Without a Past (17 page)

“Did he hurt you?”

“Of course not. I was just giggling too hard to escape. He's lonely.”

The dog stared at Harley with such obvious yearning it almost broke her heart. He was a man's dog; his man was gone. This man gave commands but not the one he was waiting for.

She started to reach out to the animal when Harley said, “Come.”

Sarge surged forward but didn't jump up. He seemed to know instinctively that this man wouldn't like it. “Good dog,” Harley said, petting the dog.

Andi turned away to keep from letting Harley see her tears. She wasn't a soft touch, but she loved animals. And Harley, without knowing it, had just done something guaranteed to make her fall in love.

“I'll see if Lars has a leash around here,” she said.

“There's some rope in the shed. I should have picked it up, but when I heard the commotion, I thought he was going to eat you alive.” Harley hadn't dropped to one knee, as Andi would have done. He didn't have his arm looped around the dog's neck. But he did scratch Sarge's ear. Twice. Both times, Sarge sighed as if in heaven.

For the first time, she noticed a small plastic container in his left hand. “You found some transmission stuff?”

“Yes,” he said, helping her to her feet.

“Great. Let's get going.”

The corner of his mouth crinkled in a typical Harley smile. Although she'd caught a glimpse or two of his alter ego—Jonathan—Andi chose not to think about the two personalities occupying the same body. It was a little creepy.

She shuddered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Harley and Sarge followed a few steps behind her. It was obvious no leash was necessary. Sarge would have followed Harley to the moon and back.

“No. Just thinking.”

“It's this place,” he said, looking around. “It seems so empty without Lars.”

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

He shook his head. The wan sunlight filtering through the pines made his hair tone darker than normal. He'd combed it differently—too neat for her taste. She longed to run her fingers through it and mess it up.

“That depends on the verdict,” he said. “If I'm found guilty, the state will probably take it. Legally, you can't profit from someone's death if you're deemed instrumental in causing it.”

Their conversation died as they reached the car. Harley poured in the transmission fluid, then checked the miniature dipstick. After testing it twice, he opened the rear door and pointed to the back seat, which Andi had covered with an old beach towel. Sarge leaped into the space.

Harley closed the door soundly and walked to her. He stood close enough for her to smell a mixture of dog, motor oil and man. Somewhere in that combination was Harley. She felt a prickly sensation in her sinuses.

“We started something we didn't finish,” he said.

His tone wasn't the least bit romantic, but Andi didn't find that too surprising. Despite that one sweet
“Good dog,”
Andi wasn't fooled. She knew this wasn't the same man she'd begun to have feelings for. But she owed it to herself to put an end to her X-rated dreams. She would kiss him and put the past away. “Let's do it.”

 

H
ARLEY TOOK A STEP CLOSER
. He knew this wasn't a good idea, but that damn skirt enticed him. And the misty look in her eyes when he'd petted Sarge hadn't helped. You'd have thought he was a saint or something. What man could resist that kind of combination?

He braced one hand on the roof of the old car behind her. The paint felt gritty—and he had a sudden image of a sleek shiny Mercedes. Black with tinted windows. Like some kind of gangster car, he thought, frowning.

“We don't
have
to do this,” Andi said peevishly, apparently misinterpreting his scowl.

The sun chose that moment to peek out from behind the thick low clouds that seemed to brush the tops of the trees. The breeze made her curls dance. His hand itched to touch that inviting silkiness, but he crammed his fist into the pocket of the trousers his father had suggested he buy.

“Yes, we do.”

“Then don't scowl. I won't bite. I promise.”

Her tone was irreverent, spunky, but beneath the chutzpah Harley sensed a hint of trepidation. She had something invested in this outcome. Hope, maybe? That sounded risky.

She lifted her chin in challenge. “So are we going to do this or—”

He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers while they were still moving. He hadn't taken into account that her mouth would be open. That made it not only easy but
also natural to slip his tongue into her mouth and explore the moist warm recess.

And he might not have bothered trying to engage her tongue if she hadn't made such an effort to avoid contact. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the target.

