircraft to land in the meadow, close to the house. He expected an army of men to disembark, guns blazing, Holton’s revenge swift and lethal.

He didn’t expect the helicopter to look so ancient. It wasn’t his adversary’s style. Was this flyby simply a matter of a stranger’s harmless curiosity about the old house or was it more than that? Had Holton employed mercenaries?

The helicopter didn’t land and that left Adam relieved and yet confused. It flew toward the river, gently descending above the water, where it remained for a minute or two. Then the aircraft tilted suddenly—that had to throw the passengers around a little. He stepped around the corner of the house to see better. The chopper moved away from the river, briefly hanging over the meadow, then it climbed eastward toward the forest, its movements jerky and unpredictable.

Engine trouble? Trouble of some sort, that was for sure, including trouble for him. Even if it disappeared over the far mountains, the fact that it had circled the house meant that it was time for him to clear out. It might have been reconnaissance for a ground-based unit who even now could be advancing via the only road connecting this cabin and the nearest town. He’d rigged a sensor down at the beginning of his twisting lane. Once activated, it would beep the monitor in his pocket and he would know he had about ten minutes to disappear.

A sudden noise caught his attention and he turned to see the helicopter’s aft rotor tangle with the top of the tallest tree. Parts went flying. The aircraft seemed to stall. Nose down, it disappeared into the forest. He jumped off the porch, the rifle still clutched in his hand. While his brain told him to get the hell out of there while he could, his heart said he had to see this through.

Crashes and thuds echoed from the forest. A fiery explosion seemed inevitable, but none came, just the continuing cacophony of breaking trees and mangled metal. He vaulted the rock wall and sprinted across the meadow, ever wary of a sniper but growing more convinced by the moment that what had happened was an accident and that lives were in danger.

And this meant other people would be coming, as well. Friend or foe, this crash would be investigated and that would bring killers and cops right to his doorstep. Turn around and go back—get out of here now. He ignored his own warning.

After the full light of the meadow, the forest seemed dank, dark, secretive. He’d been away from Arizona, his home state, for more than a year now, and never more than at this moment did he miss the open desert terrain and the warm, dry air. The underbrush was difficult to traverse. His own crashing noises echoed in the dense closeness as he headed in the direction he figured the chopper had gone down. There were few other sounds.

He finally emerged into a clearing of sorts, but that quickly erupted into a battered, mowed-down trail of broken branches and flattened saplings. It had to be at least thirty feet across, lined with scarred trees and pieces of metal strewn about. The faint smell of fuel urged him forward. And sitting at the end of the trail was the downed chopper, bladeless now, the rear end still mostly intact, no signs of fire or of life.

He made his way down the newly created and narrowing path to the tail of the helicopter. As he moved forward, he saw the crumpled metal of the front of the chopper. It was about half as big as it should have been, thanks to an old growth stump that had put an end to its forward momentum.

The cargo door was the only possible way to get inside. It had jammed, though. He searched for something to use as a makeshift crowbar.

“Anyone in there?” he yelled as he picked up a branch and discarded it. Too flimsy. He continued the search. “Hello, can anyone hear me? Can you open the cargo door?”

He finally found a long piece of metal, probably a portion of one of the blades, maybe a piece of a skid. Using that, he leveraged it into the door crack and shoved. Eventually, the metal moved and he was able to slide the door half-open.

Boxes and crates filled the rear of the aircraft. The passenger and pilot seats had been pushed back. There was just room for him to step inside and almost stand. He shifted debris to clear his way to the pilot, where he paused a second before putting his fingers against the pilot’s throat, but it was for confirmation only. The poor guy sat half-crushed behind the controls; broken glass had slashed his face and hands. His right shoulder sported an ugly wound that looked like a gunshot. That, however, didn’t make sense.

Turning his attention to the passenger, Adam moved aside leafy branches and glass until he could check for a pulse. He detected a faint heartbeat and immediately began clearing debris, careful when he came across a two-inch pine spur lodged in the base of the man’s throat. That’s when he also noticed the guy had one limp hand threaded around the grip of a revolver. The safety was off. Adam gingerly reached for the weapon but as he did so, the guy’s eyes opened and his grip tightened.

“Take it easy,” Adam said.

The man struggled to focus as blood ran down his forehead and cheeks. He finally croaked out a single word. “You...”

“I’ll get you out of here,” Adam said, though he knew that was probably impossible. “Stay still.”

“You’re...a—a dead man,” the injured man mumbled. As he spoke, he managed to raise his arm until it bumped against the spur lodged in his throat. The branch ripped free, leaving a hole big enough around to stick a thumb through. The guy’s hand immediately fell back to his lap as blood spurted from his carotid artery. Adam tore off his own shirt to hold against the gushing wound but it was too late. He’d bled to death in those few short seconds. Adam shrugged his shirt back on as he studied the lifeless and unfamiliar face.

