Zane looked up at her. All the protective layers she’d erected that day teetered under the blue intensity of his gaze.

After a long second, he crossed the short distance to her side in one step. He sat on the edge of her mattress.

For several seconds they stared at each other. Kinsey felt as though she was going to explode.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said as he ran a lock of her hair through his fingers. “Of course, you always look beautiful.”

“For all the good it does us,” she whispered. When he leaned over her and kissed her cheek, she turned her face. “Don’t.”

“Sorry,” he said, and slowly sat up. He didn’t leave, however, just sat there, still and silent, one hand on her shoulder as he stared into the room. Finally he looked down at her again.

“Last night I asked you to give me one more day. That day is now over. I think you should drive away tomorrow and let me finish this.”

Cowboy

Incognito

Alice Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

This book is dedicated to the newest member of our family, Tyler Lawrence Shumate.

Live long and prosper, sweetie.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Kinsey Frost loved her adopted home of New Orleans no matter what the weather threw at her. Since moving there a few years ago, various storms had flexed their muscles and she’d kind of enjoyed the drama of it all.

However, on a summer day like this, when the humidity hovered close to a drizzle and no breeze blew off the Mississippi River, mixed feelings tended to sneak their way in. Add a crowded hot sidewalk, time restraint and a sore back from climbing up and down a ladder all day and she was about five seconds away from hailing a cab to take her the six blocks home. She was painfully aware she had an hour to take a shower, change her clothes and return to the gallery she’d just left.

That was cutting it close and she decided on the spot that once she had cleaned herself up, she would drive back to the gallery instead of walking as she usually did.

To take her mind off her wilting condition, she focused on her fellow pedestrians. As an artist, she was always interested in people watching, even when they had their backs to her. Directly ahead walked a woman who had twisted her hair into an intricate knot and secured it with what looked like red chopsticks. In front of her two businessmen in lightweight suits argued about something, their profiles twisted with emotion. Then came a woman wearing a pink dress who held the hands of two little girls. Twins? Probably, as they were the same size and wore identical clothes.

Looking even farther ahead, Kinsey caught a glimpse of a tan Stetson hat. She tilted her head to see on whom it perched and found a tall guy with dark hair touching the back of his shirt collar. A black leather vest stretched across broad shoulders. Through the legs of those between them, she caught sight of jeans and black boots.

This was not Bourbon Street. Few tourists visited this area at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, fewer still dressed like this man. She watched him for another half block, struck by his steady gait and the aura he emitted of knowing where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there. She couldn’t help being curious about his ultimate destination.

Life was full of interesting people with fascinating stories you never had a chance to know. Right now, for Kinsey, the far more pressing issue was time. The gallery was holding an opening-night show for an “outstanding new talent.” That’s what the owner called anyone to whom he dedicated wall space and a wine-and-cheese party. In Kinsey’s opinion, this time he was dead-on right. She’d spent most of the day hanging one beautiful painting after another, striving to suit both owner and finicky artist. No doubt there would be a fair amount of hand-holding required that evening.

The light on the corner changed and the crowd up ahead slowed down to wait it out. Kinsey had lost track of the cowboy, but now he caught her attention again. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, slightly apart. The giggling antics of the two little girls apparently caught his attention and he turned. As though he sensed Kinsey’s stare, his gaze darted from the children straight to her.

The word handsome didn’t do him justice, didn’t begin to hint at the smoldering warmth of his eyes, the curiosity, the intelligence. His tan was deep, his eyes an unexpected blue, his brows straight and dark. He appeared to be several years her senior, maybe in his midthirties, and she’d bet a bundle he was better looking now than he’d been a decade before. That’s what bones like his could do for a man...

Very slowly and with more than a taste of speculation, his sensual lips twitched into a smile as he returned her appraisal. Dazzled and a bit embarrassed to have been caught staring, Kinsey immediately looked away.

And that’s how she came to be facing the bicyclist speeding down the middle of the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians like a stiff wind blowing through fallen leaves. She hastily stepped out of the way as he whizzed past, the yellow vest the company’s pedaling messengers wore flying out behind him. The matching helmet obscured his features. Kinsey twirled to face the corner and shout a warning, but it seemed everyone had already sensed something amiss. Someone dropped a shopping bag and someone else screamed. The woman with the children grabbed each girl by a hand and dragged them to the shelter of a recessed doorway, but one of them pulled free. Laughing as though caught up in a game, she shot out onto the sidewalk.

The weirdest mixture of slow motion and fast-forward came over Kinsey as she soundlessly watched events unfold. The child suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, struck now by the approaching danger but obviously afraid to move. The cowboy dashed to sweep the girl out of harm’s way. The cyclist veered closer to them and then like a flash, unexpected and unreal, he let go of the right grip and shoved the still-moving cowboy, connecting with his shoulder, upsetting his precarious balance. The push propelled man and child toward the street at the same instant a cab cut the corner too close and the cowboy stumbled into its path. The cab stopped abruptly, the driver’s face through the windshield one of abject terror.

The screech of brakes and blare of horns masked the collective gasp of the onlookers. The cyclist had gone down, too, but he’d rolled to his feet and now went to the aid of the fallen. As he hovered over them, the momentum created by the flow of traffic speeding by in the other direction caused his yellow vest to whip around his torso like the wings of a wounded butterfly.

The crowd began moving again. Kinsey hesitated just a second, then dashed into the street, heedless now of her aching muscles and sweating brow. As she closed the distance, the cyclist hopped up, ran to his bike, somehow managed to mount it and pedal away down the sidewalk like nobody’s business.

The child, still caught in the cowboy’s slack embrace, whimpered. The man lay still as death. Kinsey leaned over them as the woman in pink appeared, screaming something in what sounded like Swedish, while the little girl who hadn’t been injured sobbed uncontrollably by her side. Kinsey set her fingers against the man’s throat and felt the flutter of his heartbeat, saw the flickering of his lashes. The child’s eyes were open, but her skin was pale and she looked dazed. Someone touched Kinsey’s shoulder.

“I’m a doctor,” a middle-aged woman said. “Please, move aside, let me see them.” Kinsey stood and backed out of the way, one hand covering her mouth, unaware of the bloodstains on her white jeans.

* * *

AMBULANCES SHOWED UP and soon after, the police. The taxi driver had finally emerged, white faced and shaken. One policeman led him away from everyone else for an interview. Kinsey was questioned along with the other onlookers. Of course, officials were very anxious to hear about the cyclist, and Kinsey discovered she was one of only two people who’d actually seen the shove. Attention of the others seemed to have been focused on the child or even the taxi. Kinsey could offer very little description of the aggressor as it had all happened in such a blur and the helmet had hidden his features.

They wanted to know if it looked as if the cowboy and the cyclist knew each other, or if the child had been the target. They wanted to know if she could recall anything that implied malice. As she watched the ambulance crew load the child and man into separate vehicles and drive away, she blinked rapidly. “Nothing,” she admitted. “Except the shove, of course.”

By luck, someone had been using their phone to record the twin girls and had caught the incident. Hopefully, the video would reveal things that had happened too fast for the human eye to spot.

“We’re going to go to the hospital now to find out more about the victims,” one of the officers told Kinsey as he wrote down her name and number in his notebook. “If you think of anything, anything at all, call me.”

“What about the company the messenger worked for?” she asked. “Speedy Courier, isn’t that the name? Maybe they can identify which of their messengers were on this street today.”

“We’re checking into that,” the officer assured her. He handed her his card and she scanned it quickly. His name was Edward Woods. He nodded at her and walked away toward his car. A second later, Kinsey called out to him.

“Detective Woods? There is something,” she said. “Your footsteps just now...” Her voice trailed off as she fought to organize her thoughts. “When the courier ran off, I heard the slap of his shoes.”

The detective’s shoulders shrugged with uncertainty as to her point.

