Forget Me Not

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Rafe watched Alana, his eyes intent. When he spoke, his voice was casual, soothing, utterly normal.

  “We’d better get going,” he said. “I’d like to beat the thundershower back to the ranch.”

  He bent to take Alana’s suitcase from her nerveless fingers. With the easy movements of a mountain cat, he straightened and walked toward a Jeep parked a few hundred feet away.

  Alana watched, her hand resting on the high neck of her burgundy silk blouse. She took a deep breath, still feeling the warmth of Rafe’s hand on her arm as he had supported her. Just that. Support. Help. There was nothing to fear in that.

  Was there?

  Motionless, her heart beating rapidly, her dark eyes wide, Alana watched Rafe turn back toward her. The slanting, late-afternoon sun highlighted the strong bones of his face and made his amber eyes glow. As he turned, his shirt stretched across his shoulders, emphasizing the strength and masculine grace of him. His jeans fit the muscular outline of his legs like a faded blue shadow, moving as he moved.

  Alana closed her eyes, but she could still see Rafe. He was burned into her awareness with a thoroughness that would have shocked her if she had any room left for new emotions. But she didn’t.

  She was still caught up in the moment when he had turned back to her, light brown eyes burning, mouth curved in a gentle male smile.

  That was Rafe. Male. Totally. She had forgotten, even in her dreams.

  Rafe hesitated as though he wanted to come back to Alana, to stand close to her again. But he didn’t move. He simply watched her with whiskey-colored eyes that were both gentle and intent, consuming her softly, like a song.

  “It’s all right, Alana.” Rafe’s voice was as gentle as his smile. “I’ve come to take you home.”

  The words echoed and reechoed in Alana’s mind, sending sensations sleeting through her. Cold and wind and snow, fear and screams clawing at her throat. Pain and terror and then . . .

  It’s all right, wildflower. I’ve come to take you home.

  She had heard words like those before, and something more, other words, incredible words, dream and nightmare intertwined.

  Without knowing it, Alana whimpered and swayed visibly, caught between hope and terror, dream and nightmare.

  “What?” Alana demanded breathlessly, her heart beating faster, her voice urgent. “What did you say?”

  Rafe watched Alana with a sudden intensity that was almost tangible.

  “I said, ‘I’ve come to take you home.’ “

  He waited, but Alana simply watched him with wide, very dark eyes. His expression shifted, gentle again.

  “Bob threatened to have my hide for a saddle blanket if I didn’t get home before Merry fell asleep. And,” added Rafe with a smile, “since she falls asleep between coffee and dessert, we’d better hurry.”

  Alana watched Rafe with eyes that were dazed and more than a little wild.

  “That wasn’t what you said before.” Alana’s voice was as tight as the hand clutching her throat. Her eyes were blind, unfocused.

  “Before?” asked Rafe, his voice intent, hard, his topaz eyes suddenly blazing like gems. “Before what, Alana?”

  It was dark, so dark, black ice around her, a glacier grinding her down until she screamed and tried to run, but she couldn’t run because she was frozen and it was so cold.

  Alana shuddered and swayed, her face utterly pale, drained of life by the savage nightmare that came to her more and more often, stalking her even in the day, stealing what little sanity and peace remained.

  Instantly Rafe came to her, supporting her, his hands warm and strong. Even as she turned toward his warmth, fear exploded in her. She wrenched away with all her strength.

  Then she realized that it hadn’t been necessary. Rafe hadn’t tried to hold her. She was reacting to something that hadn’t happened.

  “I—” Alana watched Rafe with wild, dark eyes. “I don’t—I’m—”

  She held out her hands helplessly, wondering how to explain to Rafe that she was drawn to him yet terrified of being touched, and that above all she thought she was losing her mind.

  “You’re tired,” Rafe said easily, as though Alana’s actions were as normal as the slanting afternoon light. “It was a long flight. Come on. Bob and Merry are waiting for you like kids waiting for Christmas morning.”

  Rafe turned back to the suitcase, picked it up, and walked toward the Jeep. Before he arrived, a man got out of a Blazer and approached Rafe.

