Without a Past (4 page)

That's how Ida Jane had characterized her niece when they were pulling into the parking lot half an hour earlier. “The triplets were born February twenty-sixth,” she'd said. “I don't know much about the zodiac, but I do know that Andi is a Leo. My mother was a Leo and they're just alike. Strong-willed, proud, always wanted the best for her family.”

Harley had been tempted to correct her. Leo represented August birthdays, not February—he had no way of explaining how he remembered this—but he'd kept his mouth shut. Partly because he'd spotted Andi prowling the length of the bordello's wraparound porch. She moved with feline grace, and the look in her eyes held an edgy, sort of Dirty Harry squint—as if she suspected Harley of something.

“Do either of you ladies know when Clint Eastwood's birthday is?” he asked without thinking.

Ida seemed to ponder the question a moment then shook her head. Andi, who a minute earlier had seemed miles away, looked truly baffled. “Should we?” she asked.

Harley wondered if aloe worked on red cheeks. “Sorry. Weird things pop into my head from time to time.”

“Memories?”

Andi's tone sounded hopeful.

“Not exactly. I don't think so.”

“Too bad. Have you had any breakthroughs?” she asked.

Harley couldn't help but resent the question. He knew people were curious—perhaps even skeptical—about his amnesia, but Harley didn't like to talk about it. This was
simply who he was now, and it bothered him that people couldn't accept that.

Every morning, his bunkmate, Petey, would ask, “Remember anything new?” As if the sleep fairy might have miraculously filled in all the missing pieces of Harley's past while his eyes were closed.

He told Andi the same thing he told Petey. “Not that I know of.”

He braced for some kind of platitude, but instead she looked at her watch and let out a small yelp.

“Dang. We have to hurry.”

She grabbed all three plates and unceremoniously dumped them in the sink. After turning off the CD player and the coffeemaker, she paused, hands on hips. Harley could almost see her brain designing the most efficient plan of attack.
She'd have made a great general.

“I'll brew the coffee while you move the truck. Pull up close to the porch,” she told him. “That bed is a heavy sucker.

“Auntie, you can watch the shop while Harley and I move your stuff inside, okay? Once we get your dresser set up, you'll be able to unpack, then take a nap, if you want.”

She didn't wait to see if her two subordinates would follow her directives. Instead, she dashed down the hallway that connected the family quarters with the retail space.

Harley, although anxious to keep Andi in sight, offered his arm to Ida Jane. “Always in a rush, that one,” the old woman said. “She's a take-charge kind of girl. Always has been.” She made a face. “And people said Jenny was bossy.”

Harley chuckled under his breath. He spotted Andi in the foyer, apparently searching for a hidden key. The shape of her trim derriere and tanned calves was one of the prettiest sights he could remember. Which, in his case, might not be
saying a lot, but Harley was certain the memory would hold up even for a man suffering from amnesia.

She produced the key from beneath a brass urn, looked over her shoulder and smiled—as if she'd guessed his thoughts.

“She never found one, you know,” Ida Jane said, squeezing his arm to get his attention.

“I beg your pardon?”

“She went looking for a man, but never found one. Not the right one, anyway.”

The innuendo couldn't be missed, but Harley pretended not to understand. “Too bad,” he said. “She's a nice girl.”

And people say I have a way with words?

Ida's laugh made him smile, too. She patted his arm as if to forgive him for being obtuse. “I want to show you something,” she said, leading him to a group of photos on the wall. “That's Andi's award from the governor.”

He scanned the framed certificate—recognition for her role in locating a lost family of hikers.

“She belonged to the Search and Rescue squad all through high school, then worked in Yosemite for two summers, rescuing stranded climbers.”

His gaze drifted over the collage of photos, zeroing in on one of Andi in full climbing regalia dangling by a thread with nothing but blue sky below and sheer precipice above.

He muttered a low epithet.

“Used to scare the hell out of me, too, but when you get to my age, you realize life is too short to play it safe.”

