New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Suzanne Brockmann has thrilled audiences with her Tall, Dark and Dangerous series. Experience it here with a hero who must face the most daring adventure of all—falling in love.

Can she create a future with a man without a past?

Navy SEAL Mitchell Shaw wakes up one morning without a clue who he is. And the items in his possession are no help: an address he doesn’t recognize and a .22-caliber sidearm. But the address eventually leads him to the Lazy 8 Ranch—and its beautiful manager, Becca Keyes, who makes him believe he might have a future, even if he doesn’t remember his past.

He froze, staring at the face in the mirror.

He turned his head to the right and then to the left. The face in the mirror moved when he moved. It definitely belonged to him.

But it was the face of a stranger.

A wave of dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed at the sink, lowering his head and closing his eyes until the worst of it passed.

How did he get here? Almighty God, he couldn’t even remember his name.

Suddenly feeling something in his shoe, he went into a corner of the room and started to pull off one of his boots. And then he quickly pulled it back on again.

He was carrying a side arm. A .22-caliber.

In his boot.

Dear Reader,

Once again, Silhouette Intimate Moments brings you an irresistible lineup of books, perfect for curling up with on a winter’s day. Start with Sharon Sala’s A Place To Call Home, featuring a tough city cop who gets away to the Wyoming high country looking for some peace and quiet. Instead he finds a woman in mortal danger and realizes he has to help her—because, without her, his heart will never be whole.

For all you TALL, DARK AND DANGEROUS fans, Suzanne Brockmann is back with Identity: Unknown. Navy SEAL Mitchell Shaw has no memory of who—or what—he is when he shows up at the Lazy 8 Ranch. And ranch manager Becca Keyes can’t help him answer those questions, though she certainly raises another: How can he have a future without her in it? Judith Duncan is back with Marriage of Agreement, a green-card marriage story filled with wonderful characters and all the genuine emotion any romance reader could want. In His Last Best Hope, veteran author Susan Sizemore tells a suspenseful tale in which nothing is quite what it seems but everything turns out just the way you want. With her very first book, New Zealander Fiona Brand caught readers’ attention. Heart of Midnight brings back Gray Lombard and reunites him with the only woman strong enough to be his partner for life. Finally, welcome Yours Truly author Karen Templeton to the line. Anything for His Children is an opposites-attract story featuring three irresistible kids who manage to teach both the hero and the heroine something about the nature of love.

Enjoy every one of these terrific novels, and then come back next month for six more of the best and most exciting romances around.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Identity: Unknown
Suzanne Brockmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Lee Brockmann

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

“Hey, hey, hey there, Mission Man! How ya doin’, baby? Rise and shine! That’s my man—open those eyes. It’s def initely the a.m. and in the a.m. here at the First Church Shelter, we go from horizontal to vertical.”

Pain. His entire world had turned into a trinity of pain, bright lights and an incredibly persistent voice. He tried to turn away, tried to burrow down into the hard mattress of the cot, but hands shook him—gently at first, then harder.

“Yo, Mish. I know it’s early, man, but we’ve got to get these beds cleaned up and put away. We’re serving up a nice warm breakfast along with an A.A. meeting in just a few minutes. Why don’t you give it a try? Sit and listen, even if your stomach can’t handle the chow.”

A.A. Alcoholics Anonymous. Could it possibly be a hangover that was making him feel as if he’d been hit by a tank? He tried to identify the sour taste in his mouth but couldn’t. It was only bitter. He opened his eyes again, and again his head felt split in two. But this time he clenched his teeth, forcing his eyes to focus on a smiling, cheerful, weather-beaten African-American face.

“I knew you could do it, Mish.” The voice belonged to the face. “How you doin’, man? Remember me? Remember your good friend Jarell? That’s right, I tucked you into this bed last night. Come on, let’s get you up and headed toward the men’s room. You could use a serious washing up, my man.”

“Where am I?” His own voice was low, rough and oddly unfamiliar to his ears.

“The First Church Homeless Shelter, on First Avenue.”

The pain was relentless, but now it was mixed with confusion as he slowly, achingly sat up. “First Avenue…?”

“Hmm,” the man named Jarell made a face. “Looks like you had yourself a bigger binge than I thought. You’re in Wyatt City, friend. In New Mexico. Ring any bells?”

He started to shake his head, but the hellish pain intensified. He held himself very still instead, supporting his forehead with his hands. “No.” He spoke very softly, hoping Jarell would do the same. “How did I get here?”

“A couple of Good Sams brought you in last night.” Jarell hadn’t gotten the hint, and continued as loud as ever. “Said they found you taking a little nap with your nose in a puddle, a few blocks over in the alley. I checked your pockets for your wallet, but it was gone. Seems you’d already been rolled. I’m surprised they didn’t take those pretty cowboy boots of yours. From the looks of things, though, they did take the time to kick you while you were down.”

He brought his hand to the side of his head. His hair was filthy, and it felt crusty, as if it were caked with blood and muck.

“Come on and wash up, Mission Man. We’ll get you back on track. Today’s a brand-new day, and here at the shelter, the past does not equal the future. From here on in, you can start your life anew. Whatever’s come before can just be swept away.” Jarell laughed, a rich, joyful sound. “Hey, you’ve been here more than six hours, Mish. You can get your six-hour chip. You know that saying, One Day at a Time? Well, here on First Avenue, we say one hour at a time.”

He let Jarell help him to his feet. The world spun, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“You got those feet working yet, Mish? That’s my man. One foot in front of the other. Bathroom’s dead ahead. Can you make it on your own?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t sure that he could, but he would have said nearly anything to get away from Jarell’s too-loud, too-cheerful, too-friendly voice. Right now the only friend he wanted near him was the blessed, healing silence of unconsciousness.

“You come on out after you get cleaned up,” the old man called after him. “I’ll help you get some food for both your belly and your soul.”

He left Jarell’s echoing laughter behind and pushed the men’s-room door open with a shaking hand. All of the sinks were occupied, so he leaned against the cool tile of the wall, waiting for a turn to wash.

The large room was filled with men, but none of them spoke. They moved quietly, gingerly, apologetically, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. They were careful not to trespass into one another’s personal space even with a glance.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was just another one of them—disheveled and unkempt, hair uncombed, clothes ragged and dirty. He had the bonus of a darkening patch of blood on his dirt-stained T-shirt, the bright red turning as dingy as the rest of him as it dried.