  As Alana walked closer, she recognized Dr. Gene. He smiled and held out his arms to her. She hesitated, fighting against being held, even by the man who had delivered her, who had attended to all of her childhood ills, and who had cried in frustration at her mother’s deathbed. Dr. Gene was as much a member of her family as her father or her brothers.

  With an effort of will that made her tremble, Alana submitted to Dr. Gene’s brief hug. Over her head, the doctor looked a question at Rafe, who answered with a tiny negative movement of his head.

  “Well, it’s good to have you back,” said Dr. Gene. “No limp, now. You look as pretty as ever, trout.”

  “And you lie very badly,” said Alana.

  But she smiled briefly at hearing the pet name from her childhood. Even so, she stepped back from the doctor’s hug. Her haste was almost rude, but she couldn’t help herself. That was the worst part of the nightmare, not being able to help herself.

  “The only thing that was ever pretty about me was my voice,” Alana said.

  “No pain?” persisted the doctor. “How’s your appetite?”

  “No pain,” she said evenly, ignoring the question about her appetite. “I don’t even use the elastic bandage anymore.”

  And then Alana waited in fear for the doctor to ask her about her memory. She didn’t want to talk about it in front of Rafe.

  She didn’t want to talk about her memory at all.

  “You cut your hair,” said Dr. Gene.

  Alana raised her hand nervously, feeling the short, silky tendrils that were all that remained of her waist-length braids.

  “Yes.” And then, because the doctor seemed to expect something more, she added, “Today. I cut it today.”

  “Why?” asked Dr. Gene.

  The doctor’s voice was as gentle as the question was blunt.

  “I . . .” Alana stopped. “I was . . . I wanted to.”

  “Yes, but why?” he asked.

  The doctor’s blue eyes were very pale, very watchful beneath the shock of gray hair and weathered forehead.

  “The braids made me . . . uneasy,” said Alana.

  Her voice was tight, her eyes vague, frightened.

  “Uneasy? How?” asked Dr. Gene.

  “They kept . . . tangling in things.” Alana made a sudden motion with her hands, as though she were warding off something. “I . . .”

  Her throat closed and she could say nothing more.

  “Alana’s tired,” Rafe said, his voice quiet and very certain. “I’m going to take her home. Now. Excuse us, Dr. Gene.”

  Rafe and Dr. Gene exchanged a long look. Then the doctor sighed.

  “All right,” Dr. Gene said, his voice sharp with frustration. “Tell Bob I’m trying to get some time off to go fishing.”

  “Good. The Broken Mountain camp always has a cabin for you.”

  “Even now?”

  “Especially now,” said Rafe sardonically. “We may disagree on means, but our goal is identical.”

  Alana looked from one man to the other. “Goal?”

  “Just a little fishing expedition in the high country,” Rafe said, turning to her. “The good doctor prefers to drown worms. I, on the other hand, prefer to devise my own lures.”

  Dr. Gene smiled briefly. “Bet I catch more trout than you, Winter.”

  “I’m only after one trout. A very special one.”

  Alana wondered about the currents of emotion running between the two men, then decided she was being overly sensitive. Since Broken Mountai
n, she jumped at sighs and shadows and saw conspiracy and pursuit where there was nothing behind her but night and silence.

  Dr. Gene turned to Alana. “If you need anything, trout, I’ll come running.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it, now,” he added.

  “I know,” she said softly.

  He nodded, got back in his Blazer, and drove off with a backward wave.

  Rafe handed Alana into the Jeep truck and climbed in himself. She watched him covertly the whole time, matching memories with reality.

  The Rafe Alana saw was older, much more controlled than in her memories. When he wasn’t smiling, his face was hard, almost frightening in its planes and angles. Yet he still moved with the easy strength that had always fascinated her. His voice was still gentle, and his hands were . . . beautiful. It was an odd way to describe anything as strong and quick and callused as a man’s hands, yet she could think of no better word.

  Not all masculine hands affected Alana like that. Sometimes she saw hands and terror sleeted through her.