There wasn’t a doubt in Adam’s mind that this guy had been sent by Holton. He dug out the man’s smartphone from his jacket pocket. As it required a code, he wiped the blood off the dead man’s right pointer finger and held it against the fingerprint reader to get around the code, his heart sinking when he saw a call had been made to Arizona within the last thirty minutes. “Leave a number” was the only response when he hit Call. He turned it off, wiped off his own fingerprints and put the phone back where he found it. There was no reason to try to disarm the GPS system, not when the gadget was sitting in a downed aircraft with an emergency locator of its own. He scanned the guy’s wallet. It held what was probably a fake ID and a little cash. He replaced it. Straightening up, Adam glanced at the pilot, but there was no way to access the poor man’s pockets. The gunshot wound in the man’s arm kind of cinched his position as a hapless victim in this scenario anyway.

This had to be the work of Holton.

He dug his phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

“Yes?”

“Whip? It’s me, Adam.” He heard the warning buzz that announced the burner phone was running out of prepaid time. “Holton found me again. I’m headed out of the mountains.”

“Did the fake ID I sent you come?”

“I don’t know. I was going to check today, but not now. I’ll have to leave without it.” Adam felt terrible that he’d asked Whip, a cop, to break the law to help him get false identification, and now it was pointless.

“Damn. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. There was a crash—the hit man is dead. This is important. Holton...he’s still in prison, right?”

“As far as—”

It took a few seconds of silence for Adam to realize they’d been disconnected. He pocketed the phone and got to his feet. As he turned his back on the two dead men, a few scattered red petals beneath his feet caught his attention. The incongruity of their presence struck him. He kneeled to pick up one, pausing to smell it, its perfume at odds with the crashed aircraft and the encroaching odor of fuel.

“Is anyone else in here?” he called.

Was that a noise coming from behind the boxes?

He shifted a few out of the way and tossed them out the open door, ever mindful of the seconds ticking by. The baggage and boxes felt like they were filled with rocks.

And then he heard it again, a shifting as a body tried to find comfort, but this time it was followed by a plaintive moan.

He worked faster.

* * *

HER EYES OPENED SLOWLY. She was unsure where she was or what had happened. Her body hurt in a hundred places and for some reason, she was trapped in an avalanche of heavy boxes. Admonishing herself to think despite her throbbing head, she shifted position to ease the pressure on her legs. A groan escaped her lips and faded away.

A male voice immediately responded. “Is someone back there? How many of you are there? Can you move?”

She tried to respond but could barely hear her own voice.

“I’m coming,” the man called. “What’s your name?”

Again she opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Where was she, what had happened to her? She closed her eyes, her head drooping.

The man kept talking. “Stay with me,” he said, “I’m almost there.” Crashes followed his comments as though he was throwing stuff aside. At last he cleared her face and she saw that she was all but entombed in a small airplane. She smelled gasoline and it reminded her of something—something she couldn’t name, wasn’t sure about.

The man continued clearing the space as she wiped her face, smearing something warm and sticky across her brow. Blood, she discovered, as she looked at her fingers.

He kneeled down to face her. His hair was bright yellow and he needed a shave. Dark gray eyes peered at her from behind black-framed glasses. As he stared at her, his expression went from concern to shock. The next thing she knew, he’d cupped her chin and kissed her, his lips undeniably soft and gentle and yet with a stirring of something else, too. Then he sat back and stroked her cheek, smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead. “Chelsea, good heavens, what are you doing here?”

“I—”

“Oh, my God,” he said as though something obvious had just popped into his head. “They must have used you to—did they hurt...? Never mind, we’ll talk later. We have to get out of here. Can you move? Is anything broken?”

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

He unbuckled her seat straps as she mumbled. He stood and extended his hands to pull her to her feet. She was able to stand but it put her and her rescuer so close their bodies touched. Super aware of her breasts pressing against his chest, she felt uncomfortable and awkward. He seemed fine with it. “Catch your breath and your balance,” he said. “Where’s your phone?”

She shook her head.

“May I check your pockets?”

Was he making any sense? She couldn’t tell. He frisked her gently and she felt his hand hit against a small hard shape in her jeans pocket. He plucked the phone from her person, wiped it with the hem of his shirt and dropped it to the floor. “Sorry, but this has to stay here.”

She nodded but her fuzzy brain immediately went back to the way his lips had felt against hers. Why had he kissed her? Why were his hands on her now?

“You were sitting alone back here, weren’t you? Do you have a handbag or luggage?”

A handbag? She looked down at the cluttered floor, fighting a wave of nausea that swam up her throat. She didn’t know if she had one or not. Who cared?

He pushed aside a few things and swore. “There’s not enough room in here for me to move if you’re standing. Sit back down until I get outside, then walk to the door and I’ll help you. Let’s do it as quickly as we can, okay?”

She nodded again and sat. He climbed from the plane, reached inside and swept a bunch of crushed red flowers out of the way. “Walk over here to me,” he said. “You can do it.”

She stood, steadying herself by grabbing the back of the seat in front of her. Her head spun and she felt nauseous, but the sensations passed. She glanced down and to her left and found a blood-covered man belted into the pilot’s seat. His sightless eyes looked blank. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Just come to the door,” her rescuer urged.

She did as he told her, mainly because she couldn’t think of another plan. Gazing down at him, she paused for a second. His bloody unbuttoned shirt revealed a well-muscled chest, while the strap crossing his body was attached to a rifle held behind his left shoulder. He’d tucked a handgun into his waistband. He looked like someone you saw on a news report, a mercenary or a bandit, a man not to be taken lightly, sexy and scary at the same time.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. He clutched her waist and effortlessly lifted her out of the aircraft. She landed right in front of him, once again standing too close.