“I see these messengers all the time,” she explained. “My mother lives in one of those beautiful old houses a couple of miles farther up the avenue and the gallery I work at is only two blocks from here. I shop at the little grocery right up the street... Anyway, all the couriers around here dress the same. Their vests are always zipped. This one wasn’t. Plus, they all wear black formfitting bike pants and specialty sports shoes, you know?”

Light began to dawn in Woods’s eyes. “Sports shoes,” he repeated. “With rubber soles.”

“Yes. I think this guy was wearing loafers. His feet made a sound just like yours did. He might have been in slacks, too, maybe tucked into dark socks. I can’t quite recall.”

“You still can’t remember anything about his face?”

“No.”

The detective sighed.

As she headed home, Kinsey used her cell to arrange backup for the gallery show. The time when she should have returned had come and gone, and once again, a sense of urgency propelled her toward her apartment. The door closing behind her gave a fleeting sense of security and the desire to sit in front of a fan and catch her breath almost overwhelmed her. Instead of giving in to it, she took a hurried shower, pulled on a black dress, pinned up her damp hair and returned to the gallery.

The opening party was in full swing by the time Kinsey found a parking spot and walked through the door. Her boss, Marc Costello, caught her eye and gestured for her to join him. Together, they moved to a private alcove, greeting guests before bending their heads to speak.

“I heard about what happened out on the street,” Marc said. He was about fifty with a shock of silver hair and looked the part of a gallery owner right down to his black turtleneck worn under a stylish black silk jacket. Not exactly summery New Orleans attire, but that wasn’t what he was interested in anyway. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

“I have to tell you something. Right about the time of that accident, your boyfriend, Ryan Jones, was in here. He was asking a whole lot of questions.”

Kinsey instantly conjured an image of Ryan: curly blond hair, bittersweet-chocolate eyes, a nice smile. She’d met him several weeks earlier when he came into the gallery to buy a painting for his office and wound up taking Kinsey to dinner instead. Since then, she saw him whenever his New York engineering firm sent him to New Orleans to work on a levee project they’d contracted. “What kind of questions?” she asked.

“Stuff about your background, where you’d grown up, things like that.”

Kinsey’s brow wrinkled. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. You haven’t exactly told me a whole lot, you know. I just said something about what a hard worker you are. He said he knew that. Then he started asking questions about your family, specifically, your mother.”

Kinsey swallowed hard. “My mother? What did he want to know?”

“Let’s see. How old she was and how long had she lived here and where exactly did she live and work...stuff like that. I told him the truth, that I’d never met her, that she was kind of a recluse. He left a few minutes later after getting a phone call.”

“That’s...odd,” Kinsey said. She’d spent years looking after her mother who at times was a social misfit. The thought of a friend asking questions behind her back—well, it was disquieting.

“I thought so, too. That’s why I’m telling you.” He took a deep breath and added, “On top of that, I’m afraid we have a more immediate problem than a snoopy boyfriend.”

“Don’t keep calling him my boyfriend,” she protested. “We haven’t known each other that long and he’s only in town—”

Marc held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know what I mean. Our star artist is holed up in the ladies’ room.”

Still reeling over news that Ryan had been asking about her family, Kinsey shook her head. “How long has she been in there?”

“Forever. Someone from the newspaper showed up and wanted an interview and she refused. Turned all shy, refused to have her picture taken or anything. Thank goodness you’re here. She’s supposed to say something meaningful about her muse in five minutes. Remind her that’s why I’m doing this show, to sell her work, not be her therapist.”

“I know, Marc. I’ll get her back out here.”

“Tell her the newspaper guy left.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. I tried to get him to stay, but art shows aren’t exactly a huge draw, even when the paintings are as good as these.”

The opening seemed to be well attended, for which Kinsey was thankful. She’d sent out over a hundred invitations and it looked as if about half had decided to come, packing the narrow, trendy space with well-dressed people sipping wine. Of course, it was a heck of a lot cooler in the gallery than it was outside, so maybe that helped account for some of the attendees.

As she moved through the room, greeting people as she went, she noticed several discreet sold signs. That should make Marc happy.

Once inside the ladies “lounge,” Kinsey found Ellen Rhodes sitting forlornly on a velvet bench, staring at her hands.

“Congratulations, you’re a hit,” Kinsey said with a giant smile.

Ellen looked up with nervous blue eyes. “I can’t do this. I don’t like all these people looking at my work.”

“Isn’t that the point of a show?” Kinsey asked gently.

“I didn’t know it would be like this. So many people...”

“You’ve already sold several paintings,” Kinsey said. “You’re a hit.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Listen, I get it, you’re not into the publicity side of things, you’re not a media hound. But Marc has a lot at stake here. He believes in your work or he wouldn’t have offered you this show. Most artists work for recognition, you know. Buck up, now.”

“You sound like my mother,” Ellen said, but at least there was a little snap in her voice.

“That’s because I’m channeling my own,” Kinsey said. “I’ve heard versions of this speech my whole life.” Like when she’d come home from a school she’d only attended a month to find her mother packing...again. No matter how much Kinsey pleaded to stay in one place, they inevitably moved on. When Mom got it in her head it was time to go, they went. Period.

Until a few years ago, that is. As soon as Kinsey had announced her independence and settled down in New Orleans, her mother had followed suit. She now took care of a sickly elderly man who had once been wealthy but was no longer, and she seemed almost content.

“Is that newspaper guy still out there?”

“No. Marc gave him an interview and he left.” Kinsey’s cell phone rang and she slipped it out of her pocket, answering hesitantly when she didn’t recognize the number. She listened for a minute or so before responding in a soft voice.

“Is everything okay?” Ellen asked as Kinsey pushed the end-call button.

Kinsey dropped her phone into her evening bag. “Huh? Oh, yes. And no.” She made a decision and added, “I’m really sorry, but I have to leave.”

“You can’t,” Ellen squealed.

“I have to. That was the police.”

“The police!”

“They want my help with an accident victim. I have to go to the hospital right away.”

Ellen started to protest, but Kinsey hustled her back into the main gallery and steered her toward Marc, who couldn’t hide the look of relief that flooded his face.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked Ellen.

“I was until Kinsey said she’s leaving.”

Marc’s smile drooped as he turned his attention to Kinsey. “You can’t leave. You just got here.”

“I’m sorry, but the man who was hit earlier this evening is conscious and the police asked me to come see him.”

“Why you?”

“They didn’t say.”

“But you don’t even know him!”

“I know,” Kinsey agreed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called as she raced outside, car keys in hand.

A half hour later, she stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor of the hospital. She immediately spotted Detective Woods standing at the end of a short corridor as though waiting for her.

“I can see I took you away from something special,” he said with an appraising glance at her dress. He himself wore the same light blue sports jacket he’d worn earlier.

“I was at a work-related event,” she explained.

“Well, it was good of you to take time out for this. We appreciate it.”

“I don’t know what I can possibly do to help,” she said. “Is he in this room?”

The detective glanced at the door in front of them. “Yes, but I’d like to speak to you for a moment before we go in. Can I get you a cup of coffee or a glass of ice water?”

“No, thanks.”

The hospital had placed two chairs by the window at the end of the corridor and he gestured for her to sit. “First of all,” he began as they settled into the chairs, “you were right. The cyclist you and the others saw wasn’t a messenger for Speedy Courier. The real one claims he’d just finished a delivery and was stooping to unlock his bike when someone bashed him over the head. He’d left his helmet looped over the handlebars while he made the delivery. Anyway, when he came to, he found his bike, helmet and vest were missing. He has no idea who did it. He showed up back at the Speedy office to report it about the same time we showed up asking questions.”

“So the guy we saw was a phony,” Kinsey said.