A sink opened up, and he moved toward it, picking up a bar of plain white soap to scrub the grime from his hands and upper arms before he tackled his face. What he truly needed was a shower. Or a hosing down. His head still throbbed, and he moved it carefully, leaning toward the mirror, trying to catch a look at the gash above his right ear.

The wound was mostly covered by his dark shaggy hair and…

He froze, staring at the face in front of him. He turned his head to the right and then to the left. The face in the mirror moved when he moved. It definitely belonged to him.

But it was the face of a stranger.

It was a lean face, with high cheekbones. It had a strong chin that badly needed a shave, except for a barren spot marked by a jagged white scar. A thin-lipped mouth cut a grim line, and two feverish-looking eyes that weren’t quite brown and weren’t quite green stared back at him. Tiny squint lines surrounded the edges of those eyes, as if this face had spent a good share of its time in the hot sun.

He filled his hands with water, splashing it up and onto his face. When he looked into the mirror again, the same stranger looked back at him. He hadn’t managed to wash that face away and reveal…what? A more familiar visage?

He closed his eyes, trying to recall features that would’ve been more recognizable.

He came up blank.

A wave of dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed at the sink, lowering his head and closing his eyes until the worst of it passed.

How did he get here? Wyatt City, New Mexico. It was a small city, a town really, in the southern part of the state. It wasn’t his home…was it? He must’ve been here working on…working on…

He couldn’t remember.

Maybe he was still drunk. He’d heard about people who’d had so much to drink they went into a blackout. Maybe that was what this was. Maybe all he’d have to do was sleep this off and everything he was having trouble remembering would come back to him.

Except he couldn’t remember drinking.

His head hurt like the devil. Heaven knew all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep until the pounding in his brain stopped.

He leaned down into the sink and tried to rinse the cut on the side of his head. The lukewarm water stung, but he closed his eyes and persisted until he was sure it was clean. Long hair dripping, he blotted himself dry with some paper towels, gritting his teeth as the rough paper scraped against his abraded skin.

It was too late to get stitches. The wound had already started to scab. He was going to have a scar from this one, but maybe some butterfly bandages would help. He’d need his first-aid kit and…And…He stared at himself in the mirror. First-aid kit. He wasn’t a doctor. How could he be a doctor? And yet…

The men’s-room door opened with a bang, and he spun around, reaching beneath his jacket for…Reaching for…

Dizzy, he staggered back against the sink. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just this sorry T-shirt. And sweet Lord help him, but he had to remember not to move fast or he’d end up falling on his face.

“The Ladies’ Auxiliary is having a clothing drive,” one of the shelter workers announced in a too-loud voice that made many of the men in the room cringe. “We’ve got a box of clean T-shirts, and another one full of blue jeans. Please take only what you need and save some for the next guy.”

He looked up into the mirror at the stained and grimy T-shirt he wore. It had been white at one time—probably just last night, although he still couldn’t remember back that far. He pulled it up and over his head, gingerly avoiding the wound above his right ear.

“Dirty laundry goes into this basket over here,” the shelter worker trumpeted. “If it’s labeled, you’ll get it back. If it’s torn, throw it out and take two.” The worker looked up at him. “What size do you need?”

“Medium.” It was something of a relief to finally know the answer to a question.

“You in need of jeans?”

He looked down. The black pants he was wearing were badly torn. “I could use some, yeah. Thirty-two waist, thirty-four inseam, if you’ve got ’em.” He knew that, too.

“You’re the one Jarell called the Mission Man,” the shelter worker remarked as he searched through the box.

“He’s a good guy—Jarell. A little too religious for my taste, but that wouldn’t bother you, would it? He’s always giving everyone nicknames. Mission Man. Mish. What kind of name is Mish anyway?”

His name. It was… his name? It was, but it wasn’t. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember his name.

Dammit, he couldn’t even remember his name.

“Here’s a pair what’s got a thirty-three-inch waist,” the shelter worker told him. “That’s the best I can do for you, Mish.”

Mish. He took the jeans, briefly closing his eyes so that the room would stop spinning around him, calming himself. So what if he couldn’t remember his name? It would come back to him. With a good night’s sleep, it would all come back to him.

He told himself that again and again, using it like a mantra. He was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. All he needed was a chance to close his eyes.

He went into the corner of the room, out of the line of traffic around the sinks and stalls, and started to pull off one of his boots.

He quickly pulled it back on again.

He was carrying a side arm. A .22-caliber.

In his boot.

It was slightly larger than palm-sized, black and deadly looking. There was something else in his boot, too. He could feel it now, pressing against his ankle.

He took his jeans into one of the stalls, locking the door behind him. Slipping off the boot, he looked inside. The .22 was still there, along with an enormous fold of cash—all big bills. There was nothing smaller than a hundred in the thick rubber-banded wad.

He flipped through it quickly. He was carrying more than five thousand dollars in his boot.

There was something else there, too. A piece of paper. There was writing on it, but his vision swam, blurring the letters.

He took off the other boot, but there was nothing in that one. He searched the pockets of his pants, but came up empty there, too.

He stripped off his pants and pulled on the clean jeans, careful to brace himself against the metal wall the entire time. His world was tilting, and he was in constant danger of losing his balance.

He slipped his boots back on, somehow knowing how to position the weapon so that it wouldn’t bother him. How could he know that, know what size jeans he wore, yet not know his own name? He put most of the money and the piece of paper back in his boot as well, leaving several hundred dollars in the front pocket of his jeans.

He came face-to-face with his reflection in the mirror when he opened the door of the stall.

Even dressed in clean clothes, even washed up, long, dark hair slicked back with water, even pale and gray from the pain that still pounded through his battered body, he looked like a man most folks would take a wide detour around. His chin had a heavy growth of stubble, accentuating his already sun-darkened complexion. His black T-shirt had been washed more than once and had shrunk slightly. It hugged his upper body, outlining the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked like a fighter, hard and lean.

Whatever he really did for a living, he still couldn’t remember. But considering that .22 he had hidden in his boot, he could probably cross kindergarten teacher off the list of possibilities.

Rolling up his torn pants, he tucked them under his arms. He pushed open the men’s-room door and skirted the room where breakfast and temperance were being served. Instead, he headed directly for the door that led to the street.

On his way out, as he passed the shelter’s donation box, he dropped a hundred-dollar bill inside.

* * *

“Mr. Whitlow! Wait!”