While Harley pondered the message behind her words, she added, “A man could get killed falling off a horse just as easy as a motorcycle, you know.”

Harley automatically reached up to touch his scar. He didn't know what Ida Jane expected of him. Since that first morning when he'd opened his eyes in Lars's cabin, Harley
had been re-creating himself—his understanding of the world and his place in it. Maybe his past was waiting for him to discover it, but Harley wasn't in a big hurry, because for some reason, he wasn't sure that reconnecting with his past was something he was ready to do…yet.

 

“Y
OUR AUNT THINKS
I should hire you to find my bike.”

Andi, who was trying very hard not to read anything into the fact that Harley had stuck by her side like glue since breakfast, almost dropped the dresser drawer she was carrying. “Are you sure about that? Ida told me the other day she thought you were dropped off on the mountain by aliens.”

His bark of laughter held a masculine ring that reached something deep inside her. He followed at her heels carrying two drawers to her one. The crowded hallway didn't leave much space for maneuvering, but she turned around anyway.

God, he's built.
Not for the first time, she wondered about his past. What did he do for a living before his accident? Before he decided to become a cowboy.

“I could probably find your bike, but I get the impression you don't really care one way or the other if it ever gets found.”

He lowered his load, but looked out the window instead of at her. In profile he was even more handsome.
Down, girl. You aren't going to get involved with him.

“Lars took me to the sheriff's office to report my…uh, accident. At least, we presume it was an accident. Lars said there was a bad storm that night, and I probably got turned around. But what I was doing out there in the first place is anybody's guess. Sam called everybody who lives on that road, but nobody knew me.”

Andi remembered hearing about Sam's efforts to help his
new employee figure out what happened. But they'd had practically nothing to go on. No ID. No bike. No license plate.

“After we reported it, the sheriff—Donnie…”

“Grimaldo,” she supplied. Donnie was an old friend. They'd been in Search and Rescue together, and he'd dated Kristin for two years before their big blowup.

Harley nudged her to keep walking then followed her through the door, which they'd propped open with an anvil. “Right. Donnie took me for a drive to see if anything rang a bell. He said locating a motorcycle in that part of the mountains would be a long shot. And recovering it would be very expensive.”

Andi hurried. She didn't like leaving her aunt alone in the store for long. Partly because Ida complained about every change Andi had made and partly because the octogenarian had an almost childlike fascination with the espresso machine.

“Donnie's probably right about the cost, but I know a few guys who would do it for the challenge—and a case of Bud Light. Provided, of course, we find the bike.”

“Would it be worth a try?”

Andi made a who-knows gesture. “The salvage value on a wrecked Harley—if that's what you were driving—definitely would be worth a few bucks. Unless it got burnt up or was too badly mangled in the crash.”

He didn't say anything. Andi wasn't sure why he'd brought up the possibility. Whenever she'd mentioned his accident or his amnesia, he'd shut her down. She fitted the drawer she was carrying into the dresser, then turned to relieve Harley of his burden.

“Thanks,” she said when the last drawer was in place. “You've been a lifesaver. No way could I have set up that bed by myself. Now, if I can talk Ida into a nap, I might be
able to catch up on some paperwork.”
While I figure out how to explain the For Rent signs on the front lawn.

Renting out the rooms on the upper floor was Andi's attempt to increase the cash flow of the antique business. Unfortunately, the first potential renter—an accountant from the valley—had changed his mind because the rooms lacked a dedicated fax line and a separate computer telephone line.

Andi was meeting with an electrician next week. Hopefully he wouldn't tell her the whole building needed to be rewired. She hated to think what that might cost.

She smoothed her hand over the lace coverlet on Ida's bed. “I don't know if it means anything to you, but I'd bet dollars to doughnuts you were never a marine.”

He gave her a questioning glance. “You don't fold tight corners. With the sheets. You'd have had that ingrained if you'd been in the military.”

