Memories at Midnight

by Joanna Wayne

  “And now I could identify him. Who’s to say he’s not going to come after me?”

  “You’d only be identifying a trespasser. As long as he doesn’t know you’ve talked to me, he won’t imagine you have a clue as to what he was really doing here. And even now we can’t be sure it’s the same man.”

  Leon looked around, his eyes round and alert, his hands clenching and unclenching in a nervous rhythm. “I need to get back to the house.”

  “In a minute, Leon. Just describe the man. Then I’ll ride back with you if you’d like.”

  “No, I’ll describe him as best I can, but then you just go on ahead. I don’t want any dealings with a killer, and I don’t want him thinking I told you anything.”

  “Start with his approximate height and weight,” Clint said, his voice steady, his tone all business. “Then just describe any details you can remember. Hair color, skin color, identifying marks.”

  Darlene listened to every word, trying to paint a picture of the man with the few sketchy details Leon offered. Middle-aged, graying, around six feet. When Clint was finally convinced that he couldn’t pull any distinctive identifying details out of Leon’s choppy memory, he opened the passenger door for Darlene.

  “And you really believe this man won’t come back after me?” Leon asked, sliding his right foot into the stirrup.

  “If he’d wanted to kill you, Leon, you’d already be dead.”

  “You got a rotten sense of humor, you know that, Clint?” Leon tipped his hat to the two of them and yanked the reins, heading back in the direction he’d come. He twisted around to face them for one parting shot. “Watch out for him, Darlene. That badge he wears don’t cover his heart. It is his heart.”

  Leon meant it as a joke, and Clint laughed it off appropriately. So why did she have the sinking feeling that Leon was more right than he guessed?

  Maybe because Clint had already climbed back into the state of deep concentration he was so good at, shutting her out, even though he had to know how welcome his arm would be around her shoulder, had to know that her insides quaked and that her heart was pounding against the walls of her chest.

  There was a good chance she was alive tonight as a result of a rancher riding his fence line on a cool day with nothing more to bother him than whether he should check out the north pasture or the west one.

  But the killer was still out there, apparently growing more desperate by the minute. He knew who she was, and apparently she knew who he was as well. Except that her knowledge had sunk into a black abyss of forgetfulness, and no amount of determination on her part could bring it back.

  “Damn James McCord!”

  Darlene snapped to attention as Clint’s curse echoed through the cab of the truck.

  “This may not be his fault, Clint.”

  “Oh, it’s his fault, all right. And I’ll find out exactly how before it’s all over. In the meantime, he’s right.”

  “About what?”

  “The fact that you can’t stay here. I can’t protect you—not against this. You’ll have to go back to Washington, let the big man buy you all the guards you need. He’s the one you’ve always turned to. Why should this be any different?”

  “Whether or not I go back to Washington is my decision. Not yours and not the senator’s.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Fury, fear, fatigue. The deadly three raged and collided inside Darlene, but she didn’t even try to argue with Clint. The decision was etched into his face, registered in the strain of his voice, meted out by the precision hammering of his fist against the steering wheel.

  His mind was made up. But so was hers. She didn’t know what she’d been in the past, but the Darlene Remington of here and now was no quitter. Like it or not, Clint Richards was not getting rid of her that easily.

  Not this time.

  CLINT SLAMMED THE DOOR of his truck and stamped up the steps to his house. Last night he’d gotten nothing of substance from Bledsoe. Now he’d just wound down another day of questioning that had gotten him nowhere. Freddie Caulder claimed he hadn’t heard from McCord since the conversation in which the senator had instructed Darlene to go back to D.C. and had ordered Clint to back off.

  Bernie the Watchdog was more interested in running back and forth to New York than in finding where the senator had run off to for his dubious vacation. And top-security hound Thornton Roberts didn’t seem to have a clue about anything. Not that Clint blamed Thornton for that. It was common knowledge that McCord hired security men for his family, not for himself.

  Everything boiled down to James Marshall McCord. Everybody’s hero.

  Only he wasn’t. Not in Clint’s eyes. Not since the day he’d learned the truth about him. From hero to villain in one heartbreaking moment of truth. A deathbed confession had finally let Clint see McCord’s true colors.

  He’d spent the biggest part of his life looking up to the man, emulating everything about him. The way he wore his hat, the way he stood so straight and tall in his saddle when he rode in the Fourth of July parade, the way he swaggered into a group of men and took over the conversation.