Rebecca Keyes headed for Silver at a dead run, swinging herself up into the saddle and digging her boots into the big gelding’s sides. Silver surged forward, in hot pursuit of the gleaming white limousine that was pulling down the dude ranch’s dirt driveway.

“Mr. Whitlow!” She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled piercingly, and finally the vehicle slowed.

Silver blew out a loud burst of air as she reined him in next to the almost absurdly stretched-out body of the car. With a faint mechanical whine, the window came down and Justin Whitlow’s ruddy face appeared. He didn’t look happy.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Becca said breathlessly from her perch atop Silver. “Hazel told me you were leaving, that you were going to be gone a month and I…I wish you had informed me earlier, sir. We have several things to discuss that can’t wait an entire month.”

“If this is more of your wages garbage—”

“No, sir—”

“Thank God.”

“—because it’s not garbage. It’s a very real problem we’re having here at the Lazy Eight. We’re not paying the ranch hands enough money, so they’re not sticking around. Did you know we’ve just lost Rafe McKinnon, Mr. Whitlow?’

Whitlow stuck a cigarette between his lips, squinting up at her as he lit it. “Hire someone new.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing with staff turnovers,” she said with barely concealed frustration. “Hiring someone new. And someone else new. And…” She drew in a deep breath and tried her best to sound reasonable. “If we’d simply paid someone solid and responsible like Rafe another two or three dollars an hour—”

“Then he would’ve asked for another raise next year.”

“Which he would have deserved. Frankly, Mr. Whitlow, I don’t know where I’m going to find another stable hand like Rafe. He was a good man. He was reliable and intelligent and—”

“He was obviously overqualified. I wish him luck at his next endeavor. We don’t need to hire rocket scientists, for God’s sake. And how reliable do you need a man to be, to shovel—”

“Mucking out the stalls is only a small part of the job description,” Becca countered hotly. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down again. She’d never won a shouting match with her boss, and she wasn’t likely to start winning that way now. “Mr. Whitlow, I don’t know how you expect the Lazy Eight to gain the reputation of being a high-class dude ranch if you insist on paying your staff slave wages.”

“Slave wages for slave labor,” Whitlow commented.

“My point exactly,” Becca said, but he just blew cigarette smoke out the window.

“Don’t forget about that opera thing in Santa Fe next week,” he commanded as, with a soft buzz, his window began to shut. “I’m counting on you to be there. And for heaven’s sake, dress like a woman. None of those pantsuits that you wore last time.”

“Mr. Whitlow—”

But the window closed tightly. She had been dismissed. Silver sidled to the right as the limo pulled away and Becca swore pungently.

Slave wages for slave labor, indeed. Except Whitlow had it wrong. He believed he was paying his staff low wages for low-priority, bottom-of-the-barrel, physical-labor jobs. But the truth was, without those jobs done and done well, the entire ranch suffered. And if the owner insisted on paying low, the quality of work he’d get in return would also be low. Or the workers would leave—like Rafe McKinnon had, and Tom Morgan last week, and Bob Sharp earlier in the month.

It seemed all Becca did these days was office work. Far too often, she found herself sitting inside, behind her desk, doing phone interviews to fill all-too-frequently-vacated staff positions.

She’d taken this job at the Lazy Eight Ranch because it was an opportunity to use her management skills and put in most of her hours out-of-doors.

She loved riding, loved the hot New Mexico sun, loved the way the storm clouds raced across the plains, loved the reds and browns and muted greens of the mountains. She loved the Lazy Eight Ranch.

But working for Justin Whitlow was the pits. And who said a woman couldn’t look feminine in a pair of pants, anyway? What did he expect her to wear to schmooze with his friends and business associates? Something extremely low-cut, with sequins? As if she could even afford such a thing on her pitiful salary.

Yes, she loved it here, but if things didn’t change, it was only a matter of time before she walked, too.

* * *

The night was moonless, but he lay quietly on his stomach, taking the time for his eyes to get fully used to the dark again, and in particular the dark here, just inside of the high-security fence.

He breathed with the sounds of the night—crickets and bullfrogs and the trees whispering overhead in the gentle wind.

He could see the house on the hill, and he silently crept closer on his knees and elbows, staying low, staying invisible.

He stopped, smelling the cigarette before he saw the red glow of light. The man was alone. Far enough away from the house.

He silently lifted his rifle, double-checking it before he sighted along the sniper’s scope. He brought the night-vision setting up a notch so he could really look at the target. And the man with the cigarette was the target. Not the gardener out for a late-night stroll. Not the chef hunting for the perfect variety of wild mushrooms. No, he recognized this man’s face from the photos he’d seen. He gently squeezed the trigger and…

Boom.

The muffled sound of the gunshot still managed to pierce his eardrums, set his teeth on edge, stab through his brain.

Eyes wide open, he sat up, instantly aware that he’d been dreaming. The only noise in the dimly lit room was his ragged breathing.

But the room was unfamiliar, and he felt a new wave of panic. Where in hell was he now?

Wherever it was, it was a far cry from the church shelter he’d woken up in yesterday morning.

His gaze swept across the impersonal furnishings, the cheesy oil paintings on the wall, and it came to him. Motel room. Yes, he’d checked in to this place yesterday morning, after leaving the shelter. His head had been pounding, and he’d wanted only to fall into bed and sleep.

He’d paid in cash and signed the registration M. Man.

Heavy curtains were pulled across the windows, letting in only a tiny sliver of bright morning light. Hands still shaking from his dream, he pushed the covers off, aware that the sheets were soaked with his own sweat. His head still felt tender, but no longer as if the slightest movement would make him want to scream.

He could remember, almost word for word, the brief conversation he’d had with the man at the motel’s front desk. He remembered the aromatic smell of coffee in the motel lobby. He remembered the clerk’s name—Ron—worn on a badge on his chest. He remembered how endlessly long it had taken Ron to find the key to room 246. He remembered pulling himself up the stairs, one step at a time, driven by the knowledge that soothing darkness and a soft bed were within reach.

He could remember that dream he’d just had, too, and he didn’t want to think about what it might mean.

He stood up, aware that the movement jarred him only slightly, and crossed to the air conditioner, turning it to a higher setting. The fan motor kicked in with a louder hum, and coolness hit him in a wave of canned air.

Slowly, deliberately, he sat back down on the edge of the bed.

He could remember the shelter. He could see Jarell’s smiling face, hear the sound of his cheerful voice. Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish!

He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, waiting for memories of being brought into the shelter, waiting for memories of what had happened that night.

