Without a Past (3 page)

Do all amnesiacs have bad dreams? Or just me? Maybe my past is so bad that I'm afraid to remember it.
Unconsciously, Harley reached up to run his fingers over the irregular scar at his temple.

“That still bothering you?” Ida Jane asked.

He glanced sideways. Ida Jane appeared the quintessential grandmother—silver hair cut short and functional, her glossy skin marred with irregular brown age spots. Harley wondered, not for the first time, whether or not he might have a grandmother somewhere in the world. He hoped not. He didn't want to think he might be worrying an old lady by having dropped out of her life so suddenly.

“No, ma'am. Itched like heck for a while. Now I rub it out of habit.”

“I've always felt a scar lends a person character. It seems to say you weren't afraid to take risks.” He could feel her staring at his profile. “You have a nice, handsome face, but that scar will keep it from being too…perfect.”

Harley had spent a good deal of time the past three months staring at his face in the mirror trying to find some clue to who he was, and although he was satisfied that his looks weren't going to frighten young children, he wouldn't classify himself as handsome. His nose was…pugnacious, and the line of his jaw was too short. His eyes were blue, and his hair—probably his best feature—was thick and wavy. A medium brown now laced with gold—thanks to his recent stint at mending fences in the California sunshine.

“No worry there, Miss Ida. I'm a long way from perfect. Especially when it comes to fixing fences. Look at these cuts.” He held up his right hand to prove it. Three bandage strips adorned his thumb and index finger; two more were on the heel of his hand.

“Could be you're in the wrong trade. You have a fine way with words. Maybe you were a teacher,” she suggested.

Ida Jane wasn't the first person to comment on his less-than-impressive performance as a cowboy. At his doctor's suggestion, Harley had pored over lists of other professions to see if anything jumped out at him. So far, nothing had.

“I don't think I have the patience to work with kids,” Harley told her. “But I do like to write. The doctor I saw at the Gold Creek Clinic when Lars first brought me into town suggested I keep a journal. She said sometimes the mind heals so slowly we can overlook signs because we become comfortable with the way our lives
are
—not what they could be.”

“My, my,” Ida Jane said. “A local doctor told you that? Most of the ones I've known couldn't prescribe their way out of a paper bag without directions.”

Harley chuckled. Dr. Franklin had been gentle and kind, but in the end there wasn't much she could do. She was a general practitioner who said her lone brush with amnesia had come on a psych rotation in medical school some
twenty years earlier. Although curious and concerned, the best she could say was that he was in overall good health, and there was a chance his memory would return.

“Dr. Franklin wanted to run some tests and consult a specialist, but I don't have the cash,” Harley admitted.

“Doesn't Sam give you health insurance?”

He nodded. “It works if you break a leg. But the lady at the clinic said most plans would consider this a preexisting condition and would probably deny coverage.”

Ida Jane was silent for a few miles then said, “Like I said, you don't talk like any cowboy I've ever known.”

Harley remembered that her grandniece had expressed the same opinion the day they met.

“He's no cowboy,” Andi had said moments after being introduced to him. She'd looked at Jenny and Sam as if waiting for the punch line to a joke.

When Sam confirmed that Harley was indeed his newest employee, Andi had remained unconvinced. “No offense, Harley, but you walk like an accountant, talk like a politician and smell like a pothead,” she'd told him.

Harley had been offended. At first. But then he realized her observation was amazingly accurate. He hadn't taken the job at the Rocking M out of any sense of familiarity. He didn't know a halter from a heifer, but he'd felt even less affinity with mining. Closed spaces made him uncomfortable, and he'd been almost sick to his stomach the first time Lars tried to get him to climb down a twenty-foot ladder.

When the old miner suggested ranch work as a possible source of employment, Harley had jumped at the chance.

His peculiar body odor could be attributed to his recuperation period in a tiny cabin shared with the pot-smoking loner named Lars Gunderson. Brusque. Isolationist. A ren
egade from society, Lars smoked ten to twelve joints a day and still managed to work his gold mine by hand.