“Steady now. Dizzy?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

Unable to process the intensity of his expression, she lowered her gaze to the ground, where she found the bruised red flowers. He kneeled in front of her and plucked a small gold foil card from the ribbon that held their stems together and shoved it in his pocket. Taking her hand, he led her a few steps from the crash. She looked back once.

Not a plane, but a helicopter, or what was left of one. The image of the dead pilot’s slack, bloodied face filled her head. Had she known him? Was he her boyfriend or husband or something? Then why was she sitting in the back? Why couldn’t she think?

And wait, had there been someone in the passenger seat, too? She wasn’t sure.

Keep moving, she willed herself as they left the path and took off into the dense forest, ripe with dark mysteries that mirrored those playing out in her brain. The only thing she was sure of was the lifeline of her rescuer’s warm fingers.

Chapter Three

Okay, so where were the questions, the accusations? As Adam guided Chelsea onto the cabin’s surrounding deck, he steeled himself for a barrage of all of the above, but none came. Once on the deck, he grabbed the binoculars he kept hanging from a nail under the eaves, then used them to scan the horizon and the small road that emptied into the meadow. So far, so good.

The sky had grown dark and the smell of impending rain filled his nostrils. How long did he have before more of Holton’s men showed up?

He put back the binoculars and discovered Chelsea had disappeared. He found her sitting on the sofa, blood smeared across her face, hands limp in her lap. He crossed to the bathroom, where he moistened a clean washcloth and grabbed the box of bandages. As always, the glimpse of his own altered appearance in the mirror jarred him. So did the dead man’s blood all over his shirt. He grabbed a clean one and changed.

Kneeling in front of her, he gently cleaned and bandaged the laceration. “You must have a million questions,” he began.

She sagged against the sofa and closed her eyes. “No,” she said.

“Don’t you want—?”

“No,” she interrupted, rubbing her temples. “All I want is to sit here.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“Yes.”

He got up to retrieve two aspirin and a glass of water and returned to find her staring around the room. He handed her the tablets and she swallowed them without comment. “I’d like to close my eyes for a moment,” she said as she gave him back the water glass.

There wasn’t time for her to nap, but how did he thrust her into action after what she’d just endured? “Go ahead. I have a few things to do.” Like pack up and get us out of here.

He desperately wanted to know how she’d ended up on his doorstep with a hired killer along for the ride. The most likely scenario was that they’d kidnapped her and forced her into taking them to him, but that didn’t wash because she hadn’t known where he was. No one did. His hands itched with the desire to shake her awake and ask her what was going on, but he couldn’t do that. They also itched with the desire to caress her, to tell her he loved her, that he was sorry he’d left, that finding her here was like a gift from heaven. Would she want to hear any of that? Judging from her aloofness, no, she would not. He shoved his hands in his pockets to kill the urge to shake her awake.

The fingers on his right hand brushed a hard ridge of folded stock paper. He pulled the small foil card he’d found with the flowers from his pocket and opened it, immediately recognizing Chelsea’s concise handwriting.

“‘My beloved Steven,’” he read. Steven. That’s the name he’d chosen when he’d relocated to California. It was the only name he’d ever given Chelsea. He cleared his throat and continued reading. “‘I think I know the location of the cabin you described the night you asked me to marry you. My plan is to drop these roses in the nearby river as a way of letting you go. I don’t want to do this but the reality is you’re dead. I’ll never stop loving you just as I wonder if I’ll ever understand what really happened to you or why that man from the government asked me a million questions, but wouldn’t answer even one of mine. Sometimes it feels as though I’m grieving a shadow. Goodbye, my love. Rest in peace knowing I will move heaven and earth to make a wonderful life for our baby. Yours forever, Chelsea.’”

“Baby?” he whispered, looking from the note to Chelsea. She was pregnant?

A huge smile came and went in a flash as the enormity of this development hit him in the gut. Had the baby survived the crash? What in the world should he do?

Protect her. Protect them! That’s what he should do. And right now that meant getting them out of here.

He threw his meager possessions in a box, then trotted out to the Jeep parked in the tiny shed/garage. The back was already filled with camping gear, a shovel and a chainsaw. To these he added the new box, then he went back inside to take whatever food and drink he could lay his hands on. He wiped things down and carried the perishables out to the Jeep, where he stowed them with everything else before covering the whole thing with a tarp, which he tied in place.

Small rocks separated the cabin from the riverbank. He drove across them and set the parking brake just as rain began to fall. The nonprescription glasses immediately blurred with raindrops and he pocketed them. The abandoned logging road, their only escape route, was a quarter mile downstream. The Jeep had no roof, and its engine was temperamental to say the least. It would be a miracle if it made it to the top of the ridge—if Chelsea hadn’t been there, he would have left it in the shed and hiked out just the way he’d hiked in. But she wasn’t up to that.

Of course, if an attack came from the air, they’d be sitting ducks, but it seemed more likely to him that ground reinforcements would show up instead. The downed helicopter had looked like someone’s paycheck-to-paycheck livelihood and that probably meant there wasn’t a handy fleet that Holton could summon from his jail cell at will.