“Yep. We’re retracing the real messenger’s trail to see if anyone he made deliveries to noticed anything peculiar. By the way, he’s a very thin, small young man. I imagine the thief couldn’t get the zipper up on the vest and that’s why it was open. Oh, and the phone video showed just what you surmised. The guy was wearing slacks and loafers.”

“The real messenger is okay?”

“He’s got a bump, but he’s fine.”

“And how about the little girl the cowboy saved? Is she all right?”

“Released an hour or so ago. The woman with her and her sister was the new au pair. I think she was more traumatized than the kids. By cowboy, are you referring to our John Doe?”

“That’s how I thought of him,” she said, nodding toward the room. “Because of the hat and everything. Wait a second, John Doe? You don’t know who he is?”

“No.”

“But his wallet—”

“Is missing. We think the cyclist must have taken it. And before you ask, no cell phone, just a key chain with six keys on it.”

Was that what the cyclist had been doing while everyone thought he was trying to help? Stealing the cowboy’s identity? It had to be. She racked her brain for an image of him pocketing something and came up blank, but he’d had his back to her and that bright vest flapping around him. “Did the taxi driver see anything?” she asked.

“He claims just about everyone on the ground was out of his line of sight. I had someone check that out and he’s telling the truth, they were too close to the front of the cab for the driver to see what was going on.”

“Wait a second,” Kinsey said as she finally made sense of what the detective had said a couple of sentences earlier. “You said the cowboy is conscious. Can’t he just tell you his name?”

The detective shook his head. “He doesn’t remember who he is. In fact, he doesn’t remember anything. And we have no way of knowing if this condition is recent or ongoing because no one has come forward to ask for a missing man, let alone one fitting his description.”

Kinsey sat back on the chair a second. “If this amnesia just started because of the incident today, is there a chance it could go away by morning?”

“The doctors say it’s anyone’s guess. He could start remembering his identity in five minutes, five days or five years. Apparently lots of people with head injuries forget segments of their lives, usually just the few minutes preceding their accident. Anyway, chances are good someone who does know him will show up sooner rather than later. For now, we only have one lead.”

“And what’s that?” Kinsey asked.

“You.”

Kinsey perked up immediately. “Me? What are you talking about?”

“Your name was written on a piece of paper we found in his pocket. Can you think of a reason for that?”

“None,” she said.

“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”

“Pretty sure,” Kinsey said. “I guess it’s possible I ran into him sometime in the past. I’ve lived in a fair number of cities all across the country.” Even as she spoke, she found herself doubting it could be true. John Doe, for lack of a real name, was an arresting-looking man. Would she have forgotten someone who appealed to her on such a gut level?

Woods sighed as he got to his feet. “Would you come with me to meet the guy? Maybe it will jar a memory if you hear his voice.”

“Of course,” Kinsey said, ignoring the pounding of her heart. She had no idea why she felt so nervous. Sweaty palms defied the hospital’s efficient air-conditioning system.

Suppressing a shiver, she followed Woods into the room.

Chapter Two

Despite his throbbing head, he fell into a black-and-white world of disjointed collages. It was a relief when a noise shook him out of the nothingness of his dreamworld. Even as he gingerly rubbed his eyes, he recognized the sound the door made when it opened and closed.

He looked up, expecting to see the cop who had asked him questions earlier or one of the doctors or nurses who were taking care of him. He did not expect to find himself staring into the velvety-brown eyes of a small woman wearing a formfitting black dress that revealed creamy smooth shoulders and a modest hint of cleavage.

He lifted his gaze back to the oval perfection of her face and hoped that he and she were longtime lovers, that she would run to him, throw her arms around him and whisper his name in his ear before planting her succulent red lips right on his. He wanted a name. He wanted an identity. He wanted his past, and maybe she was the key. If so, she made a heck of a sexy key and he was prepared to earn his memory back one succulent kiss at a time.

Her response to his gaze was a nervous twitch of her lips. He tried a reassuring smile, but that stretched the three stitches in his left cheek and he grimaced.

The woman did not look as though she loved him. Hell, she didn’t even look as though she knew him.

“You must be Kinsey Frost,” he said.

Now she just looked spooked. Her eyes grew wide. “Do you know me?”

“I don’t even know me,” he admitted. He nodded toward the cop standing behind her. “Detective Woods told me they found the name Kinsey Frost on a piece of paper. I just assumed you’re her.”

Some of the uneasiness fled from her face. “Oh, I see.”

“I’m hoping you have answers for me,” he added.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Today is the first time I ever saw you. I’m sure of it.” She narrowed her eyes as she looked him over and nodded. “You were walking ahead of me down the sidewalk and you caught my attention because of your hat. But I don’t know you.”

His hand flew to his head. “I was wearing a hat?” He directed his gaze to Woods. “Where is it?”

“It fell off when you tumbled into the street. A car going the other way nailed it.”

“What kind of hat?” he asked.

Kinsey supplied the answer. “A tan Stetson. It looked kind of new and very nice.”

He glanced down at his hands. He’d already noticed calluses and deeply tanned skin, along with old scars, on his knuckles. “Workingman hands,” he said softly. Not the hands of a teacher or a doctor. The hands of a man who got down and dirty on occasion, and instinctively, he knew at least that much about himself. He looked up at Woods. “And I was wearing cowboy boots. That’s what the nurse said.”

“That’s right,” Detective Woods concurred. “Plus, you don’t sound like you’re from around here. In fact, you don’t have much of an accent at all. We’re checking hotels to see if any of their customers are unaccounted for, but it’s questionable anything will come of it. There are thousands of rooms in this city. It’s unlikely anyone has missed you yet, unless you didn’t show up for an appointment or something. The big question is why you were carrying Ms. Frost’s name. What’s the link between you two?”

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question and you aren’t expecting an answer from me,” he said. He looked at Kinsey again. “It’s up to you.”

Her hand brushed his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you were carrying my name.”

“In addition to working at the gallery, you’re also an artist yourself, aren’t you?” Woods asked.

She turned to look at him. “Yes.”

“Could he have gotten your name from a third party in relation to your work?”

“I guess so. I’ve done several portraits for people in New Orleans since I moved here a couple of years ago.” She glanced back at him with a question in her eyes. “Maybe one of them gave you my name and you were trying to find the gallery to talk to me.”

“He was walking away from, not headed to, the gallery,” the detective pointed out with a frown.

“People sometimes have a hard time finding the place. It’s very narrow. Maybe he walked right past it.”

“We’ll question people on that street as time and manpower allow,” the detective said. “Including Marc Costello. But as you know, it’s a long one with several businesses and homes farther along...it’s going to take a while. I’d appreciate it if you would also make a list of the people you did work for so we can ask them if they might have given your name to the...victim.” The detective shook his head as he looked at the bed. “Sorry, I’m not sure what to call you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

The detective scanned his notebook briefly before directing a comment to Kinsey. “When I questioned you right after the incident, you said he was walking with determination, that he appeared preoccupied.”

Kinsey nodded thoughtfully.

“That doesn’t sound like he was searching for something to me.”

“I guess it doesn’t,” Kinsey agreed.

The detective opened a small manila envelope he pulled from a jacket pocket and shook out a set of keys.

“Those are the keys you showed me earlier,” he said. “The ones they found in my pocket.”

“Yes,” Woods said. “I wanted you to hold them, look at them, see if they jog a memory.” He pointed at the fob, a small disk decorated with a red tractor and the words Red Hot, St. George, Utah. “We checked on that, by the way.”

“It sounds like a strip club,” he said.

The detective laughed. “Yeah, that’s what we thought, too. What it really is, though, is a nickname for a small tractor. We found the dealership that carries it, name of Travers’s Tractors. They’re not missing anyone, but we did fax the police there your photo. They showed it to the staff at the dealership...didn’t get any hits, but a couple of people are on vacation, so they’ll try again in a few days. They also have a couple of other stores in their chain and they said they’d ask around and get back to me, but we’re also contacting them. Keep in mind that sooner or later someone will wonder what happened to you and report it to the police.” His phone rang and he stepped away from the bed to answer it.