But there was nothing there.

There was only…emptiness. Nothingness. As if before he’d been brought to the First Avenue Shelter, he hadn’t existed.

He could feel a new sheen of perspiration covering his body despite the cooler setting of the air conditioner. He’d slept off whatever had ailed him—whether it was the result of alcohol or some other controlled substance or simply the blow he’d received to his head. In fact, he’d slept solidly for more than twenty-four hours.

So why the hell couldn’t he remember his own damned name?

Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish!

He stood up, staggering slightly in his haste to get to the mirror that covered the wall in front of a double set of sinks. He flipped on the light and…

He remembered the face that looked back at him. He remembered it—but only from the bathroom mirror at the shelter. Before that, there was…

Nothing.

“Mish.” He spoke aloud the nickname Jarell had given him. The word sent a small ripple of recognition through him again, as it had yesterday morning. But what kind of name was Mish? Was it possible that he remembered—very faintly—Jarell calling him that when he was first brought into the shelter?

Mish. He gazed into the unfamiliar swirl of green and brown that were his own eyes. What kind of name was Mish? Well, right now, it was the only name he’d got.

Mish splashed cold water on his face, then cupped his hand under the faucet and drank deeply.

What was he supposed to do now? Go to the police?

No, that was out of the question. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be able to explain the .22 and that huge wad of money he was carrying in his boot. He knew—he didn’t know how he knew, but he did—that he couldn’t tell the police, couldn’t tell any one anything. He couldn’t let anyone know why he was here.

Not that he could have, even if he’d wanted to. He didn’t know why he was here.

So what was he supposed to do?

Check himself into a hospital? He turned his head, gingerly parting his hair to look at the gash on his head. Without yesterday’s fog of pain clouding his eyes, he knew with a chilling certainty that the wound on his head had been the result of a bullet’s glancing blow. He’d been shot, nearly killed.

No, he couldn’t go to a hospital, either—they’d be forced to report his injury to the police.

He dried his face and hands on a small white towel and went back into the main part of the motel room. His boots were on the floor near the bed, where he’d left them last night. He picked up the right one, dumping its contents onto the rumpled sheets. He turned on the light and sat down, picking up the .22.

It fit perfectly, familiarly into his hand. He couldn’t remember his own name, but somehow he knew he’d be able to use this weapon with deadly accuracy if the need ever arose. This weapon, and any other, as well. He remembered his dream, and he set it back down on the bed.

He pulled the rubber band off the fold of money, and the piece of white paper that was fastened along with it slipped free. It was fax paper; the slippery, shiny kind that was hard to read. He picked it up and angled it toward the light.

“Lazy Eight Ranch,” he read. Again, the name was totally unfamiliar to him. There was an address and directions to some kind of spread up in the northern part of the state. From what he could tell from the directions, it was about four hours outside of Santa Fe. The words were all typed, except for a note scrawled across the bottom in big round handwriting. “Looking forward to meeting you.” It was signed, “Rebecca Keyes.”

Mish opened the bedside-table drawer, looking for a telephone book. But the only thing inside was a Gideons Bible. He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.

“Yeah, is there a train station or a bus depot in town?” he asked when the desk clerk came on the line.

“Greyhound’s just down the street.”

“Can you give me the phone number?”

He silently repeated the number the clerk gave him, hung up, then dialed the phone.

He was going to Santa Fe.

CHAPTER 2

Becca was out front, helping Belinda and Dwayne welcome a van load of guests, when she first spotted him.

He would have been very easy to miss—the solitary figure of a man walking slowly along the road. Yet even from this distance, she could tell that he was different. He didn’t have the nonchalant swagger of the cowboys that worked the nearby ranches. He didn’t carry the bags and sacks of crafts and jewelry that many of the local Native Americans took into Santa Fe to sell. He had only one small bag, efficiently tucked under one arm.

He turned into the Lazy Eight’s long drive, as somehow Becca had known he would.

As he drew closer, she could see he wasn’t wearing the Western gear that was the standard outfit of the Southwest. He had on the blue jeans, but he wore a new-looking T-shirt instead of a long-sleeved Western-cut button-down shirt. His arms were deeply tanned, as if he spent quite a bit of time outside.

His black boots weren’t the kind a real cowboy would wear, and he wore a baseball cap instead of a Stetson on his head.

From a distance, he’d looked tall and imposing. Up close, he merely looked imposing. It was odd, really. He had to be at least an inch or so shorter than six feet, and he was slender, almost slight. Yet there was a power about him, a quiet strength that seemed to radiate from him.

It may have been in the set of his shoulders or the angle of his chin. Or it may have been something in his dark eyes that made her want to step back a bit and keep her distance. His gaze swept across the drive, over the van and the luggage and the guests, over the ranch house, over the corral where Silver was waiting impatiently for another chance to stretch his legs, over Belinda and Dwayne, over her. With one quick flick of his eyes, he seemed to take her in, to memorize, appraise, and then dismiss.

Becca tried to look away, but she couldn’t.

He was impossibly, harshly handsome—provided, of course, that a woman went for the dark and dangerous type. His face was slightly weathered, with high cheekbones that even Johnny Depp would’ve been jealous of. His lips were gracefully shaped, if perhaps a shade too thin, too grimly set. His dark hair was longer than she’d first thought, worn fastened back at the nape of his neck. His face was smooth-shaven, but he had a scar on his chin that added to his aura of danger. And those eyes…

Becca watched as he approached Belinda. He spoke softly—too softly for Becca to hear his words—as he drew a piece of paper from his pocket.

Belinda turned and pointed directly at Becca. He turned, too, and once again those eyes were on her, coolly appraising.

He started toward her.

Becca came down the ranch office steps, meeting him halfway, pushing her beatup Stetson further back on her short brown curls. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Rebecca Keyes.” His voice was soft and accentless. His words weren’t a question, but she answered him anyway.

“That’s right.” His eyes weren’t dark brown as she’d first thought. They were hazel—an almost otherworldly mix of green and brown and yellow and blue. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

“You sent me this fax?”

This time it was a question. Becca forced her gaze away from his face and looked down at the paper he held in his hands. It was indeed fax paper. She recognized the standard directions to the ranch, caught sight of the messy scribble of her handwriting at the bottom. “You must be Casey Parker.”

He repeated the name slowly. “Casey Parker.”

He didn’t look the way he’d sounded during their telephone interview. She’d pictured a larger, older, beefier man. But no matter. She needed a hired hand, and all of his references had checked out.