She couldn't tell by his look whether or not she'd offended him. He seemed a bit sensitive about his amnesia. She shouldn't have been surprised. Ida Jane didn't like to talk about her lapses in memory, either.

Everyone blamed Ida's problems on old age, but Andi remained skeptical. During the six months that Andi had lived with Ida Jane prior to Ida's hip injury, Andi had witnessed spats of temper and emotional outbursts that seemed completely unlike the aunt she'd known growing up. When Andi had mentioned her concern to Ida's doctor, the man—a new, young practitioner—had suggested prescribing an antidepressant. Ida Jane had refused to discuss it. “My sister took every pill under the sun, and none of them helped,” she'd said. “In fact, I think they did more harm than good.”

The sound of voices coming from the front parlor shook Andi out of her reverie. “Uh-oh. It's showtime,” she said. As she turned away, she caught the look in Harley's eyes. A man's admiring look. She was both flattered and annoyed.
Her ego definitely needed the boost, but she didn't have time for a casual affair.

Andi's hitch in the marines had taught her certain fundamental lessons, including K.I.S.S.
Keep it simple, stupid,
she silently muttered. She had enough on her plate at the moment. Only a moron would get involved with a guy who had no past—no matter how cute he was.

 

H
ARLEY BACKED UP
a step.
Time to go.
He didn't want to leave, but it was the polite thing to do. He might not be able to remember his name or date of birth, but he seemed to have an inherent knowledge of customs, language, mores and morals. Dr. Franklin had explained that such dichotomies were typical of his kind of amnesia.

“May I use the rest room before I leave?” he asked.

Her expression changed from serious to relieved. “Sure. First door on your left.”

Harley wasn't surprised that she was anxious to get rid of him. He recognized the attraction between them, even though he couldn't give it any true perspective. Mild flirtation? Serious infatuation? Purely sexual? Maybe Andi—who'd probably known more boyfriends than Harley wanted to think about—could define it. But she was obviously doing her best to ignore it.

And why wouldn't she? No woman with any sense would get involved with a guy in his predicament. Just because Harley couldn't remember whether or not he had a wife and kids somewhere didn't mean they didn't exist.

“It used to be the butler's pantry,” she said, leading the way to the hall. “It's just a sink and toilet. The only bath with a shower is upstairs, which is one reason I wasn't in a hurry to move Ida Jane home. She gets around pretty well now, but those stairs are tricky.”

Harley wanted to tell Andi that in his opinion she was
doing right by her aunt—putting her life on hold to make sure Ida Jane didn't lose the home she loved and the business she'd built. Sam had mentioned a few of the hurdles Andi had tackled since her return, and Harley was impressed by her selflessness. But what good was his opinion? His views were less substantial than those flaunted by the gossip columnist in the local newspaper. At least that
Glory
woman had history and experience to back up her convictions.

He nodded and turned away.

The rest room was small and windowless, but it had been painted a cheerful yellow with a chain of white flowers stenciled beneath the crown molding. Like the rest of the house, every square inch of space was filled with antiques as well as personal treasures. On the wall to the left of the old-fashioned commode was a mosaic of yellowed macaroni that spelled ANDI in block print.

As he turned to leave the room, he felt a slight give beneath the toe of his boot.
Dry rot,
he guessed.

How do I know that? Was I a carpenter?
Harley looked at his hands and pictured how pale and soft they'd been when he first started working at the ranch. No, he wasn't a man who made his living by working with wood and a hammer.

Which makes me what? A lawyer? A politician? A spoiled rich boy?
He'd spent that whole first month playing the guess-my-past game. All it had ever gotten him was a headache.

Harley carried a small tin of extra-strength aspirin to help relieve the blinding headaches that could suddenly strike, making him want to crawl into a black hole and die. Dr. Franklin had predicted that the headaches would increase in frequency as his memory returned.

Which, Harley figured, was one reason he hadn't put more effort into finding out about his past. Not only were
his dreams enough to turn his stomach, but the headaches left him weak and nauseous.