Kinsey gestured at all the machines. “Are your other injuries serious?”

“Not as bad as they could have been,” he replied, glancing at each key in turn.

“Were you out long?”

“I woke up in the ambulance.”

“And you didn’t know who you were? That must have been terrifying.”

He ran his fingers over the tractor logo and shook his head before meeting her velvety gaze again. “It wasn’t like that. What I was aware of was that I didn’t know where I was or what had happened to me. There was an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and my head hurt. I felt confused. I guess there are just certain instances when you decide to wait it out and see what happens. I mean, I could hear the siren, there was a guy sitting next to me who smiled and I was obviously being cared for. That was enough. At first.”

“So you have a concussion?”

“And apparently a hard head, too. There’s bruising and scrapes, a few stitches, stuff like that, but no broken bones, just this fog where my brain used to be. Thank goodness the taxi didn’t hit me or the child I had in my arms.”

“The child you saved,” Kinsey said.

He smiled, ignoring the stress on the stitches. He liked the way her voice softened as she spoke, the look in her eyes as she met his gaze. “Anyway, the doctors said I was lucky.” He paused for a second. Truth was, he didn’t feel real lucky right that moment. He’d gladly exchange a broken arm for the return of his memory. “Thanks for trying to help,” he added. His gaze followed a few strands of dark hair that had pulled loose from the pins atop her head and trailed down along her cheeks, brushing her collarbone, framing her face. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a dream, and he had another gut feeling about himself. He was a sucker for brunettes with red lips. “You were at a party or something, right?”

Her smile lit up her eyes. “The dress gave it away, huh?”

“More or less.”

“We were hosting an opening show for a local artist at the gallery,” she said. After a slight pause, she added, “I wish I knew what to call you. John Doe seems kind of impersonal.”

“You’re artistic,” he said. “Give me a name, something that you think fits.”

She narrowed her eyes as she studied his features. Then she smiled. “My father died before I was born, but my mother told me that he read constantly and what he liked best were Westerns. She said his favorite author was a guy named Zane Grey. How about we call you Zane?”

“Zane,” he murmured. “I like it. Okay, thanks.”

She nodded as the detective returned. It was obvious he’d overheard some of their conversation when he raised his eyebrows and said, “Zane?”

“My new alias.”

“It fits you,” the detective said. “Well, Zane, we’ve found the bike the fake courier used abandoned in a hallway of an old building due for demolition. I’m going to go check it out. The doctors want to keep you here for several days.”

“Who’s going to pay for that?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t think I can handle being cooped up in this place for long,” Zane admitted. “I think I may be an outdoor type of guy.”

Woods narrowed his eyes. “Try to remember that someone took a huge risk today to steal your wallet and probably a cell phone. He pushed you into traffic in front of a crowd of onlookers. It could have just as easily wound up with him in the street as it did you and the child. That underscores this person’s recklessness.”

“I wonder what was worth such a risk,” Zane mused.

“We may never know.”

“Did the video help you identify the man who attacked Zane?” Kinsey asked.

The detective shook his head. “He never turned around and looked at anyone.” He glanced at Zane again. “Listen, you’re safe here. And if you remember anything at all, call me. I left my card on the table by your phone.”

Zane had been holding the keys, turning them over and over in his fingers. The detective nodded at them. “Are they bringing back any memories?”

“No,” Zane admitted. “Afraid not.” He started to hand them back, but the detective held up a hand. “No, that’s okay. We made copies, you hold on to those. The doctor said something familiar might jog your memory, and those keys are about all we can offer. That and what’s left of your clothes in the cabinet over there.”

“The keys are easier to hold,” Zane said.

“Exactly.” Woods nodded his goodbye to Kinsey and hurried from the room.

Kinsey took a deep breath. “I guess I’d better go, too. It was nice to meet you, Zane.”

“Do you have to leave?” he asked. Then he smiled. “Of course you do. You have to get back to work.”

“I could stay for a few minutes,” she told him.

A panicky knot in his gut followed a moment of pleasure. What in the world did they have to say to each other? He couldn’t talk about himself, he couldn’t talk about places he’d visited or things he’d seen because he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure.

She leaned one hip against the bed and looked at him expectantly.

“So, you noticed me because of my hat,” he said when no other topic sprang to mind.

That’s right,” she said.

“But we didn’t exchange a word?”

“Not one.”

“Did I notice you?”

She looked almost embarrassed. “Kind of. I mean, our eyes did meet one time and you smiled at me.”

“I bet I did,” he said.

“And then everything started to happen.”

“Yeah, the detective told me. Listen, be honest,” he added, straightening up and trying to appear dignified. He was finding out that hospital beds weren’t designed to make a man look virile and strong, and for some reason, that’s how he wanted to look for her. “Did I appear to be a cowboy, you know, a real wrangler type, or did I look like someone who wanted to be a cowboy?”

“You mean, did you look like the real deal or a poser?”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding.

She thought for a second. Even doing nothing but thinking looked good on her and it gave him a chance to admire the sweet curve of her lips and the shape of her earlobe.

“Well?” he prompted.

“This is just an impression, you understand. Your clothes looked expensive and new, but you wore them like you’d been born in them. To me, you looked like a guy who was on a mission.”

He thought about that for a minute. “Do I look like the kind of guy who asks you to paint his portrait?”

“Not really, though everyone is different. Anyway, maybe it’s not your own portrait you wanted painted. Maybe it was someone in your family. Your wife or your kids.”

He held up his left hand. “No ring, no white line where one has been.”

“Lots of hardworking guys don’t wear rings,” she told him. “Maybe you work with big equipment, like at a mill or something. And if you have a wife, she must be wondering where you are.”

“One would hope,” he said, and they stared at each other for a few seconds, the silence broken when the door opened and a petite blonde nurse bustled into the room.

“Time for our meds,” she chirped.

Kinsey straightened up. “I’d better go,” she said.

Zane heard a note of relief in her voice. How could he blame her? He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks again, Kinsey.”

She stared at their linked hands for a second before raising her gaze to his face. “When your memory returns, let me know, okay?” She took a pen from her purse and scrawled her phone number on the back of the detective’s card.

“If you’re in this neck of the woods tomorrow, drop in and say hi,” he told her as she handed him the card. “For all intents and purposes, you’re the only friend I have.” He winced and shook his head. “Did that sound pathetic enough?”

“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, her dark eyes soft, her voice barely a whisper.

The nurse handed Zane a small paper sleeve with a pill nestled inside. She picked up his water glass, shook it until the ice inside rattled. “I’ll go get you more water. Back in a sec.” As the door closed behind her, Kinsey spared Zane one last smile and then she was gone, too.

He laid his head back against the pillow and studied the pill. He hoped this was the one that would help him sleep and he welcomed the prospect. Maybe tomorrow he’d wake up a new man...or rather the man he used to be.

But before he took that pill, he was determined to get on his feet and walk. Something inside urged him to remain strong and vigilant. He hoped the nurse didn’t give him any flak.

* * *

AS KINSEY WALKED to the parking garage, she dug her cell phone from her purse. She’d silenced it when she arrived at the hospital and now she turned the sound back on.

As expected, there were several calls from Marc. Not expected were the three from her mother. Marc’s messages were all the same: come back to the gallery! Her mother left no messages. And there wasn’t one from Ryan, either, who always called when he got into town. The absence of that call coupled with his earlier questions made Kinsey nervous, but why? There was probably a harmless explanation, and she intended on finding out what it was. She called Ryan’s cell number and left a message when the phone switched immediately to voice mail.

By now the show at the gallery was over. The crew engaged to clean up after the gala would be hard at work. Kinsey called her boss, half wondering if he’d fire her on the spot.