“Do you have any ID?” Becca asked. She smiled to soften her words and explained. “It has more to do with filling out employee tax forms than verifying that you’re who you say you are.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. My wallet was stolen night before last. I got into some kind of fight and…”

As if to prove his story, he took off his hat and she could see a long scrape above his right temple, disappearing into his wavy dark hair. He had a bruise on his cheekbone, too. She hadn’t noticed it at first—it was barely discernible underneath the suntanned darkness of his skin.

“I hope you don’t make a habit of getting into fights.”

He smiled. It was just a slight upward curve of his lips, yet it managed to soften his harsh features. “I hope not, too.”

“You’re a week early,” Becca told him, hoping her briskness would counteract the effect his quiet smile and strange words had had on her, “but that’s good, because another hand quit on me yesterday.”

He was silent, just standing there watching her with those eyes that seemed to see everything. For a moment, she was almost convinced he could see back in time, to yesterday morning’s disastrous conversation with Justin Whitlow, and back even further to Rafe McKinnon’s quiet resignation. For a moment, she was almost convinced he could see her anger and her frustration and her defeat.

“You do still want the job…?” she asked, suddenly afraid that he didn’t like what he saw. After all, bad things always came in threes.

He turned, squinting slightly at the blinding blueness of the summer sky. His gaze swept across the valley, and Becca was certain that unlike most people, this man saw, really saw the stark New Mexico countryside. She was sure that with his intense hazel eyes, he could see the terrible, almost painful beauty of the land.

“You own this place?” he asked in his quiet voice.

“I wish.” The words came out automatically and all too heartfelt. As his eyes flicked in her direction, she felt exposed—as if, with those two little words, she’d given too much of herself away.

But he just nodded, his lips curving very slightly in the beginnings of a smile.

“Who does own it?” he asked. “I like to know the name of the man I’m working for.”

“The owner’s name is Justin Whitlow,” Becca told him. “He’s the one who pays your wages. But I’m the boss. You’ll be working for me. ”

He nodded again, turning back to gaze out at the vista, but not before she saw a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “I don’t have a problem with that,” he said quietly.

“Some men do.”

“I’m not some men.” He looked back at her again, and Becca knew without a doubt that his words were true. This quiet, slender man with the watchful hazel eyes wasn’t just “some men.”

But exactly what kind of man he was, she didn’t know for sure.

* * *

“Hey, babe, long time no see.” Lt. Lucky O’Donlon of U.S. Navy SEAL Team Ten’s Alpha Squad pulled Veronica Catalanotto into his arms and kissed her hello as he came into the kitchen of his captain’s house.

“Luke. Hi. Did Frankie let you in?” Ronnie’s smile was warm and she seemed genuinely glad to see him. And since she was one of the top ten most beautiful, nicest, smartest women he’d ever met, that welcoming smile was going to be good for quite a number of fantasy miles. But then she went and ruined it by smiling exactly the same way at Bobby and Wes, who had come in behind him.

“How was your trip, boys?” she asked in her extremely classy British accent.

Captain Joe Catalanotto’s wife always called the intensely dangerous and highly covert operations that Alpha Squad was sent out on “trips.” As if they’d been away sightseeing or visiting museums.

Wes rolled his eyes. “Oh, man, Ron, we came really close to being cluster—”

Bobby’s size extra-extra-large elbow went solidly into his swim buddy’s side.

“Fine,” Wes said quickly. “It was fine, Ronnie. As always. Thanks for asking, though.”

Veronica wasn’t fooled. Her smile had faded, making her eyes look enormous in her face. “Is everyone all right? I mean, of course I’ve already asked Joe, but I’m not sure he’d even tell me if someone had been hurt.”

Ever since a year and a half ago, when the captain had nearly been killed by terrorists on what should have been a routine training mission, Veronica looked even more fragile than she had before when the squad went out on an op. She’d never found it easy to deal with the fact that her husband regularly left—sometimes without any warning—on highly dangerous missions. And now, after seeing Joe in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, it was even more difficult for her.

“Everyone’s fine,” Lucky said quietly, taking her hand. “Really.” Hotshot Cowboy Jones had jammed his ankle coming in too hard from a HALO jump, but aside from that, they’d all made it back to California in one piece.

Veronica smiled, but it was a little too bright and a touch too brittle. “Well,” she said. “Joe’s expecting you. He’s down on the beach.”

“Thanks.” Lucky squeezed her hand before he released it.

“Should I set extra plates for dinner?” Veronica asked evenly.

Lucky exchanged a look with Bobby. The captain had called them to this meeting on their pagers, sending them an urgent code. Whatever was up was important. Despite the fact that they’d only been home a day and a half, chances were they’d be going wheels-up again within the next few hours. And knowing the way Joe Catalanotto liked to lead from the front, it was more than likely he’d be shipping out with them. It seemed, however, that he hadn’t mentioned anything about that to his wife.

“I don’t think so, Ronnie,” Bobby told her gently.

“Probably not this time. It really smells great, though. Those cooking lessons are paying off, huh?”

“I was working all day,” she told him ruefully. “Joe made the stew.”

Damn. The captain’s wife may have been beautiful, smart and sexy as hell, but the woman was a menace in the kitchen.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she added. “There’s plenty and it’s quite good. There’s no way Joe and Frankie and I can possibly eat all of it.”

“Something’s come up. I think the captain’s planning to take us kids out on another field trip,” Wes told her before either Bobby or Lucky could muzzle him. Mr. Insensitive and Completely Oblivious. “So, yeah, we’re sure we can’t stay.”

“Well,” Veronica said tightly. “Off for another month, are you? Thanks for letting me know, although that’s something that would’ve been nice to hear from Joe.”

Double damn. Lucky cringed. “Ron, honest, I don’t know what’s up. If he didn’t mention anything to you, well, maybe we’re not going anywhere.”

Veronica visibly composed herself. And sighed as she looked up into their somewhat panicked faces. “Don’t look at me like that,” she chided them. “I’m stronger than you think. I knew what I was getting before I married him. I don’t have to like it when Joe leaves—isn’t that what you SEALs always say? I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it. Just take care of him for me, all right?”

She was pretending to hang tough, but her lower lip trembled an infinitesimal amount, giving her away. “Go,” she said. “He’s waiting. And you can tell him he doesn’t have to worry about breaking the terrible news to me anymore.”

