Six days gone.
Six blank days poisoning past memories, poisoning each day, poisoning her; Broken Mountain looming over her with inhuman patience, waiting, waiting.
For what? Alana asked silently. For me to die, too?
You can’t keep the mountain waiting.
With a shudder Alana turned away from her thoughts, dressed quickly, and went downstairs. The thought of food didn’t appeal to her. She avoided the dining room, where she heard laughter and strange voices, Stan’s and the woman whom Alana hadn’t officially met. She didn’t feel up to meeting Janice Simpson right now, either.
Quietly Alana let herself out the front door, then circled around to the barn where the pack mules waited patiently.
There were five horses lined up at the hitching posts. One horse was a magnificent Appaloosa stallion. Two were good-looking bays, their brown hides glossy in the sun. Of the two remaining horses, one was as black as midnight and one was a big, dapple-gray gelding.
Alana went to the black mare and stood for a moment, letting the velvet muzzle whuff over her, drinking her scent. When the mare returned to a relaxed posture, accepting Alana’s presence, she ran her hand down the animal’s muscular legs and picked up each hoof, checking for stones or loose nails in the shoes.
“Well, Sid,” Alana said as she straightened up from the last hoof, “are you ready for that long climb and that rotten talus slope at the end?”
Sid snorted.
Alana checked the cinch and stirrup length, talking softly all the while, not hearing Rafe approach behind her.
“Good-looking mare,” said Rafe, his voice neutral.
Alana checked the bridle, then stepped back to admire the horse.
“Sid’s a beauty, all right, but the best thing about her is the way she moves,” Alana said. “She just flattens out those mountain trails.”
“Sid?” Rafe asked, his voice tight.
“Short for Obsidian,” explained Alana, returning to the bridle. “You know, that shiny black volcanic glass.”
“Yes, I know,” he said softly. “You say she has a good trail gait?”
“Yes,” Alana said absently, her attention more on loosening the strap beneath the bit than on the conversation. “Riding her is like riding a smooth black wind. A real joy. Not a mean hair on her shiny hide.”
“She didn’t mind the talus?” continued Rafe in a voice that was restrained, tight with emotion.
“No. The gray didn’t like it much, though,” said Alana, rearranging the mare’s forelock so it wouldn’t be pulled by the leather straps.
“The gray?” Rafe asked.
“Jack’s horse,” she said casually, gesturing toward the big dapple-gray gelding. “It—”
Alana blinked. Suddenly her hands began to shake. She spun and faced Rafe.
“It balked,” she said urgently. “The gray balked. And then Jack—Jack—”
She closed her eyes, willing the memories to come. All that came was the thunder of her own heartbeat. She made an anguished sound.
“It’s gone!” Alana cried. “I can’t remember anything!”
“You remembered something,” said Rafe, his whiskey eyes intent. “That’s a start.”
“Jack’s horse balked. Six seconds out of six days.” Alana’s hands clenched until her fingernails dug deeply into her palms. “Six lousy seconds!”
“That’s not all you remembered.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sid. You walked out here today and picked her out of a row of horses without any hesitation at all.”
“Of course. I’ve always ridden—” Alana stopped, a startled look on her face. “I can’t remember the first time I rode Sid.”
“Bob bought her two months ago. He hadn’t named her by the time you and Jack came up. You named her, Alana.
“And then you rode her up Broken Mountain.”
7
T HE FIRST HALF of the eight-hour ride to the fishing cabins on the Winter ranch wasn’t strenuous. The trail wound through evergreens and along a small, boulder-strewn river that drained a series of lakes higher up the mountain. The air was vibrant with light and fragrance.
The horses’ hooves made a soothing, subtly syncopated beat that permeated Alana’s subconscious, setting up tiny earthquakes of remembrance beneath amnesia’s opaque mantle.
Little things.
Simple things.