“It’s time to go,” he said as he gently shook Chelsea’s shoulder.

Her eyes blinked open. “Where am I?” she said, and for a moment, he thought the catnap had cleared her head. “Do I know you?”

There went that hope. “Kind of,” he said carefully.

“I don’t remember you.”

“Not at all?”

Her eyes widened. “No. Should I? I mean, yes, of course I should—you called me by a name.”

“Chelsea Pierce,” he said.

“Then you know me?”

“Yes,” he said, confused. He sat back on his heels. “Do you remember how you got in the helicopter, who the passenger was, the gunshot, the pilot? How you got here, what happened...anything?”

She shook her head and winced. “No, none of that. I don’t even know who I am.”

His throat went dry. She was talking about amnesia. He’d known she was confused but he hadn’t followed that trail to this conclusion. “We have to leave,” he said.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Her brow narrowed. “I don’t understand. Where are we going?”

“We’re both in danger. We have to get away from here right now.”

She sat up slowly and his heart went out to her. He saw no blood on her tan jeans and that probably meant the pregnancy hadn’t terminated. “Do you hurt anywhere besides your head?” he asked her.

“My knee hurts a little.”

“How about your...tummy or abdomen? You know, where the pressure from the seat belt might have...bruised you?”

“No,” she said.

He took her hands and pulled her upright, resisting the urge to hug her reassuringly, sensing it wouldn’t have that effect. His gaze dropped to her midsection. She’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, but there was definitely a small swelling that hadn’t existed before. He tried to figure out how far along she could be and decided on no more than four months. He handed her the rain gear he’d set aside to shelter her from the weather and helped her put it on. “Hurry,” he said with a last look around.

They walked down to the river to the Jeep and he helped her climb aboard. The rain was coming down harder now. Once he’d stowed the rifle and jumped behind the wheel, she looked up at him, her face shaded by the oversized hood, blue eyes questioning. “What should I call you?”

Would the name Steven ring any latent bells that might help her place him? Probably not, so he gave her his real name. “Adam.” He was done lying to her.

“Nice to meet you,” she said with a wan smile.

The Jeep waddled into the river like an old wrestler climbing back into the ring. Thanks to the almost daily treks along this river, he knew to stay close to the western bank, where the water was relatively shallow. When he spied a small grove of red-barked madrones, it would be time to cross the river to the opposite shore, but only until a dead pine tree signaled a pool ahead, at which time he’d cross back to the west. It was slow going, the river gurgling under the vehicle, water washing under the doors and dousing their feet during the cross to the other side. A few times he turned to look behind to see if anyone was there, or to stare up into the sky. It was during one such glance that he remembered he’d left the binoculars hanging under the eaves. Lightning flashed to the south and he counted under his breath. On six, a clap of thunder sounded to the east.

At last he found the place to exit the river to access the logging road and jerked the steering wheel to the left. The Jeep grumbled its way out of the shallow water. The tires spun on the mud before finding purchase on harder ground. He drove forward a hundred feet, then ran back to scatter forest debris to cover their tracks. It wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. He ran back to the Jeep and gunned the engine.

The road was eroded and heavily rutted. He dodged the worst of it while steadily climbing. Every now and again, he’d have to stop to use the front mounted winch to pull aside fallen branches, or shift rocks out of the way, then restart their journey. During those short breaks, he listened for the approach of another vehicle or aircraft. All he ever heard was the sound of thunder getting closer.

Chelsea silently allowed him to work. What did she make of this frantic dash in the rain with a man who was a stranger to her? When would she start demanding an explanation?

And what would he tell her?

Anything she wants to know, he told himself.

From the first moment he’d seen her he’d been drawn to her humor and beauty. It was like a man standing in the middle of the desert being hit by a rainsquall. All the loneliness and restlessness that had plagued him for well over a year disappeared with the genuine wattage of her smile. For someone with no past he could ever talk about, suddenly having a future had filled him with renewed energy and that bred hope. Weeks of being with her, loving her, spinning dreams, well, that had been heaven on earth, until he had to leave without telling her, knowing he’d never see her again and that she would never know he’d faked his own death.

Just as he’d faked almost everything she thought she knew about him.

If she ever got her memory back, she’d hate his guts and he wouldn’t blame her.

And now, wonder of wonders, here she was, carrying his baby and not knowing who either one of them were.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

“You’re very pretty,” he responded.

“I feel like a drowned rat and I’m the one with the rain parka. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome. How’s your head feeling?”

“Probably a lot like the tires on this Jeep.”

“Hopefully we can stop pretty soon and you can stretch out.”

“Hmm...” she said. Her face grew serious. “Back at the cabin you asked if I remembered a gunshot. What did you mean?”

“Your pilot had a fresh gunshot wound in his arm,” he said.

“Is that what caused the crash?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“And who exactly are you?” she asked, her brow narrowing.

He felt a vibration in his pocket and took out the monitor. Back at the cabin, a vehicle had triggered the road sensor. It would take about ten minutes to get to the cabin, another five or so to tear the place apart. Maybe they’d take a look at the downed chopper. For that matter, maybe the sensor had detected a police car or emergency vehicles sent to investigate the crash site. There was no way of knowing for sure who was on their way up the road. With any luck he might be able to see when the Jeep reached the top of this blasted mountain and he could chance a scan below.