“It all turned out okay,” Marc said. In the background, Kinsey heard voices and the tinkling of glass. It sounded as if Marc had gone out to eat after the show. “We sold eight of her paintings. Everyone loved her once she lightened up.”

“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Kinsey said as she unlocked her car door.

“Couldn’t be helped,” Marc said. His voice was muffled, as though he had covered the phone to speak to someone else, and she waited a second or two before he got back to her. “Listen, it’s time to order and I’m starving. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Food. When had she last eaten, lunchtime? Her stomach growled.

She contemplated calling her mother and decided against it. There was one phone in the old house. Her mother was and always had been something of a night owl, but the man she took care of would be asleep by now and Kinsey didn’t want to wake him.

Those three calls were worrisome, though. Had Ryan somehow found out where she lived and, heaven forbid, had he visited her?

That would not do. If there was one thing Kinsey knew, it was her mom didn’t like strangers. Frances Frost was obligated now to Mr. Dodge, but the poor old guy couldn’t live forever. Sooner or later, she’d be free to wander off again and perhaps if pushed, would do so sooner rather than later.

Three calls meant something had gotten to her. Kinsey knew she’d never be able to sleep if she didn’t see her mom in the flesh and make sure everything was okay. At the last second, she stopped at the small grocery located about midway between the Dodge house and the art gallery to pick up something—anything—to eat. She was met at the door by the Chinese owner, Henry Lee, who was getting ready to turn the open sign to closed.

“Can I grab something really quick?” she asked. “I’m famished.”

“Sure,” he said, allowing her to enter though turning the sign to discourage further patrons.

Kinsey grabbed a premade po’boy sandwich and a bottle of iced tea. A basket on the counter held bananas and apples and she added one of each.

“I heard the show was a good one,” Mr. Lee said as he totaled her purchases.

“I didn’t get to attend much of it,” Kinsey admitted as she handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “You heard about the accident down the street?”

“I heard one of those courier guys went berserk and drove into a crowd of people,” Mr. Lee said as he counted out Kinsey’s change. “I can’t tell you how many times one has come close to clipping me.”

Kinsey gave Mr. Lee an abbreviated rundown of what had really happened, causing the man’s faint eyebrows to arch in surprise. But then his forehead wrinkled. “Did you say the victim wore a cowboy hat?”

“Yes, a tan Stetson. Why?”

Mr. Lee swore under his breath. “I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. A man was in the store earlier today. A cowboy. I swear, he stood right where you are asking questions about someone named Smith. Mary Smith. I think that was the name. Maybe it was Sherry. Anyway, I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name. Then he asked about Mr. Dodge’s housekeeper.”

“By name?”

“No. He called her a housekeeper.”

“What did you tell him?” Kinsey asked, trying to remain unflappable. She wasn’t sure Henry Lee knew she was even related to the Dodge housekeeper.

“I didn’t tell him anything. You have to understand that back in the day, Bill Dodge used his money to do a lot of good in this neighborhood for people like me. You’d have a hard time meeting a kinder man, and I wouldn’t send trouble his way for anything. He deserves to live out his life in peace, and as far as I’m concerned, that housekeeper of his allows that to happen. Without her to shoo people away, that worthless nephew of his would walk off with half the house. Anyway, the cowboy guy asked a couple of questions. He was holding up the line in back of him and people were getting restless. He asked about other contacts he could talk to. I recalled seeing you and the housekeeper chatting with each other one day—it’s the only time I ever saw that woman talk to anyone in here—so I wrote your name on a piece of paper and said you might know something. Frankly, I was trying to get rid of him. He got busy on his cell phone, I suppose looking you up, then he left. That’s it.”

“Did you indicate my connection to the gallery?”

“No. I just gave him your name and told him to phone you. You have to understand, it was really crowded in here. I didn’t have time to be answering questions, especially when the Gastner sisters started arguing about which one of them got the last box of beignet mix. Half my customers walked out. I completely forgot about the man until right now.”

“Did he mention any facts about himself? You know, like where he was from or his name, anything at all?”

“No. I don’t think so. I was kind of distracted.”

“You need to tell the police about this,” Kinsey said. “Ask to speak to Detective Woods.”

“I will.”

“It could be important,” she added. At least she wouldn’t have to make a list of her former clients now that this issue would be cleared up. “But maybe you could leave Mr. Dodge and his housekeeper out of it.”

“Gotcha,” he said with a nod. “I was going to do that anyway because I don’t want to trouble Bill.”

She left a few minutes later, her head swimming with all that had happened today and what it could possibly mean. Back in her car, she unwrapped the po’boy and took a bite. Was it possible Zane and Ryan were somehow connected, or was it coincidence that two men had asked questions about her mom on the same day and that one wasn’t responding to her calls and the other had come close to being killed?

Surely Ryan would realize Marc would report his questions to Kinsey. She was tempted to think it was out of character for Ryan to go behind her back, but truth be known, she wasn’t sure exactly what kind of character he had. He’d come on pretty strong, but now that she really thought of it, he hadn’t shared much about himself. She knew he was working on a levee project, but she didn’t know which one.

Seamlessly, she shifted gears to think about the man she’d given the name Zane, but for a second, she couldn’t get past his blue eyes. Paul Newman eyes, with the same frank evaluation going on behind them. It was pretty obvious now that he hadn’t wanted Kinsey to paint his portrait because he hadn’t asked Mr. Lee directly about her.

On the other hand, she knew just how she’d like to capture him if she did have the opportunity. The sexy twinkle of his eyes, the slight cleft in his chin, his cheekbones and lips. She’d pose him straight on, his rock-hard torso and broad shoulders encased in a trim T-shirt to reveal his muscular arms, head slightly bent forward, thinking about horses or tractors or engines or whatever it was a guy like him thought about when he contemplated life.

Like his wife? Like his girlfriend of thirteen years? How about his six kids?

Hey, this was a fantasy. She could give him any life she wanted because it was doubtful she’d ever see him again.

In fairness to both of them, he’d also exhibited traces of humor that appealed to her, and she hadn’t missed the speculative nature of his perusal of her. She knew he was brave and selfless because of the lightning-fast way he’d stepped in to save the little girl, and she knew he was resilient because of how quickly he was attempting to put this behind him and move on. How horrible it must be for a man of action to be frozen in one place and in one moment. It must be like walking out of a warm, cozy room into a blizzard and having the door slam and lock behind you.

Bill Dodge’s house was an old Victorian painted a ghastly purple that Kinsey imagined had actually improved as the sun faded the color and the trees matured and concealed the full impact of all that paint. The roofs were steep and Kinsey knew the top floor and attic were seldom used anymore. At eighty years and ailing, Mr. Dodge was too feeble to climb the stairs and slept in a downstairs room that had once been his den. Her mother slept in the housekeeper’s room located behind the kitchen. The arrangement seemed to work for both of them.

Kinsey climbed the stairs onto what had once been a beautiful wraparound deck, screened in for summer sleeping when the house was too hot. The screens were torn now and the deck was wobbly. The neighborhood was still good, and while this house had probably once upon a time been a showpiece, now it was like the poor, shabby relation. In some ways, the house reminded Kinsey of an elegant woman who slept on a park bench—still lovely, but rumpled, worn, tired.

At least there was a slight breeze blowing now, making the air bearable. Kinsey wished she’d gone home first to change out of her cocktail dress into shorts because she’d known the downstairs of this house could get stifling. Hopefully, she’d be out of here and on her way home in a few minutes. The day seemed to have lasted a week and she was tired.

Before she announced her presence, she took a deep breath. Dealing with her mom was never easy, and doing so when something had prompted her to call three times suggested trouble.

As Kinsey raised her hand to knock, the door flew open.

Chapter Three

Zane. The name was growing on him, settling into the creases of his very empty brain.