Lucky followed Bobby and Wes out the kitchen door but hesitated on the deck, looking in through the window to watch her set only two places at the kitchen table—for herself and Frankie, her toddler son—still trying not to cry.

Lucky knew by the time Joe came back to the house, she’d be perfectly composed and probably even smiling.

Veronica’s acceptance of Joe’s career was a rare thing. SEALs had a divorce rate that was off the scale, in part because many of their wives simply couldn’t take the strain of being left behind again and again and again, waiting and worrying.

“I’m never getting married,” Lucky murmured to Wes as they went down the steps that led to the beach.

“You and me, Luck,” Wes agreed. “Unless Ronnie decides to leave the captain. Or am I already too late? Have you already started marking your territory in a big circle around her? No offense, Lieutenant, sir, but that kiss was just a little too friendly.”

Lucky was stung. “I was just saying hello. I’d never—”

“You’d never what, O’Donlon?” All six feet and four dangerous inches of Joe Cat materialized from the mist that was blowing in off the Pacific. One second they were alone and the next he was breathing down their necks. How the hell could a man built like a professional football player do that?

“I’d never hit on your wife,” Lucky told his captain bluntly. There was no point in trying to hide the truth from Joe Cat. Somehow he’d find out—if he didn’t already know. That’s why he was the captain. “I’d never, ever, ever hit on Ronnie.” Lucky shot Wes a disbelieving look. “I can’t believe you think I’d do something that low, Skelly. My feelings are seriously hurt—”

“What’s happening, Captain?” Bobby interrupted.

Joe Cat motioned towards the ocean. “We need to walk,” he told them. “We really should be talking in a secured room, but getting one would raise too many eyebrows, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

Whatever this was, it was bigger than Lucky had imagined. He stopped giving Wes dirty looks and focused on what the captain was saying.

But Joe was silent until they were next to the breaking surf. The beach was deserted and misty, the setting sun hidden behind clouds.

“I’ve been doing some work for Admiral Robinson,” Joe Cat finally told them, his voice low. “Acting as a liaison for one of his longhairs who’s out on a black op for the admiral’s Gray Group.”

Longhair was the name given to any SEAL who might need to blend in with a dangerous and motley crowd of terrorists and mercenaries at any given moment. He had to go on top-secret, extremely covert “black” operations, where a man with a military haircut would stick out like a sore thumb. And once that man stuck out, he would be one very dead sore thumb.

So these covert op SEALs got tattoos. They pierced their ears. They didn’t shave for weeks on end. They dressed in what would have been known as “grunge” in the early nineties. And they grew their hair very, very long.

Of course, when it came to longhairs, the captain should talk. He wore his own hair in a thick, dark braid down his back. When he shook his hair out, he looked like a pirate or maybe a really wild rock star—and absolutely nothing like a highly decorated, extremely well-respected captain in Uncle Sam’s Navy.

“The admiral’s off doing diplo-duty in a place where it’s impossible to get a secured telephone line,” Joe Cat told them curtly. “I can’t even report to him that as of twenty-four hours ago, his SEAL missed his weekly check-in. And frankly, I’m concerned. Apparently this guy’s better than a clock when it comes to check-ins. So I’ve got to go out to New Mexico to try and track him down, and I need a team to watch my six.”

New Mexico? What the…?

The captain looked at Bob, then Wes, then Lucky. “I’m looking for volunteers here. This will be a black op as well—completely off the record, no paperwork, no acknowledgement of the situation by any of the top brass. If you choose to come along, you’ll be paid, but not in the usual way. In fact, you’ll have to take leave so your whereabouts can’t be traced.”

It sounded like some serious fun. “Count me in, Skipper,” Lucky said, and Bobby and Wes were only nanoseconds behind him.

Their captain nodded. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Who’s the little lost SEAL we’re tracking down?” Wes asked. “Anyone we know?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “You worked with him six months ago. Lt. Mitchell Shaw.”

“Oh, man,” Bobby said in his basso profundo, voicing exactly what Lucky was thinking. “He’s gonna be hard to find if he doesn’t want to be found, Cat. He’s a chameleon—good with disguises. The admiral once told me that he nearly pulled the hair off a little old lady, thinking she was Mitch under cover.”

“What’s a Gray Group operative doing in New Mexico?” Lucky asked.

“This is top-secret information I’m about to give you,” Joe told them seriously. “It goes no further than the four of us, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe sighed, turning to squint out at the ocean for a moment. “Remember that break-in at Arches?”

Last year, the security at Arches Military Testing Lab in Colorado had been breached and six canisters of Triple X had been stolen. Lucky, Bobby, Wes and Mitch Shaw had all been part of the team that located and destroyed the deadly nerve gas. Yeah, they remembered that break-in all too clearly.

“The Trip X nerve agent wasn’t the only thing taken,” Joe Cat continued grimly.

Wes ran his hand down his face. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

“Plutonium,” Joe said. “Enough was taken to make a small nuclear weapon.”

A small nuke. Great.

“Shaw was working to track it down,” Joe Cat continued. “He was following a lead both he and Admiral Robinson thought was probably empty. That’s why he was out there alone. The bulk of the Gray Group’s manpower is working from the other end—finding the potential buyer seemed easier than finding the plutonium in the haystack. But now that Shaw’s gone missing, I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“New Mexico’s a big state,” Bobby commented.

He was right. And if Mitch was working a black op, he wouldn’t have broadcast his whereabouts to anyone. “How the hell are we gonna find him?”

“Shaw was carrying ten counterfeit hundred-dollar bills,” Joe answered Lucky. “Admiral Robinson implemented a technique used by the spooks at the Agency—apparently his wife’s a former agent. See, how it works is if some bad voodoo goes down and the agent—or SEAL in this case—is eliminated by the opposition, that funny money tends to go into circulation. It makes sense, right? An agent is hit and his or her body disappears. But if you’re the guy who did the hit, you check pockets for weapons or cash. No point in sinking that in the quarry with your victim’s earthly remains, right? So the money changes hands, so to speak. In the past, this method has occasionally been effective enough to track all the way to the killers. Once they start spending the money—as soon as it’s ID’d as fake—it’s like a big red flag gets dropped.”

“Are you saying you think Lieutenant Shaw is dead, sir?” Wes swore sharply. “I liked the guy.”

“I don’t know what’s up with Shaw,” Joe told them.

“But one—and only one—of his counterfeit hundred-dollar bills showed up in Wyatt City, New Mexico. In the donation box of the First Church Homeless Shelter, of all places.”