“What’s that?” she asked as she stared at the little electronic device in his hand.

“Insurance.”

She shook her head, then closed her eyes. “Why are we running away?”

“Someone is after me. Or us, I guess. I promise I’ll tell you more but not now.”

Speculation settled on her face as she peered at him. Of all her expressions he’d witnessed over the months, this one of wariness was new. He yearned for her to look at him the way she had before. Fat chance of that right now.

“Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll wait.”

Thirty minutes later the Jeep, as victorious as a wheezing climber, crested the hill. “I’ll be right back,” he told Chelsea, stopping under the trees where there was still some cover from the rain.

She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded.

He fetched a smaller, less powerful set of binoculars out of the glove box and walked into the clearing. It took him a few seconds to locate the cabin. Adjusting the focus, he finally spied a dark van parked close to the cabin’s deck. A man with white-blond hair stood near it, an automatic rifle in his hands. No uniform. No bells or whistles on the car. Within a few moments, two more armed men came out of the house and joined him. They moved under the protection of the eaves, apparently unaware he and Chelsea had escaped via the river. The blond guy took out his phone and made a call while the others watched.

An instant after lightning pierced the dusky skies, an explosion rent the air. Adam jerked his binoculars toward the forest on the other side of the meadow. Flames climbed the trees where the helicopter had gone down. The lightning must have made a direct hit. One man immediately jumped off the deck and took off across the meadow, while the other two held their ground. And then one of them began a slow turn toward the ridge on which he stood. It appeared he’d found Adam’s good binoculars and now he held them to his eyes. Adam immediately lowered the set he held, but not before he saw the man’s lips move and his arm shoot out toward the crest, seemingly right at Adam.

Adam stood without breathing, without moving, until the need to know what was happening outweighed the risk of looking. He all but oozed backward into the shadows before raising the binoculars again.

More lightning flashed, followed by thunder still startlingly close by. In that moment, Adam witnessed the man previously seen hurrying toward the explosion now running to the cabin, presumably called back by the other two. They all hopped into the van and tore off down the road.

Adam had seen enough. They might know he was up here but he knew the low clearance of their vehicle wouldn’t handle eroded roads and trails. That meant they would locate the main highway and watch for him, or at least that’s what he would do in their place. So, instead of finding a nice paved highway and leaving the forest, he’d stay on logging roads until he found a suitable place for them to spend the night. His first priority was to get Chelsea to a doctor and then he needed to study a map. There were decisions to be made and in her current condition, those decisions would have to come from him.

He’d envisioned his final escape many times over the past few weeks, but he’d never imagined he’d have to drag another person along with him. A month ago, when he’d asked Chelsea to be his wife, he’d thought he was safe and in the clear, never dreaming she would wind up in danger because of him. None of that mattered now because the only reality existed in this moment—not yesterday and certainly not tomorrow.

And now it wasn’t just her—it was their baby, too.

Once more he got back in the Jeep.

“What did you see down there?” Chelsea asked.

“Three armed men. I think they’ll try to cut us off.”

Her gaze darted around the landscape. “What do we do?”

“Stay in the forest,” he told her.

She nodded, but she had to be thinking the same thing he was: sooner or later they would have to leave the shelter of the trees. Then what?

Chapter Four

Determined not to pepper Adam with questions, Chelsea channeled her energy into gripping the Jeep’s rusty frame with both hands. Instead of questioning her own origins and identity, she concentrated on the few facts she knew. One, she was the sole survivor of a crash and a man she knew had found her. Two, someone had shot the pilot. And three, someone was now chasing after them, causing great fear in her heart, something she saw mirrored in Adam’s eyes. Except on him, the fear came across more as anger.

She snuck a look at him, struck by his strong profile and the aura of concentration his body language communicated. Rain had flattened his bleached blond hair close to his head while drops glistened in the short beard that darkened his jaw. His gray eyes peered into the ever-increasing twilight, apparently discerning signs of trails she could barely see. But, of course, she wasn’t trying very hard to see anything. For now it was enough to trust that this man who seemed capable of anything would get them through the night in one piece. She had to face the fact that her brain wasn’t up to much work right now. All she wanted was to lay her head down and sleep for a week.

It appeared they were traveling deeper and deeper into the forest. Every once in a while, Adam would slow down and check a compass, but as it got darker, even that ceased. At least the rain had quit; heavy, humid air filled her lungs.

As darkness claimed the underbelly of the woods, Adam switched on headlamps but then immediately turned them off.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He laughed softly. “What’s not wrong?”

“Why did you turn off the lights?”

“They’re too bright. I’m not positive how close we are to the highway. No need to advertise our location.”

“Then you think those men are still out there?” she said with a quivering voice and a strong reprimand to pull herself together.

“Yes, I do,” he said. He veered off the semi-road they’d been traveling and followed a gully of relatively clear land back behind a grove of small trees. When he finally applied the brakes and turned off the key, the quiet and stillness tucked itself around them like a heavy blanket. For a few seconds, they sat very still, as though waiting.