  “We’re lucky today,” said Rafe as he guided, the Jeep expertly over the rough field that passed as the parking lot.

  “Lucky?” said Alana, hearing the thin thread of panic in her voice and hating it.

  “No rain so far. It rained a lot the last few days.”

  Alana tried to conceal the shudder that went through her at the thought of lightning and thunder, mountains and slippery black ice.

  “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I’m glad there isn’t a storm.”

  “You used to love storms,” said Rafe quietly.

  Alana went very still, remembering one wild September afternoon when a storm had caught her and Rafe while they were out riding. They had arrived at the fishing cabins, soaked and breathless. He had peeled her wet jacket off her, then her blouse, and his hands had trembled when he touched her.

  Closing her eyes, Alana tried to forget. The thought of being touched like that by Rafe made her weak with desire—and all but crazy with fear, dream and nightmare tangled together in a way she could neither explain nor understand.

  But if Rafe remembered the September storm when he had undressed and caressed Alana until there was only fire and the hushed urgency of their breathing, his memories didn’t show in his face or in his words.

  “We had a good frost above five thousand feet last week,” continued Rafe. “The aspen leaves turned. Now they look like pieces of sunlight dancing in the wind.”

  He looked quickly at Alana, seeing the lines of inner conflict on her face.

  “You still like aspen, don’t you?” Rafe asked.

  Alana nodded her head, afraid to trust her voice. Mountain aspen, with its white bark and quivering, silver-backed leaves, was her favorite tree. In fall, aspens turned a yellow as pure as . . . sunlight dancing in the wind.

  A sideways glance told her that Rafe was watching her with intent, whiskey-colored eyes.

  “I still like aspen,” said Alana.

  She tried to keep her voice normal, grateful for the safe topic. The present, not the past. The past was more than she could handle. The future was unthinkable. Just one day at a time. One hour. A minute. She could handle anything, one minute at a time.

  “Even in winter,” Alana added, her voice little more than a whisper, “when the branches are black and the trunks are like ghosts in the snow.”

  Rafe accelerated down the narrow, two-lane blacktop road. He glanced for a moment at the magnificent granite spine of the Wind River Mountains, rising on his left.

  “Be a while before there’s real snow in the high country,” he said. “The frost put down the insects, though. Then it turned warm again. Trout ought to be hungry as hell. That means good fishing for our dudes—guests,” he corrected immediately, smiling to himself. “Nobody likes being called a dude.”

  “Our dudes?” asked Alana slowly, watching Rafe with eyes so brown they were almost black.

  Sunlight slanted through the windshield, intensifying the tan on Rafe’s face and the richness of his dark brown mustache, making his eyes almost gold. His teeth showed in a sudden gleam of humor, but his expression said the joke was on him. He answered her question with another question.

  “Didn’t Bob mention me?”

  “No,” said Alana, her voice ragged. “You were a complete surprise.”

  Rafe’s expression changed.

  For an instant Alana thought she saw pain, but it came and went so quickly that she decided she had been wrong. She was being too sensitive again. Overreacting. Yet she still wanted to touch Rafe, to erase the instant when she sensed that she had hurt him and didn’t even know how.

  The thought of touching Rafe didn’t frighten Alana. Not like being touched did. For an instant she wondered why, but all that came to her was . . . nothing. Blank.

  Like those six missing days.

  “Looks like we’ll have to do it the hard way,” Rafe said softly.

  His voice was an odd mixture of resignation and some much stronger emotion in his voice, something close to anger.

  Before Alana could speak, Rafe did.

  “Bob and I are partners.”

  “Partners in what?” Alana asked.

  “The dude—guest ranch. The cottages and fishing water are on Lazy W land. My land. The horses and supplies belong to Bob. He’s the wrangler, I’m the fishing guide, and you’re the cook. When Dr. Gene shows up,” added Rafe with a crooked smile, “he’ll be the chief worm dunker.”

  Stunned, Alana could think of nothing to say. She would be going up Broken Mountain with Rafael Winter. Dream and nightmare running together, pouring over her, drowning her in freezing water.