Sunlight fanning through a pine branch, stilettos of gold and quivering green needles. The ring of a horse’s steel-shod hoof against stone. The liquid crystal of a brook sliding through shadows. The creak of a saddle beneath a man’s shifting weight.
The pale flash of blond hair just off her shoulder when Jack’s gray horse crowded against Sid’s side.
No, not Jack’s horse, Alana corrected instantly. Stan’s horse. Jack is dead and the sky over Broken Mountain is clear. No clouds, no thunder, no ice storm poised to flay my unprotected skin and make walking a treacherous joke.
There was sunlight now, hot and pouring, blazing over her, warming her all the way to her bones. She was hot, not cold. Her hands were flexible, not numb and useless. Her throat wasn’t a raw sore from too many screams.
It was just rigid with the effort of not screaming now.
Deliberately Alana swallowed and unclenched her hands from the reins. She wiped her forehead, beaded with cold sweat despite the heat of the day.
She didn’t notice Bob’s concerned looks or the grim line of Rafe’s mouth. When Rafe called for an early lunch, she thought nothing of it, other than that she would have a few minutes of relief, a few minutes longer before she had to face Broken Mountain’s savage heights.
Alana dismounted and automatically loosened the cinch. She was a little stiff from the ride, but it wasn’t anything that a bit of walking wouldn’t cure.
Janice, however, wasn’t as resilient. She groaned loudly and leaned against her patient horse. Rafe came up and offered his arm. Janice took it and walked a few painful steps. Alana watched the woman’s chestnut hair gleam in the sun and heard Janice’s feminine, rueful laughter joined by the deep, male sound of Rafe’s own amusement.
Slowly the two of them walked back down the line of horses on the opposite side of the trail, coming closer to Alana, who was all but invisible as she leaned on Sid.
Envy turned in Alana as she watched Janice with Rafe. To be able to accept touch so casually. To laugh. To feel Rafe’s strength and warmth so close and not be afraid. To remember everything.
Did Janice know how lucky she was? And did she have to cling so closely to Rafe that her breasts pressed against his arm?
Alana closed her eyes and choked off her uncharitable thoughts. Obviously Janice wasn’t at all accustomed to riding. Her legs must feel like cooked spaghetti. Yet she hadn’t complained once in the four hours since they had left the ranch.
Bob had demanded a brisk pace, wanting to reach Five Lakes Lodge on Broken Mountain before the late-afternoon thundershowers materialized. The hard ride hadn’t been easy on the two dudes, who weren’t accustomed either to riding or to the increasingly thin air as the trail climbed toward timberline.
But no one had objected to the pace. Not even Stan, who had good reason to be feeling irritable.
Stan, who had been first screamed at and then attacked with no warning, laid out flat, choking beneath Rafe’s hard arm.
Blood rose in Alana’s cheeks as she remembered last night’s fiasco. She put her face against the smooth leather of the saddle, cooling her hot skin.
Stan came up on the other side of Janice and took her arm, supporting her. She smiled up at him in rueful thanks. The smile was vivid, inviting, a perfect foil for Janice’s clear blue eyes. Stan smiled back with obvious male appreciation.
“I’ll leave you in Stan’s capable hands,” said Rafe, withdrawing. “But don’t go too far. We have to be back on the trail within half an hour.”
The big blond man looked at the meadow just beyond the trees, where sever
al trails snaked off in various directions.
“Which trail?” asked Stan.
“That one.”
Rafe pointed toward the rugged shoulder of Broken Mountain, looming at the end of the meadow.
Janice groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Only for you, Rafe Winter,” she muttered, “would I get on that damned horse again and ride up that god-awful trail.”
Alana lifted her head and looked over Sid’s back with sudden, intense curiosity. Janice’s words, her ease with Rafe, everything about the two of them together added up to people who had known each other longer than a few hours. Stan, too, seemed familiar with Rafe, more like an old friend than a new client for Broken Mountain Dude Ranch.