Waiting for what, she wondered. Waiting for whom?

“Do you see any lights anywhere?” he asked her at last, his voice little more than a whisper.

“No. I guess we aren’t that close to a highway after all.”

“I guess not. Let’s make camp.”

Camp meant lying down and, truthfully, that’s the only thing in the world she desired. Her body protested as she unwound herself from the front seat, aches and pains radiating to and fro, maybe the result of the crash she’d survived, maybe caused by the constant adjusting to the motion of the Jeep navigating roads that had seen much better days. Her left knee throbbed and she limped between the dark shadow of the Jeep and the darker shadow of a small tent. Adam had erected it with an apparent wave of his hand, and was now carrying rolled damp bedding, which he dumped inside. He soon handed her a flashlight and took one for himself but it was a few seconds before either one of them turned them on.

“It’s so bright,” she mumbled.

He turned his off.

“Do you have any tissues anywhere? I need to find a bush.”

He snatched a small tissue package from the pocket in the Jeep door and handed it to her. “Don’t go too far,” he cautioned, and stared down at her with a worried expression.

“I won’t.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, just tired,” she replied.

“Other than that, do you feel okay?”

“Kind of.”

“Where else do you hurt?”

“My knee.”

“No pain, you know, like inside, like internal bleeding or a ruptured something-or-other?”

She cocked her head. “No. What exactly are you asking?”

“You were in a terrible crash,” he said, studying her face. Then he shrugged as though dismissing his earlier concern. He switched his light back on as he retrieved an ice chest. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not seriously hurt,” he added over his shoulder. “You’ll tell me if any new pain develops or bleeding or...anything?”

“Who else am I going to tell?”

“I mean it,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll find you a doctor—”

“Let’s take it one day at a time,” she said. With that, she walked away from him, using the flashlight in spurts to make her way until she found a big downed tree and climbed over it to the far side for privacy.

Who exactly was Adam in relation to her? How did they know one another?

Or did they? What proof did she have that they knew each other, that her name was Chelsea Pierce, that one word he told her was true?

The answer was so obvious it was like a shout in a quiet room. None. No proof at all. Zero.

Her head began throbbing anew as she tried to recall every gesture, every nuance, every word that he’d said since the moment she opened her eyes after the crash. Nothing jumped out except the kiss. That had seemed spontaneous and real, but right that moment she was no judge of character, let alone motives.

But wait, how many times had he asked her how she felt, if she was bleeding, if she was in pain. Surely that meant concern on his part.

But why?

Was she being paranoid or prudent?

Either way, she vowed to also be cautious.

* * *

THOUGH THERE WAS a definite chill in the air, Adam decided against building a fire. He retied the tarp over the back of the Jeep to guard against curious night critters and early morning dew, stowed the ice chest inside the tent and shouldered the rifle. As he stood in the dark waiting for Chelsea, he grew increasingly concerned. Had she gotten lost or fainted, or was it something even worse? Had she discovered blood, was she losing their baby?

Or had someone found her, taken her, planning to use her to get to him once again...?

“Chelsea?” he called in a soft voice that he hoped would carry.

A light momentarily blinded him and he raised the rifle.

“It’s just me,” Chelsea said.

He lowered the firearm immediately. “Sorry. Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Her voice sounded terse and tense. Well, whose wouldn’t?

Once his vision returned, he crossed the distance between them and put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re trembling,” he said. “Why don’t you crawl into the tent and get warm.” He handed her a small electric freestanding lantern, hoping that as well as a little reassuring light, it would also emit a tiny bit of heat to ward off the chill.

“Sure you aren’t hungry?” he asked as he followed her inside and opened the ice chest.

“Positive.”

He downed a bottle of water and a handful of nuts, then opened the flap. Picking up the revolver he’d rested beside the ice chest, he handed it to her. “Do you remember how to use this?”

“Yes,” she said, “although I have no idea why.”

“I taught you,” he told her.

“So we know each other,” she said. “Explain that to me. Tell me who I am and who you are to me.”

“I will, I promise, as soon as I get back from answering nature’s call. Meanwhile, keep the gun with you. When you hear someone coming, I’d appreciate you checking first to make sure who it is. If it isn’t me, go ahead and shoot.”

“I will,” she said, her voice shaky.

Using his flashlight until he saw the trail he wanted, he moved off into the dark carrying the rifle. The forest was still and quiet and, to his relief, the dim light from inside the tent seemed to disappear behind the dense undergrowth at a surprisingly short distance. He couldn’t stay up guarding the site all night—his eyes already felt grainy and fatigue had started to gnaw on the fragile edge of usefulness. At some point he was going to have to sleep.

The overriding question on his mind now was how much to tell Chelsea. How much could she bear to know, and when did the out-and-out truth of what they’d meant to each other become a burden she would have to shoulder alone once they separated? Every word of the current truth had marinated in a hot tub of lies—he wasn’t even sure where to begin.

Plus, how would she handle the fact she was pregnant while running for her life? Wouldn’t the best thing to do be to find her a safe spot where she could heal and he could go on alone?