“Well, you may be right,” Harley had told Andi, impressed by her shoot-from-the-hip manner. She didn't cut him any slack, but she didn't treat him like an invalid, either. “My past is a closed door, the future a blank slate and I've chosen to be a cowboy. Do you have a problem with that?”

Harley couldn't say how much of his macho swagger came from leftover personality traits and how much came from listening to Lars's nonstop antiestablishment ranting, but his lack of memory made one thing clear—the only person Harley could depend on was himself.

She'd met his challenge with a grin that seemed to call his bluff. The tilt of her lips had sent a tangible jolt of awareness right through the center of him. Harley would have sworn nothing like that had ever happened to him before, but he had no way of knowing for certain.

“There's home,” Ida Jane said, cutting into his reverie.

The road curved tightly to the right in preparation for a downward switchback. From this point, one could take in the whole town—from the copper-shingled steeple of the Catholic church to the rounded dome of the courthouse with its distinctive bell tower. Businesses lined both sides of Main Street for four blocks, giving way to a natural gap where two seasonal tributaries drained into Gold Creek. Several gas stations, motels and a couple of fast-food shops were grouped at a fork in the road where travelers could choose to go downhill into the Central Valley or uphill toward Yosemite National Park.

“Gold Creek's a nice little town,” Harley said.

“It's a good place to raise a family, but the young people don't stay. My girls left home as soon as they could. Jenny
went to college. Andi went to junior college, then joined the marines. And Kristin went off to Europe to be a nanny.”

Harley had only met the elusive Kristin once. Sam had mentioned that she lived in Oregon. Harley had gotten the feeling she was slightly estranged from her sisters and aunt.

“I miss those girls,” Ida Jane said with a heavy sigh.

A shiver of disquiet passed through him.
Miss? Or missed?

“Andi's going to be at the old bordello when we get there, isn't she?”

Ida looked as puzzled by his question as Harley felt. One of the problems with amnesia, Harley decided, was not being able to decipher social nuances. Was Ida Jane's apparent forgetfulness something he should mention to her nieces?

He'd found it odd that Ida Jane had suddenly moved up the date of her return to the bordello from next Sunday to today. Jenny hadn't seemed overly perturbed by her aunt's change of plan, but Harley doubted Andi would be quite as calm.

Andi's fiery temperament was just one of the things he liked about her. Which, he thought again, was why he'd jumped at the chance to play taxi driver.

 

A
NDI STOWED
the last of the boxes in the basement storage room then brushed off her hands and looked around. She'd forgotten about the spacious area. As children, Andi and her sisters had avoided the cellar because of the threat of spiders, but now she evaluated it through the eyes of a businesswoman.

“If we made that window into an egress…” She peered out the cloudy glass. By investing a few bucks, she could probably rent out the space for seven hundred dollars a month. Maybe more.

A few bucks.
A hurdle taller than the surrounding moun
tain peaks, she thought grimly. She'd invested nearly all the money she'd saved while in the military, but no amount of venture capital seemed enough to stem the steady drain on their resources. Sooner or later, she'd have to admit that the old bordello was a losing proposition.

So why am I fighting so hard to save it? She didn't know the answer.

She was about to head back upstairs, when the phone at her waist rang.
Jenny again, no doubt.

“What now?”

“Andi? Why are you always so grumpy?”

Wrong sister. This was Kristin.
“I thought you were Jenny. Again. I'm busy getting ready for Ida Jane. A week ahead of schedule.”

Instead of walking up the open wooden steps, Andi sat down, plopping her elbows on her knees. She wanted to whine to somebody. Why not Kristin?

“I just heard,” Kris said. “Why the change? Can you believe Jenny sent our eighty-two-year-old aunt off with a stranger?”