“When do we leave?” Bobby asked.

“We’ve got a flight out to Las Cruces in three hours,” Joe said. He smiled crookedly. “I, um, need a little time. I haven’t exactly told Ronnie yet that I’m leaving.”

“Well, sir, we, uh…” Wes braced himself. “ I kind of took care of that for you, Cat.”

Joe closed his eyes and swore.

“I’m really sorry, Captain,” Wes said.

“Skipper, you know…Me and Ren and Stimpy here can handle this. You don’t have to come along—it’d be overkill anyway,” Lucky earnestly told the captain. “We’ve worked with Mitch, we know what he looks like—at least when he’s not in disguise. And like you said, the rest of the Gray Group’s covering the other end. Give yourself—and Veronica—a break.” He paused. “And give me a chance to practice those leadership skills they worked so hard to teach me at the academy, sir. Let me take care of this.”

Joe looked up at the hillside above the beach, at the warm lights of his home cutting through the thickening fog.

He made up his mind. “Go,” he said. “The paperwork giving you leave is already at the base. But I want sit-reps over a secured line every twelve hours.”

“Thanks, Captain.” Lucky held out his hand.

Joe clasped it and shook. “Find him. Fast.”

* * *

“Are you Casey?”

Casey. Casey Parker. If that was his name, why couldn’t he remember it? “Yeah, that’s me.”

A ten-year-old kid had come into the barn. He stood in front of Mish now, his eyes magnified by a crooked pair of wire-framed glasses. “I’m supposed to tell you to saddle up a pair of horses for me and Ashley. Ashley’s my sister. She’s a pain in the butt.”

Saddle up some horses…

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

“My real name’s Reagan. Reagan Thomas Alden. But people call me Chip.”

Mish turned back to the stall he was shoveling out. “Rumor has it, Chip, guests under age eighteen aren’t allowed to ride out on their own.”

“Yes, but…I’m not signed up for a ride until after four o’clock. What am I supposed to do until then?”

“Read a book?” Mish suggested, getting back into the easy rhythm of his work.

“Hey!” Chip brightened. “ You could ride out with me and Ash. There’s this place, about a half a mile east of here where there’s these big, creepy-looking rocks, kind of like some giant’s fingers sticking out of the ground. I could show ’em to you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, Casey. You’re not doing anything important right now.”

Mish kept right on shoveling. “The way I figure it, I’ve got one of the most important jobs here—making sure the horses you ride have a clean place to sleep at night.”

“Yes, but…wouldn’t you rather be riding?”

Mish answered honestly. “No.” The truth was, he could remember nothing about horses. If he’d at one time known how to ride, that knowledge had slipped away with his memories of his name and his past. But somehow he doubted that. Somehow, he got the sense that horseback riding was a subject he’d never bothered to learn much about.

It was troublesome. If he was Casey Parker, then he’d lied to get this job. And if he wasn’t Casey Parker, then who in heaven’s name was he?

Casey Parker or not, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to like finding out who he really was.

The handgun in his boot. The wad of money. The bullet wound. It all added up to the same grim conclusion: he was not on the side of the angels.

If his dream had held just one ounce of truth, he was a killer. He was someone who shot and killed other people for a living. And, if that was the case, he didn’t want to remember who he was.

He—and the world—would be better off if he simply stayed here for the rest of his days, shoveling manure and—

Mish lifted his head, listening intently to a low rumble. Was it thunder? Or an approaching truck?

“That sounds like Travis Brown,” Chip told him. “Doing what Becca calls his first-rate imitation of a damn fool.”

It was the sound of pounding hoofbeats—faint, but growing louder until it became a clatter of noise directly outside of the barn. It was accompanied by a high-pitched whinny of fear and pain from the horse. That sound was echoed almost identically—except this second scream came from a human throat. Mish dropped his shovel.

“That’s Ashley!” Chip bolted for the door, but Mish swung himself over the wall of the stall and beat him there.

A riderless horse stood on its hind legs, pawing the air as a man dressed in fringed leggings and a leather vest lay sprawled behind him. A young girl crouched in the dust in front of the enraged horse, covering her head with her arms.

Mish didn’t stop. He started toward the girl at a sprint.

He could see Rebecca Keyes running just as quickly toward them from the direction of the ranch office. Her hat fell into the dust, and she reached the horse’s bridle just as Mish grabbed the girl and pulled her out of harm’s way.

The horse’s slashing hooves came within inches of Rebecca’s face, but she didn’t flinch.

Mish shoved the girl into Chip’s arms and stood ready to come to Becca’s aid. But she simply and slowly backed away, letting the animal have some space.

The horse’s sides were torn, as if slashed with too-sharp spurs. His mouth was frothing and flecked with blood. His dark body was slick with sweat and trembling.

The man who’d been thrown scrambled out of range of the beast’s powerful back hooves. “Did you see that?” he said as he pulled himself to his feet. “That damned horse nearly killed me!”

“Quiet!” Becca didn’t even look in the man’s direction. All of her attention was focused on the horse. Although she didn’t speak loudly, there was stern authority in her voice.

The rider wisely shut up.

As Mish watched, the horse returned to all fours. He twitched nervously, though, sidling and still trembling. Becca moved closer again, crooning softly to the frightened animal, her hands and body language nonthreatening.

She could have been a lion tamer. Mish felt his own tension start to drain from his shoulders and neck just from the sound of her soothing, hypnotic voice. As she gazed at the horse steadily, Mish could see none of the anger that he knew she must be feeling toward the abusive rider.

He knew that her eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown, but as she looked at the horse, they reflected a serenity that was almost angelic. And for a moment, as he gazed at her, Mish couldn’t breathe.

Rebecca Keyes wasn’t what most folks would consider to be beautiful. Oh, her face was pretty enough—cute, actually. It was maybe a touch too round, though, making her look younger than she really was. Or maybe she was just plain young, he didn’t know for sure. Her nose was small and couldn’t be described as anything other than childlike. It was dotted with freckles that added to that effect. Her mouth was generously wide, her lips gracefully shaped. The only makeup she wore was a light coat of gloss on those lips—and Mish suspected she wore it as protection from the harsh sun rather than for cosmetic effect.

But as she reached for that shuddering horse, soothing, peaceful comfort seemed to radiate from her every movement, her every word, her every glance, and Mish could not breathe.