He thought back to that moment on the ridge—he was positive the men at the cabin had caught a glimpse of him, but there was no way they could know Chelsea had escaped the helicopter before it blew. For that matter, there had been no sign of emergency or rescue response. That meadow was the closest staging area—if someone had arrived to search for the helicopter, there would have been visible evidence of it. That meant as far as everyone currently knew, Chelsea had disappeared or died in the chopper.

He had to make that work for her and yet in his gut, he knew she was safest if she was with him.

Oh, really, his subconscious said in a snarky voice. Is it safer for her to be with you, a hunted man, or is it just possible you can’t bear the thought of losing her again now that you’ve found her? Maybe the idea she’ll regain memories that include the fact you allowed her to grieve for you, that you left her to fend alone, maybe that’s what’s really bothering you.

But his next thoughts spoke just as clearly. You left her once and they used her. They could easily have killed her. She’s damned with or without you.

He called out as he approached the camp to announce himself before veering to dig maps out of the Jeep’s glove box. His first priority had to be to get them out of this forest and somewhere reasonably safe. Chelsea moved aside as he crawled into the tent. He set the rifle in front of the flap and turned in the tight space to sit down. She’d unrolled a couple of sleeping bags and had wrapped one around herself.

“Okay,” she said. “For starters—“

“Just a second,” he said as he grabbed the wilderness map. “Let me check something out.” He unfolded the map and did his best to locate their position. It appeared to him that the road they’d been on had emptied into the town of Black Boulder several miles before. What if they doubled back? If he were Holton’s men, he would have staked out that town yesterday afternoon and perhaps moved on to others down the line by now. Scanning the map more closely, he decided that would be their best bet. The added bonus was the place appeared big enough to support a few amenities and services. It had begun to prey on his mind that he’d lost phone connection with Whip. The old guy might have been an Arizona cop for years but he was also a consummate worrier.

Adam looked over more of the map, half plotting a route east, when he recognized the town of Spur located less than twenty miles from Black Boulder right over the state line in Nevada. With a twinge of hope, he wondered if another of his dad’s longtime friends still lived there. Doc Fisher could be a lot of help if he’d maintained his Nevada address.

“Are you stalling?” Chelsea asked.

He looked up from the map to find her knees bent, arms wrapped around her legs, eyes piercing. In a few weeks, a pregnant belly would prevent that position.

“A little bit.”

“Start by telling me who I am.”

He folded the map and set it aside. Her dark hair glimmered in the dim light as she peered at him. Who was she? The love of his life; the mother of his baby; the woman he would take a bullet for. That’s who she was, at least to him.

He started with the basics. “Your name is Chelsea Ann Pierce and you’re twenty-six years old. You live in San Francisco, where you run a food truck that mostly caters to business clients. You’re a fantastic chef, which makes sense since you graduated from culinary school just a couple of years ago. Your parents’ names are Troy and Helen. They live north of the city in a tiny coastal town called Bodega Bay, where they run a seaside tavern. You have three sisters and two brothers. Everyone lives in Northern California except your oldest sibling, Bill, and he lives in Nevada on a few dozen acres of sand with his wife, Jan, and enough guns to overtake a third-world nation.”

“Who are you and how did we meet?”

“My name is Adam Parish. I work construction.” That had been true when he met her and since he was still on the fence about how much to share, he left it at that. “One day, you and your truck rolled up to the building site I was working on. You made me the best pastrami sandwich this side of New York. As you were leaving, your truck rolled over a few nails. I changed the resulting flat and our friendship was born.”

“Based on deli meat and tires?” she asked.

“And pickles. We both love dill pickles.”

His joke didn’t even elicit a smile. Come to think of it, she’d been a little standoffish since she’d returned from the woods.

“Have you always worked construction?” she asked.

“Not always.”

“What else did you do?”

“I was a cop for a while,” he told her truthfully. “When that fell apart, I became a bodyguard.”

“And then you decided to build things.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, so to be clear—there’s nothing between us except friendship?” she said.

“Well—”

“That’s a pregnant ‘well,’” she interrupted. “We were more?”

“In ways,” he said, unwilling to trot out their romance and getting wound up in details that would no doubt make her furious.

“Then why was I flying in a helicopter to see you? I take it you were expecting me?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t, especially in that company.”

“You mean with someone who wanted to hurt you.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Why did he want to hurt you?”

This was the tricky part. Stick to the truth, he admonished himself. “I testified against a guy who hurt a lot of innocent people. He’s in jail but he swore revenge. Thanks to the witness protection program, I’ve been hiding out. Now it appears he hired the bad guys to catch up with me.”

“I know about that program,” she said. “How could anyone have found you?”

“Someone must have ratted me out,” Adam said. Someone like Ron Ballard, his supposed liaison in the program.

“So that’s why you bleached your hair?”

“How did you know—?”

“It’s pretty obvious, Adam. Is that why you also keep a week-old beard on your face?”

He nodded.

“And the glasses you sometimes wear?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm—” She studied him for a second, then added, “Okay, so cutting to the chase, what do I have to do with all this?”

“Well, like you said, you were traveling to the cabin to visit me. By then I’d left the Bay area. They must have gotten wind you were coming, which meant you knew where I was, and they tricked or forced you into taking them along.”

“That kind of makes me an idiot, doesn’t it?” she asked.