Kinsey Frost’s face flashed in his mind and he suspected there was a silly grin on his face as he reconstructed her. She was so darn pretty. There was something else about her, too, something kind of sweet and innocent. Or maybe his response had more to do with the fact hers was the only face he could conjure that wasn’t related to people employed to take care of him. She’d come to help out of kindness and perhaps curiosity, which was totally understandable, considering they were strangers.

But, brother, she’d looked hot in that dress with her ruby lips and wavy hair....

Was she attached to someone else? For that matter, was he? On one hand, if he had a wife, hopefully she’d expect him to return to her and come looking for him when he didn’t. The flip side was this pull toward Kinsey. If he had his phone he could do an online search of her name and find out more about her. Frustrated and bored, he went the old-fashioned route and found a phone book in the drawer by the bed. He just wanted to see her name, just to reassure himself he hadn’t made her up. There was a map in the front of the book and he found her street, Hummingbird Drive, curious as to how far away she was. Not more than two or three miles, he discovered, and for some reason, that created a warmth in his heart where it had only been cold before.

Hummingbird Drive. That’s where a woman like her should live, he decided. Someplace that sounded as small and lovely and vibrant as she was.

Feeling way too restless to stay in bed, he’d pushed his IV stand around the looping corridors right after Kinsey left and then again after dinner when the sedative they gave him had little effect. He was supposed to spend a week here? The idea made him crazy. But if things didn’t change, where exactly did he go next?

He finally decided to give sleep another chance and settled back into the bed, but the oblivion he’d so looked forward to continued to elude him. Eventually, the hospital began quieting down. A nurse gave him another pill, and it was with relief when he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He stirred sometime later, awoken by the telltale swishing of the door that alerted him someone had entered his room.

He lay there for a second, expecting a cheery voice to announce it was time to check his blood pressure or take his temperature, but the room was eerily silent and the shadows too deep to make out a human shape.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

The silence remained and Zane realized he must have woken up as someone left his room. Maybe a nurse had come in to take his vitals and found him sleeping soundly. Either that, or his drugged brain had created the noise.

Settling back against his pillow, he soon fell asleep again. This time he actually had a dream with substance. A wolf chased him through tall, golden grass. He panted from the effort to escape merciless fangs. And then suddenly, he was hanging from a tree, a noose around his neck. The tree was big and black with sprawling branches that scratched at the underbelly of the clouds. Its roots spread below him like an old man’s hands clinging to the cracked earth. His neck hurt. He reached up to yank the rope away. He couldn’t breathe.

His eyes finally opened but the nightmare didn’t stop. A man stood over his bed, two big hands around Zane’s neck. The pressure increased as the man pressed down harder and harder, grunting with the effort to strangle Zane who, between blankets and tubes, couldn’t move. And he couldn’t budge those merciless hands from their deadly grip, thumbs pressing into his windpipe.

The light suddenly went on. “Hey! What’s going on?” a female voice yelled.

The hands instantly released Zane, who grabbed at his throat and gasped for air. He caught a glimpse of a man with shaggy white hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a bushy white mustache. The guy instantly turned toward the woman and pushed her hard. She went down amid a clatter of trays and equipment and the man disappeared out of the room.

Zane finally untangled himself and got out of bed. The nurse who had been knocked down struggled to sit up. He bent to help her just as an orderly arrived. “What are you doing to her?” the orderly demanded, trying to loosen Zane’s grip on the nurse’s arm.

“Tom, don’t be silly, he’s trying to help me,” the nurse said as she finally got to her feet. She was a solidly built middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense approach. Her forehead was bleeding, but she paid it no attention. Fury raged in her eyes, but her expression changed to one of horror as she looked at Zane’s throat. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “That man was trying to choke you.” She directed her next comment to the orderly. “Don’t just stand there, Tom. Alert Security. Have them call the police.”

The orderly took off back down the hall.

“The man who attacked you looked like Mark Twain,” the nurse said as she blotted her forehead with a cloth. Her gaze dipped to Zane’s neck again. You’d better get back into bed.”

Zane shook his head and wished he hadn’t when the room spun. “I think I’ll sit for a while. I’m not anxious to lie down again.”

“The stitches on your face look red. I’m calling the doctor right now.”

“Please, I’m fine.”

She pushed the intercom button that hung around her neck, speaking into the unit, asking for the doctor who showed up quickly and checked Zane over. He seemed to be about Zane’s age, with fine blond hair and a boyish smile. He was the same doctor who’d checked on him earlier.

“Y’all are having yourself a heck of a day,” the doctor said in a rich Southern drawl.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I’ll stick a bandage on those stitches, just for the night. I don’t think it needs to be redone. Open your mouth now, let’s take a peek at your throat.”

Zane did as ordered. He’d noticed his voice was deeper than it had been and his throat felt raw. “I’ll prescribe some soothing spray,” the doctor said. “Not much else we can do unless you want us to up the pain medication for a while.”

“No,” Zane said. “Thanks, anyway.”

The doctor chuckled. “I took a look at all your X-rays. You have a fair number of healed breaks. Seems like you might lead quite an active life in some capacity. But you apparently mend well, so I suppose a little bitty concussion and a torn ligament or two won’t be much of an obstacle to you.”

The doctor left soon after. The nurse had yet to go tend to her own cut and hovered close by, obviously distressed that something like this had happened on her watch.

“I’ll get your meds,” she said at last.

“No, thanks. I don’t want any more medicine.”

“Did you know the man who tried to choke you?” she asked.

He gave her a look and she shook her head. “Sorry. I’m kind of rattled. For a second I forgot about the amnesia.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Detective Woods himself showed up a little later. He listened with narrowed eyes as Zane and the nurse related what they’d seen.

“Was he apprehended?” Zane asked at last.

“No one saw anyone who even vaguely resembled the man you two have described,” Woods said. “We’ll take a look at hospital video...” His voice trailed off as a security guard entered the room. He carried what looked like a white mop head in his hands.

“We found this on the second floor, stuffed in a trash can,” he said, and Zane realized they were staring at a wig. “We also found one of them novelty masks, you know, the kind with the bushy eyebrows and glasses and a mustache. I put it in a paper bag for you.” He now raised the bag proudly.

Woods snatched the bag away. “Next time just leave things where you find them and let us take care of it,” he said. “I’ll get someone to go check out that can, meanwhile, please make sure no one else touches it. And put the wig in another sack. I’ll need to print you.”

“I guess that explains the Mark Twain vibe,” the nurse said as the guard left.

“And how he was able to leave the hospital without being noticed,” Woods added.

The nurse, sporting a bandage on her forehead, insisted Zane climb back into bed. He met her gaze directly. “No,” he said.

“You’ve had a traumatic event. I know the doctor said you’ll be all right, but it’s time for another sleeping tablet and you need to be in bed to take it.”

“No more medicine,” Zane said. He knew he was drawing a line in the sand but he’d had it.

“Really, sir.”

“No, listen,” Zane said. “You undoubtedly saved my life tonight. I’m very grateful to you and I promise to be a good patient starting tomorrow, but for right now, I need time to sit and digest everything that’s happened and I don’t want to be bothered by anything or anyone. I’m fine, the doctor said so. Go coddle someone who needs it, okay? Please?”

She produced a reluctant smile. “I’ll check on you in a while.”

He just nodded.

Woods shook his head as the swishing door behind the nurse sent chills racing down Zane’s spine. His gaze dipped to Zane’s neck and back to his face. “How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, a little confused, a little scared, to tell you the truth,” Zane admitted. “And mad.”

“I’m going to arrange to have Security post someone on your door. You’ll be safe here.”

Zane had heard that before. He gave a vague nod and waited until Woods had left the room, deep in thought but with a growing sense of conviction.

He knew what he had to do.