As Janice and Stan hobbled off down the trail, Rafe smiled after them with a combination of affection and amusement. Alana watched both the smile and the man, and she wondered how well Rafe knew Stan and Janice.
Especially Janice.
As though Rafe sensed Alana’s scrutiny, he looked up and saw the black of her hair blending perfectly with Sid’s shiny hide. Other than her eyes and hair, Alana was hidden behind the horse’s bulk.
“You know them,” Alana said when she saw the whiskey eyes watching her. Her voice sounded accusing.
Rafe waited for a long moment, then shrugged.
“I used to travel a lot. The two of them were my favorite agents.” He smiled swiftly, amused by a private joke. “We’ve done a lot of business together, one way or another.”
“She’s very attractive.”
There was a question mark in Alana’s eyes, if not in her voice.
Rafe glanced in the direction of Janice, now well down the trail, leaning on Stan.
“Yes, I suppose she is,” said Rafe, his voice indifferent. Then he turned suddenly, pinning Alana with amber eyes. “So is Stan.”
“Not to me.”
“Because he reminds you of Jack?”
Alana thought of lying, then decided it was too much trouble. It was hard enough to keep dream separate from nightmare. If she started lying to herself and to Rafe, it would become impossible to separate the threads of reality from the snarl of amnesia and unreality.
“Stan isn’t attractive to me because he isn’t you.”
Rafe’s nostrils flared with the sudden intake of his breath. Before he could speak, Alana did, her voice both haunted and unflinching.
“But it doesn’t matter that you’re attractive to me and other men aren’t,” she said, her voice low, “because it’s too late.”
“No.”
Rafe said nothing more. He didn’t have to. Every line of his strong body rejected what she said.
Slowly Alana shook her head, making sunlight slide and burn in her black hair.
“I can’t handle any more, Rafe,” she said, a thread of desperation in her voice. “I can’t handle you and the past and today, what was and what wasn’t, what is and what isn’t. Just getting through the days is hard enough, and the nights . . .”
Alana took a sharp breath, fighting to control herself. It was harder each hour, each minute, for her mind was screaming at her that with every moment, every foot up the trail to Broken Mountain, she came closer to death.
Her death.
It was irrational. She knew it. But knowing didn’t stop the fear.
“Seeing you and then remembering the days before and knowing that it will never again . . .” said Alana in a rush.
Her breath came out raggedly, almost a sob. She closed her dark eyes, not wanting to reveal the hunger and fear and helplessness seething inside her.
“I just can’t!” Alana said.
“No,” countered Rafe, his voice both soft and certain. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again. Unless you don’t want me?”
Alana made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“I’ve never wanted anyone else, for all the good that does either one of us,” she said. “It wasn’t enough in the past, was it? And it isn’t enough now. Even you can’t touch me.”
“It’s been hardly a month,” Rafe said reasonably. “Give yourself time to heal.”
“I’m starting to hate myself,” she said.
Alana’s voice was husky with the effort it took to speak rationally about the panic that was turning her strength to water and then draining even that away.
“I’m a coward,” she whispered. “Hiding behind amnesia.”
“That’s not true!”
Alana looked longingly at Rafe, an unattainable dream.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come back. I’m getting worse, not better.”
Rafe’s face showed an instant of pain that made Alana catch her breath.
“Was it better for you in Portland?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost without inflection.
Slowly Alana shook her head.
“No. When I slept the nightmares came, more each time, and worse. I’d wake up and fight myself. Hate myself. That’s why I’m here. I thought . . .”
Rafe waited, but when Alana didn’t say any more, he asked, “What did you think?”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, then another.
“I thought there was something here for me, something that would help me to be strong again. Something that would . . .”
Alana’s voice broke but she went on, forcing herself to tell Rafe what she had told no one else.
“Something that would let me sing again,” she whispered.
Rafe wondered if he had heard correctly. Her voice was so soft, so frayed.
“What do you mean?” asked Rafe.