He was just about at the point of throwing his arms around her and kissing her into silence, and would have done so willingly if there was a chance in hell she’d let him. He even had a picture in his wallet, so close it burned his backside, but he couldn’t show it to her—he’d ruined being able to do that the moment he told her he was Adam and not Steven.

“No, it makes you a victim of this creep and I’m really sorry about that,” he said. “You didn’t know about this guy because I never told you. I never warned you. I wish I had. I just thought you were safer not knowing any of the...details.”

“You and I weren’t really close friends, then?”

“It’s kind of more complicated than that,” he said.

She sighed. “Really?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember,” she said, sighing. “All this aside, it sounds as though this isn’t my fight.”

“You’re just caught in the middle of it.”

She stared at him a moment and bit her bottom lip. “Are my parents the kind of people who would take care of me while I got my memory back?”

“If they were here, sure.”

“I think I should go home.”

“How?”

“I’ll take a bus.”

“Not without first seeing a doctor,” he said firmly and knew the second the words left his mouth it had been the wrong thing to say.

“Tell me you are not issuing ultimatums,” she said.

“I—”

“Because that is totally unacceptable. I’m a grown woman.”

“I know,” he said, “but it’s not that simple.”

“Is everything complicated to you?”

“Living is complicated, Chelsea.” He didn’t want to terrify her but the thought of sending her off on a bus made his blood run cold. “Without me to protect you—”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“Someone could come after you again. They’d figure you know where I was going next.”

“But I won’t know.”

“I don’t think your word will carry a lot of weight.”

“Maybe not, but that’s my decision.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, irritated now. “How are you and your peace-loving parents going to fight off killers like Devin Holton’s merry band of misfits and thugs?”

“Who’s Devin Holton?”

He clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t intended on giving her a name she could repeat at a time when it could cost her dearly. “You’ve been acting kind of strange since we made camp,” he said gently. “What happened?”

“What do you mean ‘what happened’?”

“You left here a while ago and came back minutes later kind of...I don’t know, touchy.”

“Touchy? Okay, maybe I am. Maybe it’s because your story doesn’t hold water. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid. Maybe it’s because I survived a crash that killed two other people and I don’t know who you are and I don’t even know who I am.”

“I told you who you are and who I am,” he said.

“How do I know you aren’t making it up? What proof do you have that I even know you, that my name is Chelsea and my parents are Troy and Susan?”

“Troy and Helen.”

“Whatever.”

“Why in the world would I lie about that?”

“Because,” she said. “Because nothing makes sense. We’re only kind of friends and yet I’m flying to see you? Why would I do that?”

“They forced you.”

“Then why shoot the pilot and not me?”

“I don’t know.”

She shook her head and winced. “Adam, or whoever you are, all I do know is I’m confused and very tired and I wish you would go sleep outside.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I need to be in here with you.”

“And I need you to be somewhere else.”

She might not recognize that tone of voice, but he did—he’d heard it a couple of times before, never directed at him, but once with a thieving employee and again with a pushy salesman. She had drawn a line in the sand and it would take a fool to cross over it. She needed space.

“Fine,” he said, getting to his knees and bunching his sleeping bag in his arms. “Have a great night.”

“Leave the revolver,” she said.

“Why?”

“In case the bad guys find us.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

“Just leave the gun.”

“Whatever you want,” he said, sorry about the sarcasm dripping in his voice but unable to curb it. He zipped open the flap, scooted outside and pulled a sleeping bag and the rifle out with him.

“Adam,” she said, and he met her gaze. Her heavily shadowed eyes and fatigue sunken cheeks touched his heart. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair that I keep the tent. I’ll sleep outside—”

“Not on your life,” he said. “And I’m the one who’s sorry. This whole thing is my fault. I’d give anything if it meant you weren’t in danger.”

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me,” she said, her eyes now growing bright with tears. “You saved my life.”

He reached inside and touched her face. To his relief, she didn’t sweep away his hand and instead covered his fingers with hers. “Don’t cry,” he said softly. “It’s going to be okay. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. Now get some sleep, okay?”

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with all my memories intact,” she whispered.

“I hope so,” he said, and once again fought the urge to kiss her. As he zipped the flap closed again, the lantern light inside the tent went out.

He used the flashlight to make a bed on the ground, curled into the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. If she was determined to leave him, he’d have to let her go, but somehow he’d have to come up with a way to prepare her for the return of her memories. How would she handle the moment when she realized he was her beloved Steven, and that instead of dead and gone, he was very much alive and on the run?

And maybe not so beloved anymore...

He thought of the picture he carried. Taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, where they’d gone to picnic, they’d stood arm in arm while Chelsea trusted a stranger with her phone to take their photo. She had printed it out, written their names at the bottom, drawn in a small red heart and given him a copy.

Every photo on his phone had been destroyed when his plane hit that lake. This picture was the one memory he allowed himself of the woman who had stolen his heart and now he’d gutted his opportunity to use it to reassure her by giving her his given name of Adam. Could he explain it away? Should he show her the note she’d written with the roses? Would it make things better or worse?

Maybe it would shock her memory into hyperdrive. Or maybe it would force it further underground.

I’ll sleep on it, he decided. But an hour later, he was still staring into the dark.

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