Andi smiled to herself. Kristin's take on any given subject was usually a hundred and eighty degrees opposite of Andi's. Always had been.

“Harley Forester isn't exactly a stranger. He's been working at the Rocking M for three months.”

“Am I supposed to find comfort in that?” Kristin asked facetiously. “The man is an amnesiac. What if he suddenly remembers he's a serial killer?”

Andi chuckled. She couldn't help herself. She was no great judge of men—as evidenced by some of her boyfriends over the years, but she'd bet the deed to the old bordello that Harley Forester was a decent human being with a past no darker than Andi's or her sister's.

“Hey, this wasn't my idea, but it's a done deal. They'll
be here any minute.” Unable to resist teasing her sister, Andi added, “Unless he's dissecting Ida's body as we speak.”

Kristin hissed with outrage. “You're impossible. I only called because Jenny told me to tell you that we need to be especially gentle with Ida. Apparently she's been restless and unhappy all week. Jen said she found her crying a couple of times.”

Andi closed her eyes and frowned. Gentle was Kris's thing. Understanding was Jenny's thing. Andi was pretty sure none of her
things
—whatever they were—would prove beneficial to Ida Jane's emotional well-being.

“Could be she's homesick,” Kristin suggested.

Andi wished it were that simple, but she'd witnessed a steady decline in her aunt's mental acuity over the past year. Neither of her sisters believed it was serious, but Andi feared otherwise.

“I'd better go,” Andi said. “If Ida's feeling depressed, she'll really flip out when she sees the For Rent signs. We'd planned to talk to her about that when you got here, remember?”

Kristin, who was due back in town Friday to participate in Jenny's wedding, said, “You're right. Sorry. I can't talk to her right now. I was just leaving the house. I have to go to a…I'll call later. As soon as I get back.”

Typical, Andi thought sourly. Kris always seemed to be gone when there was an emotional confrontation of any kind. She'd been running since high school and hadn't stopped. “Don't worry. I'll handle it, provided Harley gets her home in one piece.”

“You like him, don't you?”

Andi jumped to her feet. “No.”

“Yes, you do. I could always tell when you liked a boy.”

Andi made a rude sound and started up the stairs. “Nu
uh,” she returned, purposely trying to sound like one of the teenage girls who frequented the old bordello's coffee parlor. Double mocha freezes were all the rage at the moment.

Kristin snickered. “You're attracted to him. But who wouldn't be? He looks like that actor from
Ever After
with Drew Barrymore. Do you know who I mean?”

Just as she reached the basement door, Andi heard the sound of a truck engine turn into the parking lot. Her heart rate went up a notch.

“Never saw it,” Andi lied. She'd rented it twice—for that very reason. And it irritated her to no end that her sister—her beautiful sister—saw Harley as an attractive, sexy man.

“You should. He's a cutie. Wish I could remember his name. Oh, well. Gotta go. Good luck with Ida Jane. Tell her I love her, and I'll call later.”

Andi quickly entered the kitchen, closing the door securely behind her. She tried to shake off the sense of anticipation at the thought of seeing Harley Forester, as he called himself. A man who—while not a serial killer—was no cowboy, either.

He was an enigmatic stranger playing at being a ranch hand. Her attraction to him was just a silly diversion, probably the result of too much worry and not enough of a social life.

“I need to get out more,” she muttered as she dashed to the porch. She didn't want to miss her chance to watch Harley getting out of the truck. He might not
be
a cowboy, but, damn, he looked good in Wranglers.

“Y
OU SHOULD HAVE BEEN
here when Andi announced she was joining the marines,” Ida Jane told her dining companion a short while later. “The town was up in arms. You would have thought she'd said she was running off with the circus.”

Andi, in an effort to distract her aunt's attention from the roofing paraphernalia—there'd be time for that talk later—had hustled Ida inside with an offer of breakfast. Harley had begged off, but Ida Jane had insisted he join them.

Unfortunately, the invitation included a recap of Andi's life story.