The closet Woods indicated earlier did indeed hold what was left of his clothing: two black boots, size eleven. That was it. Zane didn’t know if his other clothes had been destroyed when he fell or confiscated by the police to search for fingerprints or some indication of the man who had attacked him on the street and stolen his identity, phone, what have you. He stuck the boots on right over the socks the hospital issued. After grabbing Woods’s card and his own keys off his tray table, he opened the outside door.

The hall was clear except for a nurse engrossed in entering data into a computer mounted against the wall. Her back was to him. As quietly as he could, he pushed his IV stand the opposite direction, ignoring stiff, aching muscles and a headache he suspected would fell an ox. He’d seen a break room on one of his loops around the hospital floor and he made for that now.

His luck held. The room sported a table and chairs, a coffeemaker, fridge and microwave, but no people. He easily removed the IV from his arm and abandoned the stand in a corner. He found a pair of scrubs hanging on a hook and hastily put them on, adding a white lab coat that someone had left draped over the back of a chair. His keys and Woods’s card went into the pocket. The hall was still empty. He knew the elevators were right across from the nurses’ station so he used the stairwell, undoubtedly following the same path the man who had tried to choke him had taken an hour or two earlier. When he opened the door on the lobby floor, he half expected to find a security guard waiting for him, but the cavernous space was almost empty. A second later, he said good-night to the guard on duty at the exit and walked purposefully away from the hospital as though he did so every night of his life.

Was he really leaving without telling a soul where he was going? Was this what an innocent man did after a murder attempt?

What else was he supposed to do? Docilely lay back in his bed until his room was surrounded with police and security guards and he might as well tuck himself away in a jail cell?

No way. Depending on other people didn’t sit well with him, not when the stakes were high and not when another gut feeling told him he knew how to take care of himself. It would be tricky defending himself against an unknown foe. Reason said that tonight was the culmination of something ongoing. He had no recollection of where he’d been or what he’d been doing. The killer would be back unless Zane managed to disappear until his memory returned, and that’s just what he planned to do.

But where does a man without a penny, without an identity, without a friend in the world, actually go?

The keys jingled in his pocket as he walked and he took them out as he passed beneath a streetlight. Red Hot. A tractor dealership in Utah. Apparently no one had recognized his photograph. But maybe seeing a living breathing human being would be different.

If he remembered his geography, Utah was about four states away from New Orleans. A couple of thousand miles or so. It would take days to hitchhike there.

Well, it wasn’t as though he had anything else to do, was it? He kept walking.

* * *

KINSEY STOOD ON the front porch of the house facing her mother, Frances. The abrupt door opening had caused her to stumble backward in her heels, and now she held on to a flaking post to steady her nerves.

What a day.

“Where have you been all night?” Frances demanded. “I called three times. Why are you all dressed up?”

Kinsey knew she and her mom shared certain similarities in appearance. Both were on the petite side, though Kinsey was a couple of inches taller, both curvy, both with deep brown eyes. Kinsey’s hair was her natural shade of dark brown while Frances had dyed her hair her entire life. Currently reddish-brown, silver roots showed in the center part. Over sixty now, the years had started to show in the lines on her face and the sag in her shoulders. Kinsey had never understood why her mother settled for backbreaking, low-paying employment as she was well read and intelligent. Frances had stressed that no job was more or less noble than another.

Where they differed was internal: Kinsey open and curious, Frances suspicious and very much a mind-your-own-business woman. Kinsey artistic, sketching her way through life, as proficient at mixing paints as her mother was at whipping up pancake batter.

“We had a show,” Kinsey said, deciding on the spot to skip the details about the bicycle and the cowboy. “Let’s go inside.”

“We better not,” Frances said, softly closing the door behind her. She and Kinsey were now almost lost in shadows. Just a sliver of moonlight and the light filtering through a nearby window helped them see each other. “Bill is finally asleep,” she added. “He’s had a tough day and I don’t want to chance waking him and get him coughing again.”

“Were you waiting for me? I almost had a heart attack when the door opened like that.”

“I was afraid you were him,” Frances said, glancing behind Kinsey as though expecting someone else to materialize. Kinsey actually looked over her shoulder, but there was no one there that she could see. On the other hand, she couldn’t see much.

“Him who?” she asked, her mind leaping straight to Ryan. Had he said or done something upsetting? What? What could he possibly say or do? “What’s going on?”

“It’s Bill’s nephew, Chad. Bill got a note from him saying that he was coming today or tomorrow. I’ve been on edge ever since reading it. Bill doesn’t want him here.”

“Oh, dear,” Kinsey commiserated. She knew her mom didn’t get along with Chad. “Can you call him and tell him that?”

“Neither Bill nor I know his phone number. I don’t think he wants anyone to know how to reach him. That way, he can call all the shots. The last time he came, he accused me of stealing Bill’s coin collection. He prowls around here making demands.”

“Like what?”

“He wants me to show him all the things he remembers his uncle used to have, things like those coins and stamps and heaven knows what. And when he isn’t taking inventory, he’s eating, and guess who he expects to do all the cooking?”

“What can I do to help you?” Kinsey asked. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a darn thing.

Frances took a deep breath. “When I couldn’t reach you, I called James Fenwick.”

“Mr. Dodge’s attorney?”

“Yes. You’ve met him.”

“Guy about fifty, kind of stuffy?”

“I wouldn’t describe him that way,” Frances said. “He’s been very kind to Bill. Lately he’s been helping him go through his collection of books.”

Kinsey could easily picture the room Mr. Dodge used as a bedroom. Every wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves and each of those housed a wide array of books. She felt bad that she’d been less than flattering in her description of James Fenwick and now she mumbled, “That’s very nice of him.”

“Yes, it is. He’s one of the few considerate people left on the planet. Anyway, Mr. Fenwick is out of town on business, but he’ll come straight here when he drives home tomorrow. He said he’ll leave before dawn.”

“Good. What if I come by before work just to make sure things are okay until he gets here? Would that help?”

“Yes. Thank you. I know how busy you are.”

“I wanted to ask you something, Mom,” Kinsey added. “Do you know a woman named Sherry or Mary Smith?”

Her mother shook her head. “No. Why?”

There was no way in the world that Kinsey was going to add more stress to her mother. She omitted the fact that people had been asking about Bill Dodge’s housekeeper—she’d tell her that tomorrow when the poor woman wasn’t so overwhelmed. “No reason. I just heard the name.”

Frances nodded. “Come early, okay? Bill is better in the morning and always enjoys your visits. And heaven forbid, you don’t want to run into Chad.”

Though Kinsey had never met Mr. Dodge’s nephew face-to-face, she did know his name was Chad Dodge. If her mother was any judge at all, Chad was a greedy, demanding man. Everyone knew he was set to inherit this house when Bill Dodge died, but apparently he wasn’t content to wait.

Fatigue dragged at Kinsey as she agreed to be back bright and early in the morning. Her feet in the stacked-heel sandals hurt like blazes, her hair drooped down her sticky neck. Frances stepped back to ease open the front door and listen intently, her profile vivid in the stream of light flowing from within the house. Though still attractive, the years were taking a toll and Kinsey glanced away.

“I hear Bill coughing,” Frances said. “I have to go.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Kinsey said. “Try not to worry too much.”

Her mother slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Kinsey heard the slide of the dead bolt. It was a relief to collapse back into her car, start the air conditioner and polish off the now-tepid iced tea.

Fifteen minutes later, it was an even greater relief to turn onto Hummingbird Drive, a charming name for a decidedly ordinary-looking road. She pulled into her parking spot behind the house and got out, juggling the apple and banana she hadn’t eaten yet, longing for the privacy of her own space in the apartment above the detached garage and the cool softness of her bed.

A voice from the shadows made her drop both pieces of fruit and she whirled around to find herself facing a large man. Even as she gasped, he moved into the light and she saw who it was.

With a hand on her chest, she blinked unbelieving eyes. “Zane?”

He had knelt to retrieve the fruit. “I didn’t know for sure where you lived,” he said softly as he straightened up. “I knocked at the main house, but no one is home.”