He wanted her to turn to him, to look at him that way, to lay her gentle hands on him, to bring to him the peace he so desperately needed.

Instead, he watched as she touched the horse.

The animal snorted, nervously sidestepping, but Becca moved with him. “It’s okay, baby,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay…Shhh…” She ran her hands down the horse’s neck. “Yeah, everything’s all right now. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She looped the reins over the animal’s head, leading him gently toward the barn. “Casey here will take care of you,” she added, still talking in that sweet, soothing voice, “while I take care of the idiot who hurt you.”

She looked up at Mish, reaching out to hand him the reins, and just like that, the warm calm in her eyes flickered and changed—replaced by sheer, cold, nearly murderous anger. She was going to “take care” of the rider, indeed.

But first she turned toward the young girl who’d nearly been run down in the driveway. “Are you all right, Ash?”

Ashley and Chip were standing alongside the barn, arms still around each other. The girl nodded, but she was clearly shaken.

“Chip, run to the office,” Becca crisply ordered the little boy. “Have Hazel crank up the cellular phone and locate your parents.” She turned back to Mish. “Get that horse inside the barn.”

Mish gently tugged on the reins, leading the huge animal into the quiet coolness of the barn. He looked up into the beast’s big brown eyes, and could see mistrust. He tried to gaze back confidently, but knew he was failing. Truth was, he didn’t have a clue what to do.

He wrapped the reins around one of the bars on the nearest stall, keeping one ear tuned to what was going on outside of the barn.

“Mr. Brown, you have exactly fifteen minutes to pack your bags and get down here to the ranch office,” he could hear Becca tell the man who’d been riding the horse, her tone leaving no room for any dissent.

There was a buckle that seemed to hold the saddle on and Mish tried to unfasten it, but the animal shifted away, snorting. He was no Dr. Doolittle, but he couldn’t miss the horse’s message. Don’t touch me.

Outside, Brown sputtered. “ I’m the one who was thrown—”

“You’ve had your warnings,” Becca cut him off, her voice tight with anger. “You’ve been told again and again that you may not wear spurs with any of our horses. You’ve been told again and again not to yank the reins, to treat the horse the way you’d want to be treated if you had a bit in your mouth.”

Mish put his hand on the horse’s neck. He just rested it there, steady and firm, trying to push all of his uncertainty far away, knowing the animal could sense it. He could do this. He’d seen enough Westerns. He had to get the saddle off, and the blanket underneath, then somehow cool the horse down.

“You’ve been told again and again that horses must be kept to a slow walk around the ranch buildings,” Becca’s voice continued. “This time you might’ve badly injured Ashley Alden. And this time, I’m done giving you warnings. This time, I’m telling you to pack your bags and get off this ranch.”

“I want the sheriff! I want an ambulance—I hurt my back in that fall! I’m going to sue—”

Mish reached for the buckle again, this time his movements steady and sure. The horse twitched and blew air out of his nose, hard, but Mitch got the job done. He lifted off the saddle and set it on top of a rail. And then he couldn’t resist sneaking a look out of the barn door. A crowd had gathered—guests and ranch hands silently watching.

Becca had Travis Brown backed against the split wood railings of the corral, her eyes shooting fire. When she spoke, her voice was soft but it carried in the stillness.

“Go ahead and call the sheriff, Hazel,” she said to the gray-haired woman on the ranch office steps, her eyes never leaving Brown. “It’s entirely likely that Ted and Janice Alden will want to press charges against Mr. Brown for nearly killing their daughter. Reckless endangerment—isn’t that what it’s called?”

“You can’t kick me out. I’m a shareholder.”

“You’re an idiot, ” Becca said sharply. “Get the hell off this ranch.”

He moved toward her, threateningly. “You little bitch! When Justin Whitlow finds out about this—”

“Fifteen minutes, Brown.” He towered over her, but Becca didn’t back down. She stood her ground, chin raised, as if daring the man to raise a hand to her.

The man pushed past her, exaggerating his limp as he headed toward the guest cabins.

Becca turned, looking first at Hazel. “Did you reach the Aldens?”

The plump older woman nodded. “They’re on their way.”

“Call the sheriff, too—in case they want to register a complaint.”

“Already done.”

Becca’s gaze swept across the crowd and landed on Mish. He realized suddenly that he’d come all the way out of the barn, toward her, ready to jump in if Brown had tried to strike her.

“How’s Stormchaser?” she asked, heading directly toward him. “The poor baby’s going to have to go into therapy after this.”

“He doesn’t seem to want me to touch him,” Mish admitted, following her back into the barn.

She gave him an odd look over her shoulder. “ She doesn’t know you. She’s bound to be a little spooked.”

She. The horse was female. He hadn’t even thought to look. He’d simply assumed that since the animal was so big and powerful…Thou shalt not assume. He’d broken one of the biggest rules, and he’d given himself away.

Rules. Rules of what? God Almighty, it was back there, just out of his line of sight. All of the answers, dancing at the edge of his mental peripheral vision. He wanted to close his eyes, to somehow grab hold of the truth, of his identity. But Becca Keyes was talking to him.

“Why don’t you get her cooled down,” Becca said, obviously repeating herself as she gazed at him with her seemingly average brown eyes.

She was challenging him. Her words were a test—she wanted to know if he could do it.

But he couldn’t.

Mish met her gaze levelly, honestly. “I’m afraid that’s a little out of my league. But if you tell me exactly what needs to be done, I can—”

She’d already turned away from him. “Perfect,” she was muttering. “Incredibly, amazingly, stupendously perfect. ” She spun back to face him. “You’re telling me you don’t know how to cool down a horse, aren’t you?”

“I’m a quick study,” he said quietly. “And you’re short of hands—”

“Short of brains, too, obviously.” There was a flare of that hot-burning anger in her eyes, but the heat was weakened by her frustration and disappointment. “Dammit. Dammit! ”

The disappointment was hard to take. He would have far preferred her anger. “I didn’t intend to deceive you.” He couldn’t explain. How could he?

She just laughed as she took the saddle blanket from Stormchaser’s back. “Right. Go and make sure Brown’s packing his bags. He’s in cabin number 12. Walk him back to the office, finish up the stalls, then stay out of my sight for the rest of evening. I can’t handle this right now—we’ll talk in the morning.”

Mish may not have known a thing about horses, but he knew when a situation called for silence.

He turned and left the barn. He’d awakened again this morning with no past, no name, no sense of self. Yet somehow he now felt even emptier inside.

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