“Why did the people of Gold Creek care what Andi chose to do with her life?” Harley asked. His tone seemed to express true curiosity rather than polite chitchat. She'd noticed that inquisitiveness about him before, too. He delved into the story beneath the superficial.

“Well, you see, the town had set up scholarships for my girls when they were just tiny babies,” Ida said. “Jenny used the money to go to college, but Kristin left home right out of high school. Never asked for a dime. Andi went to junior college for two years, but instead of finishing up her degree, like the town expected, she joined the army.”

“Marines,” Andi amended before she could stop herself.

“Whatever,” Ida returned testily.

To hide her blush, Andi fetched a loaf of bread from the olive-green painted bread box. She
had
to stop correcting
Ida Jane. It did no good, and only served to increase the friction between them.

Ida continued, “The thing is, everyone in Gold Creek thinks they had a hand in raising the triplets, so they're quick to add their two cents' whenever they see the need.”

Isn't that the truth?
Andi thought, stifling a sigh. She withdrew a carton of eggs from the ancient slope-shouldered refrigerator and carried it to the gas range. As she passed by the CD player on the counter, she turned down the volume. Paula Cole's “Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?” was one of Andi's favorite tunes, but it didn't seem appropriate with Harley Forester sitting in her kitchen. He might not
be
a cowboy, but he sure looked like one.

She added a lump of butter to the cast-iron skillet then looked at their guest. His presence seemed to fill the dining nook across the room from her. He sat casually, one elbow resting on the table while he drank his coffee. His straw hat occupied the empty space to his left. Backlit by the morning light from the bay window, his long-sleeved cotton shirt revealed a glimpse of undershirt at the neck and a line across the middle of his upper arms.

A flutter kicked in below her ribs.
Why am I such a sucker for a man in an undershirt?
she wondered crossly.

“But why the marines?” he asked, as if Andi weren't present. “That seems like an extreme choice.”

For a woman,
Andi mentally added.

She'd answered the question at least a thousand times, but before she could open her mouth, Ida Jane said, “For the men, of course.”

The two, extra-large white eggs Andi had been preparing to crack into the skillet nearly wound up on the floor. She hastily added them to the sizzling butter then put the lid on the pan. She wiped her hands on a towel as she turned to
face them. “Auntie,” she scolded. “That was
not
the reason.”

“But, dear, you've been looking for a man for this family ever since you were old enough to walk.”

Andi almost groaned with horror.
Not
that story.

Ida launched into the tale before Andi could think of a diversionary tactic. “It's understandable, of course,” she told her audience. “All of her friends had fathers. So, Andi figured our family wasn't complete without one.”

“Ida, that's not true. We had…we
have
a great family.”

Her aunt ignored her. “Andi was always bringing home one prospect after another.” She snickered softly. “Some cases were rather humorous—like that fellow who worked at the hotel. What was his name?” She looked at Andi for help, but Andi was too mortified to answer.

Ida made a swishing motion with her hand. “The man was a little light in the briefs if you get my drift, but Andi couldn't have known that. She was only ten at the time.”

Andi closed her eyes, but not before she spotted Harley's amused grin. Dang, the man was even cuter when he smiled.
Sometimes a girl just can't catch a break.

“You weren't interested, I take it?” he prompted.

“I had my hands full with three little girls and a business. What would I want with another set of socks to wash? But I couldn't tell that to Andi. She was so determined.”

Andi tried to catch Harley's attention to signal him not to believe a word her aunt was saying, but he leaned forward as if fascinated by what he was hearing.

“She made this elaborate list,” Ida said, using her hands to illustrate. “On tablet paper. We called it the Daddy List.”

Too embarrassed to look at their guest, Andi crammed two slices of bread in the toaster—itself an antique, but one that worked better than any of the newer models Andi had tried over the years.

“Auntie, please. I'm sure Harley's not interested.”

Naturally, Ida Jane ignored her niece.