He had no recollection of his hand escaping from his pocket and burying itself in her hair, but he knew the exact moment it did because she gave a small sigh and ambushed his tongue with hers. He acknowledged his victory with a grunt of his own. One that seemed to echo in his head. So loudly, he opened his eyes.

And looked into Andi's assessing green eyes. He knew instantly that the attraction between them hadn't lessened. If anything, the intensity of emotion was stronger. Hotter. He stepped back.

Andi didn't say anything. Maybe she was hurt because he stood there mute instead of making polite romantic chitchat. No doubt Jonathan would have engaged in some pleasantries, but Harley couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. He moved out of the way so she could close the door, then he walked to the opposite side and got in.

Sarge lumbered to his feet and swung his large slobbery head in Harley's direction. His smell—woolly canine and stringy drool—made Harley's stomach heave. A pulse in his temple throbbed.

“You look sick. If it was from kissing me—”

Harley groaned and rolled down the window. “Headache. They still hit now and then. Not your fault.”

He wasn't sure she believed him. She started the car.

Thankfully, it went into gear without his assistance. Moments later they started the downhill journey. Before they reached the cabin the sun disappeared, and huge, fat raindrops began to pummel the windshield.

Harley hastily rolled up the window, taking a last gulp of
wet, clean air. Andi drove slowly to adjust to the pouring rain and bathtub-size potholes. While keeping her eyes on the road, she fiddled with a couple of knobs on the dashboard. “What are you looking for?” he asked, sensing her tension.

“Defog. It isn't Rosemarie's forte,” she said with a gulp.

She cracked the window and a wet gust sliced through the opening. Shivering, she hastily cranked it back up then swiped at the condensation on the windshield with her palm. Moisture beaded up, leaving a blurry streak.

“We'll be fine once we get past Snot Corner,” she said. “Do you know how it got its name?”

Harley pictured Lars expounding on the navigational pitfalls of this road. “Lars told me there's a strata of clay that runs through this part of the mountain. It crosses the road right at the S-curve. When it gets wet, it turns to slime.”

“Bingo,” she said. “That's the reason he couldn't take you to a doctor right away. Even though he knew you had a concussion.”

Less than a minute later, she said, “And here we are.” As she eased the car around the first part of the curve, the back end broke loose. She took her foot off the gas. “I heard Lars tell Sam that The Corner ate a VW bug once. Snapped its drive train or something,” she said.

“Should we turn around?”

“How? If we get off the road, we'll get stuck for sure.”

She had a point. The hills on either side of the road had turned into grayish-brown waterfalls.

“Maybe you should slow down,” he advised.

“I'm going five miles an hour,” she growled. “Can you wipe the window? I can't see a thing.”

He grabbed his father's jacket and rubbed. All it did was smear the moisture into a streaky mess that forced Andi to
duck back and forth in rhythm to the windshield wipers. The motion reminded him of a person dodging bullets.

He scooted closer and tried again. He made one clear path, just in time to see that they'd arrived at the hairpin corner with the disgusting name. “Tighten your seat belt.”

He glanced down and saw her foot press the brake pedal flat to the floor. Her toes showed the strain of her effort, but the big car was still moving forward—like a skier atop an avalanche.

Harley scrambled back to his side of the seat and snapped his shoulder harness into place, then reached out to tug on Andi's. She spared him a bemused glance then turned all business. He braced his feet on the floor, his hands on the cracked padding of the dashboard. No such thing as an airbag in this year's model, he thought.

“Hold on, Sarge,” Andi said. “This might get funky.”

Harley watched her face. Fear? Yes, but something else, too. Excitement. For some strange, totally ridiculous reason, the only thought that came to his mind was
I think I love her.

A second later, the car picked up speed and shot into the grade like a marble in a maze. Andi did an admirable job of keeping it from flipping when the back end slid out from under them again, but in correcting the spin, she missed her chance to make the turn. It wasn't her fault. They simply ran out of road. And like a topsy-turvy pinball the car rolled.