“My landlord is up fishing in Alaska,” she said. “My place is above the garage.” She couldn’t make sense of his being here. “Why aren’t you in the hospital? You sound funny.” She saw now that he wore hospital scrubs with a white lab coat. That didn’t make any sense, either.

“I wasn’t followed here,” he said. “I made sure of that.”

“Followed? What’s going on? Wait, do you remember things about yourself?”

“No,” he said. “No, that’s not it.” He looked directly into her eyes and her breath caught from his intense gaze that easily penetrated the dim light. “May I come inside for a few minutes?” he asked in that newly hoarse voice.

She wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed insane to invite a stranger inside her home, especially one twice as big as she was. But she picked up no violent vibes directed her way. “I have to admit I’m curious about what’s going on and why you’re dressed like that, so I’ll bite, come on in.”

He followed her up the outside stairs and waited while she unlocked the flimsy little lock on her door, which, come to think of it, needed to be changed to a stronger one. When she turned to face him in the light of the room, she gasped again.

“What happened to your throat?” she asked, eyes wide.

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze seemed to fly around the room, from one wall to the next, one painted canvas after another, as though he couldn’t quite take them all in at one time.

All those paintings in so little space probably came across as too much, but when you had a lot of paintings and limited wall space, they tended to add up.

“Did you create all of these?” he asked.

“Well, not the landscape, that’s a Vincent van Gogh print, and the lilies are Monet...well, all the people, yes.”

“You’re amazing,” he said, his gaze finally settling back on her face. “Who are all these people?”

She shrugged, unwilling to be distracted. “What happened to your neck?” she asked again.

He set the fruit on her table, then ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to exist in a perpetual state of sexy. It was just the way he was put together, the way he moved, his mannerisms and the expression in his eyes. But now bone-weary fatigue vied with that innate magnetism and seemed to win. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.

“Help yourself,” she said as she locked the front door.

He settled on her lime-green love seat. The apartment consisted of a kitchen/living area and a small bedroom/bath. Most of time it seemed pretty roomy, but Zane was at least six foot two and possessed a kind of commanding presence. She’d noticed this hours earlier when he stood on the sidewalk. “Would you like something cold to drink?” she offered as she started the electric fan in the window.

“Some water would be great,” he said, and she fetched him a glass before perching on a counter stool.

After finishing his drink, he started in on his story. When he got to the part about waking up to find someone choking him, she almost fell off the stool.

“It has to be the same person as this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll never forget the brazen way he pushed you. Is the nurse okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“Thank heavens she came into your room.” With a shudder, she added, “I can’t believe you took out your own IV.” She and needles were not the best of friends.

He rubbed his face with his hands as though trying to stay awake. It was the middle of the night by this time and she sympathized and shared his fatigue although his presence had driven most of hers away.

“And you have no idea what he looked like because of the disguise?”

He nodded. “That’s right. Even his size was hard to gauge because it all happened so fast.”

“But why did you leave the hospital? I don’t get it. Woods told you he planned on posting a guard.”

“I’m not entirely positive why I left,” Zane said. “I guess I thought my chances were better on my own than being stuck in that place. Besides, what did I do to get in this kind of trouble? I’d kind of like to find that out before the police do. Anyway, I didn’t know if they’d actually let me leave if I asked—I still don’t know whose going to pay my bill, for instance. So I sneaked away and that’s also more or less why I ended up at your house. I was going to borrow your phone and call Woods to try to explain, but I just decided against it.”

“Why?”

“I guess I don’t want him bugging you, and I don’t want him trying to get me back into the hospital. He’s a smart guy. He’ll see my boots are gone and talk to the guard on duty and learn I walked away out of choice and he’ll put two and two together. Maybe I’ll call when I get out of town.”

She nodded. His logic sounded reasonably sane to her. Well, at least as sane as escaping police protective custody to take your chances with a man who tried to kill you—twice.

“But I do need to borrow twenty dollars,” he added. “I’ll pay you back, I swear. If I’m going to hitchhike to Utah, I’m going to need something to eat along the way and I don’t have a penny. Eventually I can probably hock my boots—well, anyway, how about it?”

“Of course,” she said immediately. “The money is yours. And I’ll pack you a lunch to take with you.”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“Turkey on sour dough?”

“Anything you have,” he said, “will be appreciated.”

“I’m going to change clothes first, then I’ll make you a lunch. Are you hungry now?”

“No.”

Biting her lip, she added, “Zane, I should tell you that I found out why you had my name in your pocket. The grocer down the block from the gallery gave it to you because you were in the store asking about someone named Sherry or Mary Smith. Is there any chance that rings a bell?”

“None.”

She hit her forehead with her palm. “Why didn’t I think of the internet?” She retrieved her phone. A moment later, she shook her head. “Get this. There are over forty-seven million hits for Mary Smith.” She tapped the tiny electronic keypad again. “Over six million for Sherry Smith. Without an age or a career or a location, it’s impossible.” She fooled around a little more with the search engine, typing Mary Smith, New Orleans, and the same for Sherry Smith. Nothing that appeared relevant in any way showed up.

“Well, Mr. Lee promised he’d call Detective Woods and tell him about your being in his store,” she said with a sigh. She didn’t mention the fact that she’d asked Mr. Lee to keep Bill Dodge and his housekeeper out of it because she felt guilty about that. Zane needed all the help he could get and she had no right to deny him the turning of every stone. She just needed some time to try to make sense of things.

She closed the bedroom door behind her and quickly slipped out of her clothes, exchanging the dress for shorts and a T-shirt. She left her feet bare, splashed water on her face and went back into the main room where she found Zane still staring at the paintings that surrounded him.

“Aren’t you kind of warm in all those clothes?” she asked, and then felt her cheeks grow pink at the way those words could be taken.

He apparently didn’t read anything in her voice but what was there—concern for his comfort. “No, I’m fine.”

She sat down on the stool for a moment. “Zane, right after you asked about the Smith woman, you were hurt by an impulsive crazy person. I bet if we asked Woods where the real courier was robbed, it would turn out to be close to the grocery store. I think your attacker was in that store. Maybe he followed you.” She stopped short of finishing the sentence—or maybe you came in together.

Was that possible?

“I was also hurt right after the grocer gave me your name,” Zane said, smothering a yawn and apologizing for it. “I can’t make sense of any of it and that’s what’s so frustrating.”

“It’ll come. I’ll go make the sandwiches.” She padded into the adjoining kitchen and got to work. She made him two generous sandwiches, found an ice pack in the freezer and a bottle of sweet tea in the refrigerator, included the apple and the banana she’d bought earlier and threw in a few granola bars for good measure. She’d been to the bank earlier that day so she knew she still had a couple of ATM twenties in her wallet.

When she turned to look back in the living room, she found Zane had fallen asleep with his head thrown back, his hands lying on the cushion next to his thighs, his legs sprawled in front of him as though he’d finally surrendered to his long, arduous day. His breathing seemed steady and deep and, without the impact of his gaze, he appeared wan and worn out. She bent to shake his shoulder and he turned slightly at her touch, his breath warm against her hand, but didn’t waken.

Up close like this, the bruises on his throat looked like bloody fingerprints, red and ugly, grotesque in their cruelty and intent. A bright red dot of blood had seeped through the bandage over the stitches on his cheek.

She straightened up without touching him again, staring down at him for a moment, moved by his plight, touched by his decency and scared for his life. And totally intrigued.

How were they connected, where did her mother fit into this? Did Ryan have something to do with what happened? Could he have been the phony cyclist? She didn’t think so, but was she positive?

No answers, not tonight, anyway. She quietly put the bag of food in the refrigerator, dimmed the lights and with one last look at the gorgeous man asleep on her love seat, closed the bedroom door behind her.

Five minutes later, she slept.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.