  She sat without moving, letting the sunlight and the landscape blur around her, trying to gather her fragmenting thoughts.

  No wonder Bob didn’t say anything to me about Rafael Winter, Alana thought unhappily. If I’d known that Bob had a. partner, I might have let the partner bail Bob out of the mess.

  Especially if I knew that the partner was Rafael Winter.

  It was all Alana could do to handle the recent past, amnesia and accident and death. Bob should have known that she couldn’t handle a present that included Rafe.

  A year ago Bob had told her that Rafe was still alive. Then Bob had taken her letter to Rafe’s ranch. Bob had come back with the letter unopened, Deceased written across the envelope’s face-written in Rafe’s distinctive hand.

  Bob had seen Alana’s pain and anger, then her despair. And now he was asking her to go up Broken Mountain with Rafael Winter, to confront the past love and loss all over again. And the present nightmare.

  Alana shuddered and tried to think of nothing at all.

  “Alana,” began Rafe.

  Somehow she was certain that he was going to talk about the past, about dying but not quite, about surviving but not wholly, about her and Jack and an envelope with a “dead” man’s handwriting across its face, tearing her apart.

  She wasn’t strong enough for that. Not for the past. Not for anything but this minute. Now.

  “Bob and Tom Sawyer have a lot in common,” Alana said quickly, her voice as strained as it was determined. “Don’t go near either of them if a fence needs painting. Unless you like painting fences, of course.”

  Rafe hesitated, visibly reluctant to give up whatever he had wanted to say. But Alana’s taut, pale face and haunted eyes persuaded him.

  “Yes,” Rafe said slowly. “Bob could charm the needles off a pine tree.”

  Relieved, Alana sat back in the seat again.

  “The only thing that ever got even with Bob was the hen he poured jam on and then dumped in the middle of eight half-grown hounds,” Alana said. “That hen pecked Bob’s hands until she was too tired to lift her head.”

  Rafe’s laughter was as rich as the slanting sunlight pouring over the land. Alana turned toward him involuntarily, drawn by his humor and strength, by the laugh that had haunted her dreams as thoroughly as the scent of ev
ergreens haunted the high country.

  “So that’s how Bob got those scars on his hands,” Rafe said, still chuckling. “He told me it was chicken pox.”

  Alana’s lips curved into a full smile, the first in a long time. “So it was, after a fashion.”

  She glanced up at Rafe through her thick black lashes and caught the amber flash of his eyes as he looked away from her to the road. For an instant her heart stopped, then beat more quickly. He had been watching her.

  She wondered if he was comparing the past and present as she had. And remembering.

  “How did Bob talk you into painting his fence?” Alana asked quickly, wanting to hear Rafe talk, his voice deep and smooth and confident, like his laughter.

  “Easy. I’m a sucker for fishing. I spend a lot of my time in the high country chasing trout. Might as well make it pay.”

  “Land poor,” murmured Alana. “Rancher’s lament.”

  “I have it better than Bob,” Rafe said, shrugging. “I’m not buying out two brothers.”

  Alana thought of Dave and Sam, her other brothers. Sam worked for a large corporation with branches around the world. Dave was a computer programmer in Texas. Neither brother had any intention of coming back to the ranch for anything other than occasional visits. Of the four Burdette children, only she and Bob had loved the ranching life.

  Nor had Jack Reeves loved the ranching life he had been born into. He couldn’t leave Wyoming fast enough. He had hungered for city streets and applauding crowds.

  “Jack hated Wyoming.”

  Startled, Alana heard the words echoing in the Jeep and realized she had spoken aloud.

  “He’s dead,” she added.

  “I know.”

  Alana stared at Rafe.

  “How—” she began.

  Then she realized that of course Rafe knew. Bob must have told him. They were partners. But how much had Bob told Rafe? Did he know about her amnesia? Did he know about the nightmares that lapped over into day, triggered by a word or a smell or the quality of the light? Did he know she was afraid she was going crazy?

  Did Rafe know that she clung to her memories and dreams of him as though they were a lifeline able to pull her beyond the reach of whatever terror stalked her?