R
OSEMARIE WAS BEYOND
help. Andi took one last look as they trudged on foot up the muddy incline. The crumpled pink automobile resembled a squashed toy, but, at least, it had landed far enough off the road that it wasn't a hazard to other drivers. And, thankfully, neither she nor Harley had been hurt. But Sarge…

She hurried to catch up with Harley who was carrying Sarge. Although alert, the dog had yelped when they'd freed him from the wreckage. And seemed unable to stand, let alone walk.

“How far?” Harley asked, his breath a harsh hiss through clenched teeth.

The combination of rain and wind put the risk of hypothermia at the top of her list of concerns. “Half a mile? I'm not sure. After we dry off, I'll run up to Margaret's cabin and phone for help.”

Hunching her shoulders, she clasped the neckline of her jacket tight to her throat to keep a funnel of icy rain from coursing down her back. The denim provided neither warmth nor protection from the elements. Mud sucked at her sandals, making each step an effort, but she couldn't complain. At least,
she
wasn't carrying a very large dog.

“D-do you want me to take him?” she asked, praying he'd turn her down.

“Yes,” Harley said, but he kept walking, shoulder into
the wind. His father's jacket stuck to him like a wet grocery bag.

“Okay,” she said, reaching deep for the strength she'd need to carry the dog's weight. The clearing where the cabin sat was barely visible through the steady downpour, which felt as if it might turn to sleet or snow any second.

He gently nudged her with Sarge's paw. “I was kidding. I couldn't let go even if I wanted to. My arms are frozen in place.”

He took a step then waited. He wasn't going without her.

Sarge gave a low moan. Andi leaned close and pressed her nose to the dog's ear. “Hang in there, buddy. Harley and I are going to take care of you. We're almost home.” She tucked the soggy towel that she'd retrieved from the back seat under Harley's trembling biceps.

Taking a deep breath, Andi mustered the energy she needed. “Let's go. I sure hope the electricity is still working.”

It wasn't.

When they finally arrived at the cabin, Andi savagely ripped off the yellow caution tape. She located the hidden key where Harley said it would be then unlocked the rear door. Teeth chattering in harmony, they found the place almost as chilly as outside and a lot darker.

Andi knew from experience that in cases of hypothermia, time was critical. “I'll find some towels. Put Sarge on the rug and cover him with that couch throw for now. You and I need to dry off. Right away.”

Shivering nonstop now, she stripped off her jacket and peeled away her stiff, soaking-wet skirt. Her white T-shirt stuck like plastic wrap and announced the fact she wasn't wearing a bra, but modesty was the least of her problems.

Groping in the darkness, she stumbled through the tiny house to where she thought the bathroom might be.

The house smelled of pot, indoor animals and an unwashed miner. She found a stack of scratchy, sun-dried towels folded on a shelf in the bathroom. The abrasive texture chafed her skin, but she dried her arms and legs then stripped off her shirt and wrapped one towel above her breasts. She used another, turbanlike, for her hair.

“Dammit, Lars, did you have to buy the smallest, cheapest towels you could find?” she muttered as she grabbed the rest of the stack and backtracked into the living area.

To her surprise, Harley had started a fire in the potbelly stove that sat atop a semicircle of flagstone in the corner of the room. “Wow! You must have been a Boy Scout.”

He shook his head. His teeth were chattering badly. But instead of looking her way, he patiently fed another few pieces of kindling into the cast-iron mouth.

Andi dropped a couple of towels beside him then moved to the big braided oval rug to check on Sarge. She removed the knitted throw Harley had covered him with and carefully dried the dog's legs and body. While whispering encouragement and praise, she squinted in the half light to see if she caused him any pain.

“Is it his leg or hip?” Harley asked from a spot beside her elbow.

Andi had been so intent on Sarge she hadn't heard him move. She glanced to her left. He wore two towels—one at his waist, one draped over his broad shoulders like a child pretending to be a superhero. His hair stood up in several spots, adding to his boyish look.