  When McCord had spoken to their sixth-grade class about patriotism and what they should feel when they said the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag, Clint had even wished he had a false leg, had pretended it had been he who marched into battle and rescued his friends.

  The old memories chewed at him now, the way they had so frequently over the last few days. He walked through the empty house straight for the fridge, grabbing a beer and twisting off the cap. McCord was out there now, searching for a killer, sure he didn’t need anyone or anything to help him. Most of all, he didn’t need the two-bit sheriff from Vaquero, Texas.

  Clint leaned against the kitchen counter and took a drought-quenching swig of his beer. The house was quiet, and painfully empty, bathed in the slippery grayness of twilight. A week ago he’d loved coming home at the end of the day. Loved the fact that he answered to no one, that he could put his feet where he wanted and eat cold pizza in front of the TV if that’s what he chose.

  Tonight, all he felt was alone. He could blame that on McCord too. He had swept Darlene up in his own dilemma, sucked her into danger and then dropped her back into Clint’s life. Not for keeps. Just long enough to slash open the jagged scar where his heart had never fully healed. Just long enough to make him ache with the need for her, knowing that if he gave in, the days and weeks after she left would be all the more excruciating for having made love with her.

  He finished his beer and tossed the can into the trash, grabbing another before pushing through the back door. Randy had driven Darlene into town to pick up some groceries, and they would be driving up any minute. He had to steer his thoughts back into safer pastures before they arrived, reapply the veneer that would allow him to talk to her about her thoughts and memories while masking all his own.

  Most of all, he had to get through one more night without giving in to the urges that were driving him over the edge. She was all too willing. He had seen the desire in her eyes when she looked at him, had felt it in the way her heart beat against his chest when he lost control and held her close. Hell, he had even tasted the passion on her lips.

  Only it wasn’t really him she wanted. She didn’t even know him. She was infatuated by the cowboy who’d saved her. A temporary hero to last until her memory returned and she could resume her job as FBI Agent Darlene Remington, woman of steel. If he had any doubts about that, they’d been dispelled last night when she’d pulled the gun and started cracking orders.

  The job was in her blood. He couldn’t fault her for that. Texas was in his. Ranching and sheriffing were the only life he knew, the only life he wanted to know. So, he and Darlene were exactly back to where they’d been six years ago—only he’d grown older and wiser. He wasn’t signing up for the kind of punishment loving her could dish out. Not again.

  Needing the sting of the wind in his face and the smell of cattle and dust in his nostrils, he st
arted walking. He didn’t have a destination in mind, nor much of a purpose. He knew only that he needed to push his body to total exhaustion before he faced Darlene. And that even that wouldn’t kill the desire that would erupt inside him the second she walked through his door.

  “THAT’S CLINT’S TRUCK, so he has to be around here somewhere,” Randy announced as he yanked open the back screen door and waited for Darlene to enter in front of him. “Probably took one of the horses out for some exercise, or else he went to check on his cattle in the north pasture.”

  Darlene flipped the light switch and flooded the kitchen with two hundred watts of power. She’d psyched herself up on the way home to have it out with Clint, to demand to know the truth about what had happened between them six years ago. If she had done some horrible, unforgivable deed in her pre-amnesia life that made it impossible for them to get together or even to be friends, it would be far better for him to just spit out the truth. Especially now that the memory loss was threatening to hang on indefinitely.

  Regardless of his comment about their having shared a harmless summer fling, his actions indicated there was more to their past relationship. And call it intuition, a memory breakthrough or just a guess, but she couldn’t help believing that whatever had torn them apart had something to do with his bitter feelings toward James McCord.

  She walked to the window and stared into the gathering darkness. Loopy lay on the back porch, chewing a dry bone while he swished his tail at a bothersome fly. A squirrel scampered down the trunk of a tree and then back up again as if hurrying to get his aerobic exercise in before the encroaching darkness ended his day. Brandy was necking with a stately bay in the corral. All peaceful.

  And this was the way Clint lived. By day he was a lawman who chased the bad guys with a vengeance. On his own time, he was a rancher who liked his horses spirited, his dog loyal, his freedom unquestioned.

  She caught a glimpse of him as he stepped inside the barn that sat a hundred yards or more behind the house. As good a place as any to talk.

  Randy stuck his head in the refrigerator. “It’s Miller time,” he announced, pulling out a beer. “Want one?”

  “Might as well.”

  Randy opened it for her, and she took a sip. She wasn’t much of a beer fan, but it had been a long day. “I saw Clint step into the barn, Randy. I think I’ll go out and meet him. That way, you can go home and have supper with your family.”