“Everybody knew about it. She kept it in a ringed binder under her mattress.” Ida lowered her voice theatrically. “Most men considered it an honor to be on the list, and those who didn't make the cut had their noses a bit out of joint.”

Andi groaned. She could imagine what Harley was thinking:
Poor little orphan girl on her self-imposed mission to find a father for her and her sisters.

“Finally, she gave up on getting a man for me and decided she'd have to find one for herself. So she joined the marines.”

Desperate for a distraction, Andi grabbed the glass carafe from the coffeemaker and trotted to the table. “More coffee, Auntie?”

“No, thank you.” Ida covered her cup with her napkin, so Andi moved to the second cup on the table. “Kristin told me I should limit how much caffeine I drink,” her aunt explained. “Says it's bad for you. She's a doctor, you know.”

A doctor? When did Ida decide Kris was a doctor? Andi's hand wobbled and the stream of black liquid that had been heading for Harley's cup sloshed over the rim and splashed on his wrist. He jerked his arm, sending drops of coffee in every direction.

“Oh, damn, I'm sorry. Quick…” She dashed to the sink to run cold water. “Come here.”

He followed, but hesitated as if uncertain whether or not to stick his hand under the faucet. Andi grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to the wide, old-fashioned basin. Beneath her fingers, she felt his muscles react to her touch. Sinew, strength and heat.

She let go, and almost dropped the coffeepot she was
carrying in her other hand. Flustered and embarrassed, she rushed to the opposite counter. It took two tries to return the pot to its slot. “Keep your hand under the water a full minute,” she told him.

“Put butter on it,” Ida Jane said.

Andi shook her head. “No. That's an old wives' tale. Cold water and aloe vera work best.”

Andi winced at the sour look Ida gave her. “I'll run out to the porch and snip a stem.”

“You aren't burning his eggs, are you?” Ida asked.

“Oh, nuts. They're probably harder than rocks,” she muttered.

Before she could move, Harley beat her to the stove. With a grace she'd witnessed before—the man seemed naturally good at everything he tried—he smoothly slid the rubber-looking eggs to the plate Andi had left on the counter. “Just the way I like them,” he said, giving her a wink Ida Jane couldn't see.

Feeling more than a little flustered, Andi said the first thing that popped into her head. “You seem pretty comfortable in a kitchen. Maybe you were a chef.”

“Or a short-order cook,” Harley said, taking the toast she offered then carrying his plate to the table.

Andi wondered at the way he downgraded her suggestion as if trying to minimize her opinion of him.

“Or he could be a confirmed bachelor,” Ida Jane speculated. “That's what everyone said about Bill until he married Suzy. Goes to show you can't tell about a person just by his past alone.”

Andi felt a momentary sense of relief. Now,
that
was the sharp-witted Ida Jane from her childhood.

She walked across the kitchen and put her arms around Ida's thin shoulders. “I love you, Auntie. Don't ever forget that.”

Ida patted Andi's hand then tilted her head and said, “Forget what?” Fortunately, Andi caught the mischievous glint in her aunt's eye before her heart shriveled up completely. When she glanced at Harley, she knew that he'd sensed her fear. She could tell by the sympathy in his mesmerizing blue eyes.

Unnerved, Andi pushed a sweating, ruby-colored jar of preserves across the blue gingham tablecloth. “Look what I found in the fridge. The last of Ida Jane's famous cactus jelly.” She patted her aunt's shoulder and said with pride, “How many women in their eighties do you know who can wrangle jelly from a cactus?”

“Even if I could remember, I doubt I knew any,” Harley said agreeably.

Andi cringed. It was probably in poor taste to say things that reminded someone of his handicap. “I'd better get that aloe before your burn blisters. Excuse me a minute. Ida, love, I'll do your eggs next.”