“He whimpered when I touched his back leg,” she told him. “It could be a dislocated hip. Hopefully, it's just bruised, but, in all honesty, I'm more worried about internal injuries. Those might not show up right away.”

Harley made a harsh sound. “Let's pull the rug closer to
the fire, then I'll find us some clothes. Lars kept everything in a trunk by his bed.”

Dragging the heavy rug with the dead weight of the dog on it would have been easier if her towel stayed in place, but every time she tugged, the two halves would pop apart, flashing Harley. His frustration must have matched hers, because he let out a groan not unlike Sarge's low moans.

“I'm sorry,” she said, retucking the material.

He didn't respond but disappeared the second after they got Sarge situated in front of the now-crackling fire. Andi knelt near the open grate and added two small hunks of wood. A splash of sparks gave a burst of light to the room and she looked around.

She barely remembered the interior of the cabin from her first visit years earlier, but, like the exterior, it seemed unchanged. A small room crowded with a man's life and playthings. Fishing gear and two rifles stood clustered in one corner. Mining magazines, newspapers and a dog-eared copy of
Playboy
lay scattered on the floor near a well-used, brown tweed recliner. The kitchen looked surprisingly neat. Canned goods of every size and shape were visible on several shelves of a pantry. At least they wouldn't starve until help arrived.

A flickering light to the left caught her eye. Harley stepped through the doorway of the adjoining bedroom holding a candle. He'd donned baggy gray sweatpants and a bulky, red thermal pullover. He walked in a shuffling manner due to oversize moccasins that made a scratchy sound against the plank flooring.

“Lars was a big guy,” he said. “Size sixteen shoes.”

Andi anchored her towel to her sternum and rose. The warmth at her front versus the chill at her back made her shiver. Harley noticed. He carried his candle to a small cabinet on the opposite side of the room, then hurried toward
her. In his left hand rested a stack of blankets with some articles of clothing balanced on top. The
shish-shish
of his slippers made her smile.

He looked at her quizzically. Except for the murmur of rain and the crackle of the fire, the cottage was too quiet. She needed a distraction to keep from thinking about the wreck. How scared she'd been to lose control.

She helped herself to a massive flannel shirt and a pair of thick socks, ignoring the sweatpants. “I don't think Lars's pants will fit. He was a couple of inches taller than you and weighed more than Sam.”

She turned her back, dropped her towel and shrugged on the shirt. She might have been more modest if she hadn't lived, slept and dressed in the company of GIs for six years. A bare behind was the least of her problems.

The mammoth shirt hung to her knees and the socks came almost to her kneecaps. “There,” she said, spinning on one heel to face him. “Much better.”

The look in Harley's eyes said he agreed, but there was something else in his look. Something she wasn't ready to acknowledge. “Cocoa?” she asked, heading for the stove with an ancient teakettle resting on the back burner.

“Whiskey.”

“Alcohol isn't as warming as people think,” she said, recalling a lecture she'd heard years before in search and rescue training.

“That's not why I want it,” he said softly. He walked back to the small cabinet. “There are more candles on the shelf above the sink. Matches, too. Lars said he was always the first to lose power in a storm. The stove is propane.”

Andi stepped carefully to avoid the hunks of rock littering the floor in small piles. She guessed these were assays going to or coming back from the geologist in town. Sam once told her Lars made just enough money from his gold to pay
his property taxes and buy food. Since he never bothered with income tax, licenses or insurance, he didn't have much overhead.

She found the matches and lit one of the burners on the stove. Instead of cocoa—the only milk she could find was canned—Andi decided to have tea. She lit two more candles, anchoring them in chipped saucers. The soft yellow light gave the place a cozy feeling. The thick log walls made her feel safe and snug. Only the ping and plop of the rain on the tin roof reminded her that she'd just had an accident.

“I wrecked Rosemarie,” she said to herself. A ripple of sadness passed through her. Ida Jane loved that car.

“Here,” Harley said, holding a small stinky glass under her nose. “You need this more than tea.”

She hated whiskey. The taste, the smell. “No thanks.”