“I haven’t sung since Broken Mountain. I can’t. Every time I try, my throat just closes.”
Alana looked at Rafe desperately, wondering if he knew how much singing meant to her.
“Singing was all I had left after you died,” she said. “And now I can’t sing. Not one note. Nothing. You’re alive now, and I can’t bear to be touched. And I can’t sing.”
Rafe’s eyes closed. He remembered the sliding, supple beauty of Alana’s voice soaring with his harmonica’s swirling notes, Alana’s face radiant with music and love as she sang to him.
He wanted to reassure her, protect her, love her, give her back song and laughter, all that the past had taken from her and from him. Yet everything he did brought Alana more pain, more fear.
She could not sing.
He could not hold her.
Rafe swore softly, viciously. When his eyes opened they were clear and hard, and pain was a darkness pooling in their depths.
“I’ll take you back down the mountain, Alana. And then I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. I can’t bear hurting you like this.”
“Rafe,” she said, catching her breath, touching his cheek with fingers that trembled. “None of this is your fault.”
“All of it is,” he said harshly. “I leaned on Bob to get you back here. Now you’re here and everything I do hurts you.”
“That isn’t true,” said Alana.
She couldn’t bear knowing that she had hurt Rafe. She had never wanted that, even in the worst times after her letter had come back unopened.
“Isn’t it?” Rafe asked.
He looked at her with narrow amber eyes. His anger at himself showed in his lips, sensual curves flattened into a hard line.
“No, it isn’t true,” she whispered.
But words weren’t enough to convince Rafe. Alana could see his disbelief in his grim expression. If she could have sung her emotions to him, he would have believed her, but she couldn’t sing.
Hesitantly she lifted her hand to Rafe’s face, the face that had smiled and laughed and loved her in her memories, in her dreams. He had always been a song inside her, even in the worst of times.
Especially then, when nightmare and ice avalanched around her, smothering her. He had given her so much, reality and dream and hope. Surely she could give something of that back to him now, when his eyes were dark with pain an
d anger at himself.
Alana’s fingertips pushed beneath the brim of Rafe’s Stetson until it tipped back on his head and slid unnoticed to the ground. Fingers spread wide, she eased into the rich warmth of his hair.
“You do feel like winter mink, Rafael,” she murmured, giving his name its liquid Spanish pronunciation, making a love song out of the three syllables. “Rafael . . . Rafael. You feel better than in my dreams of you. And my dreams of you are good. They are what kept me sane since Broken Mountain.”
Alana felt the fine trembling that went through Rafe, the outrush of his breath that was her name. For an instant she was afraid he would touch her, breaking the spell.
Instead, he moved his head slowly, rubbing against her hand like a big cat. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her fingers sliding deeply through his hair.
His sensual intensity sent a new kind of weakness through Alana, fire licking down her fingers and radiating through her body, fire deep inside her, burning.
Rafe’s dense brown lashes shifted as he looked at Alana, holding her focused in the hungry amber depths of his eyes.
“I’ve dreamed of you,” he said. “Of this.”
Alana said nothing, for she could not. Her fingers tightened in his hair, searching deeply, as though she would find something in his thick male pelt that she had lost and all but given up hope of ever finding again.
Even when the sound of Janice and Stan walking back up the row of horses reminded Alana that she and Rafe weren’t alone, even then she couldn’t bring herself to withdraw from the rich sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers.
Bob’s voice cut through Alana’s trance.
“Twenty minutes to trail time, everyone,” he called from the front of the line of pack mules. “If you haven’t eaten lunch, you’ll regret it.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Alana released the silk and warmth of Rafe’s hair. Just before her hand dropped to her side again, her fingertips paused to smooth the crisp hairs of his mustache, a caress as light as sunshine.
He moved his head slowly, sliding his lips over the sensitive pads of her fingers. When her hand no longer touched him, he bent swiftly, retrieved his hat, and settled it into place with an easy tug.
Forget Me Not Page 8