She closed the door to the screened porch behind her and took a deep breath. Her aunt's discourse on Andi's Daddy List wasn't anything new. Ida had told the story many times. And maybe, at a subconscious level, the absence of a father figure in her life had influenced Andi's decision to join the marines. But if that were the case, her choice had been a mistake. None of Andi's superior officers had been the least bit paternal, and her connection with the men in her unit had been either confrontational or platonic. Her lone romantic affair had been a one-sided, short-lived liaison that had gone nowhere fast.

Andi sighed.
Maybe Kris was right. Maybe I'm jinxed when it comes to men.

Her sister's declaration—made in a moment of duress on their eighteenth birthday—had stuck with Andi, haunting
her. Although she'd dated some in college, Andi doubted she'd know love if it walked up and introduced itself.

As for the attraction she felt toward Harley—who in her right mind would fall for a guy without a past?

“Idiot,” she muttered as she snipped a stalk from the robust aloe plant in the clay pot sitting on a rusted metal plant stand. Two other succulents, a couple of leggy geraniums and a withered-looking spider plant in need of repotting were practically the sole survivors of her brown thumb.

Beyond the cluttered little porch, a whole jungle of living things cried out for attention. The lawn needed mowing, the fruit trees hadn't been pruned in years and the rose garden was on the verge of being overtaken by weeds.

Andi closed her eyes and ordered herself to take a deep breath.
Prioritize,
she told herself. Why was she thinking about men? She barely had time to shower, let alone worry about love and romance.

“Here you go,” she said, returning to the kitchen a few seconds later.

To her surprise, Harley was standing at the stove, buttering two slices of toast. “I cooked three eggs,” he told her. “Ida only wants one, so you'll have to eat the other two.”

After cutting the bread diagonally, he arranged the halves on two plates, neatly framing the perfectly cooked eggs. He delivered the plates to the table then pulled a chair out for her.

Andi wasn't used to being waited on, and was oddly touched by the simple gesture. Since she was good at following orders, she sat. True, she'd already had juice and a doughnut, but unlike her sisters, who fretted and stewed about their weight, Andi had the kind of metabolism that processed anything she fed it—and in any quantity. A fact that annoyed her sisters to no end.
Once seated, she handed him the aloe. “Cut a line down the middle of the stalk, then smear it on your burns,” she instructed. She reached for the salt and pepper before noticing that he'd already seasoned the food—just the way she would have.

Although the eggs were cooked to perfection—medium gooey just the way she liked them—Andi ate without tasting anything. She drank her coffee forgetting to add cream and sugar. She heard Harley and Ida Jane chatting, but would have been hard-pressed to recall a word of their conversation because the longer she sat there, the more she felt like dropping her head in the middle of her plate and weeping.

As long as she kept busy, Andi could ignore the growing sense of futility. She'd tried her damnedest to whip the antique business back into shape, but so far none of her schemes had worked. The store was hovering on the brink of bankruptcy, and the old bordello—Ida Jane's beloved home—needed more work than Bill Gates, let alone Andi Sullivan, could afford.

As long as Ida Jane was living at the Rocking M with Jenny, Andi could pretend things were improving. But now, her aunt would see, firsthand, how badly Andi had failed.

She took a deep breath and looked up. Too bad she wasn't the type to cry on the closest available shoulder. Harley's looked broad enough to handle all her tears.

 

A
S
H
ARLEY SMEARED
the sticky gelatin-like goo of the plant on the red spots just below his thumb, he studied Ida's great-niece. She was more dressed up than he'd ever seen her. A sleeveless white blouse topped snug black slacks that stopped midcalf. Her rubber-soled white sneakers were low cut, and the absence of socks displayed her shapely ankles. No makeup—as usual—save for a rosy lip gloss that made her lips look moist and kissable. Her watch was her only
jewelry, but its rugged, molded rubber design seemed at odds with her feminine attire.

Artless. Unaffected. The adjectives might have been ones he would use to describe her—if he didn't know what lurked beneath that unpretentious surface. The heart of a lion.