“Trust me. In a few minutes, you're going to feel the aftermath of the accident. Your muscles will start to shake and your head will feel like it's going to explode and your stomach will heave.”

Something about his tone told her he spoke from experience. She took the glass. “How will this help?”

“I don't know. But it does.”

She pinched her nostrils closed—which caused Harley to chuckle—then took a mouthful. It scalded the inside of her mouth and she swallowed fast. The burn raced down her throat and blossomed in her upper chest like a volcano.
“Eouw,”
she said, taking a breath. Residual fumes seemed to singe her nose hairs. “I'll throw up for sure now.”

“Not if I keep you preoccupied.” His tone was soft and deceivingly benign—until she looked into his eyes and saw a fire beneath the blue. She saw a determination there that had nothing to do with crisis management.

He took the glass from her numb fingers and set it to one
side then opened his stance so his legs straddled her. Andi's lower back pressed against the counter.

“This isn't a good time to make out, Harley,” she said. “We need to call for help.”

“Why? No one can get here. It's probably snowing on the upper pass. And no one is going to make it past Snot Corner.”

The mention of the accident site made her stomach turn over. “But we at least need to let people know we're okay. Jenny's probably too busy with wedding plans to be worried, but Kristin is arriving this evening, and she'll worry.”

“We'll walk to the animal lady's house as soon as we're warmed up,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the double entendre. “In the morning, we'll use Lars's truck. The snow won't last long and the truck has four-wheel drive.”

“What about Rosemarie?”

His lips flattened. “Do you have to call her—it—that?”

“It's her name. She's practically a member of the family. Why does it bother you?”

He moved back. “It seems profane.”

Suddenly she remembered something she'd read in his bio, and she understood. “Jonathan Newhall's mother—your mother—was killed in a car accident.”

His gaze didn't veer, but a muscle above his right eye twitched. She gave a small, spontaneous peep. “You were in the car with her, weren't you?”

He started to shake his head then stopped. “Was I?”

The look of confusion on his face reminded her of Ida Jane at those times when her memory failed her. He closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels, as if dizzy.

Andi took his hand. “I'm sorry. That was me being my usual insensitive self.”

He inhaled slowly. “I can almost remember. But I can't quite bring it back….” He paused, his eyes still closed. “I
picture a woman. Driving the car. Laughing. The music was playing. She's my mother. She was singing along with a song—the Beach Boys, I think. She liked to change the lyrics to make me laugh. She was quick, and very clever with words.”

He wasn't looking at her. His gaze seemed focused on the candle she'd set on the table.

“She lost control for a second and the tire hit something—a curb, I think—and the car flipped. It landed upright just like the Caddie. Only, we weren't wearing seat belts.” He shook his head sadly. “Nobody did in those days.”

Andi closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, Harley, I'm so sorry. This wreck must have felt like déjà hell for you.”

Impulsively, she threw her arms around him and kissed the side of his face. He didn't return the embrace. His arms hung limp at his sides. “She put her arm out to protect me—like mothers do when their kid is in the front seat—and her head hit the steering wheel. They said she died instantly.”

“And today
I
walked away without a scratch,” Andi said to herself.

He looked at her. “Thank God,” he said, pulling her to him. “I don't think I could have lived with myself if history had repeated itself. Talk about cursed—”

She didn't let him finish. She pressed her mouth to his, just as he'd done earlier to her. She knew all about survivor's guilt. Even though Andi and her sisters had had no control over the events surrounding their birth, Andi knew the circumstances of their loss had always been a factor in their lives.

She'd read somewhere that the surest way to block hurtful memories was to create pleasant new ones. This wreck was one memory that wouldn't hurt this man ever again—not if she had any say in the matter.

 

H
ARLEY WASN'T PREPARED
for the onslaught of emotions that hit him. First, the memory of his mother's death. Then the life-affirming joy of Andi's kiss. A powerful need made him jump at the escape Andi offered. “Are we going to make love?” he asked, closing his eyes as she trailed kisses from his lips to the scar on his temple.