  “I might just take you up on that. Only, I won’t be eating with the folks tonight. I’ve got a date with a certain little redheaded nurse. We’re going to Rosita’s to see if we can catch a little heartburn.” He winked and smiled.

  “No wonder you’re in such a good mood.”

  “Yep. Surprised the heck out of me when she accepted my invitation. Let me grab my jacket, and I’ll walk out with you.”

  “I’d rather go alone and surprise Clint.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Sounds like an interesting surprise, but that would be against orders. I’m not supposed to leave until I’ve officially turned the guard duty over to Clint.”

  “Then stay at the window and watch. When I get to the barn, I’ll wave.”

  He frowned, but relented. “I guess that would be all right. But don’t wave until you actually see Clint. And tell him this was all your idea. He’s not much on surprises. And he’s way big on following the rules to the letter. Especially where you’re concerned.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” She swung open the back door. “I promise. I won’t wave until I see the whites of his eyes.”

  The paraphrased quote clearly sailed over Randy’s head, but he grinned anyway and stepped over to the window so he could watch for her signal.

  “Have fun tonight,” she called, slipping out the door and down the steps. She walked quickly, anxious not to let her resolve to confront Clint wither. Loopy followed behind her—yet another guard. He nosed her leg as she walked, and she bent to scratch his head.

  A gust of cold wind whipped her hair into her face and cut through the thin cotton of her shirt. She should have taken time to grab a sweater. December evenings in the Hill Country could be biting even when the day had been shirtsleeve warm. Head down, she ran the last few steps to the barn.

  “Clint.” Her call was soft, tentative. “Clint? Are you in here? I need to talk to you.” Her voice echoed, rolling and bouncing off the roof and the wooden beams over her head. The door squeaked shut behind her, the whine of the rusty hinges ragging her already shaky nerves.

  “Are you looking for me?”

  She jumped as Clint answered, expecting him and yet startled when his voice seemed to come from nowhere. Her eyes adjusting to the twilight gray of the barn, she turned slowly, inspecting each shadowy corner until she spied him leaning against a wooden corner beam. His hat was low on his forehead, a pair of work gloves on his hands, his shirt open at the collar. Her breath caught at the sheer virility of the cowboy in his element.

  “I saw you walk into the barn a few minutes ago, and I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Where’s Randy?”

  She made a face and groaned. “He’s at the house, waiting for me to signal I hooked up with you.” Before she had a chance to remedy her mistake, Randy pushed through the door, breathing hard and fast from the speed he’d traveled to get there.

  She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Randy. I forgot, and I can’t even blame amnesia this time.”

  He looked to first one and then the other of them, his expression questioning what might be going on between them. “I didn’t mean to bust in on anything. But you didn’t signal like you promised, and when that door blew shut, I feared something was wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Clint stepped out of the shadows and walked over to stand next to Randy. “I’ll take over from here, but give me a call first thing in the morning. Reverend Goolsby’s yelling for the law to show up and corral those reprobate high-school boys who’ve been using the church ball field during services. I guess you ought to go over and run them off.”

  “I’ll do it. Quote them a couple of scriptures and a couple of ordinances. If that don’t work, I’ll threaten to call their mommas.”

  “Good. Bernie has agreed to drive Darlene to the airport in San Antonio. She has a ten-twenty flight out. As per McCord’s request, Emory already has a team lined up to protect her once she gets to D.C.”

  Irritation clawed its way along Darlene’s nerve endings. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  Clint kicked at a loose pile of hay. “You just were.”

  “Did you have any luck today?” Randy asked, hedging any personal involvement in the argument brewing around him. “Anything turn up?”

  “Nothing of consequence. Mary called McCord’s daughter Levi out in Montana, and got permission for me to go through her grandmother’s private records. Apparently she kept every letter McCord ever wrote her and every newspaper clipping that’s ever carried his name.”

  Darlene wandered toward the back of the hay-strewn barn as the two men finished their conversation, turning back only to acknowledge Randy’s departure. Highschool boys desecrating on the Sabbath. A murderer somehow connected with a political figure of national prominence. The chasm that split the two acts seemed as wide as the Atlantic Ocean, and yet they were all in a day’s work for Clint.

  Perhaps that’s all she was too: part of his work. A past lover who fell back into his life. A kiss or two, a helping of renewed passion, and then on to more important matters. Now it was time to send her on her way. If that was the case, she wanted to hear him say it—say she meant nothing to him and that he didn’t want her the same way she wanted him.

  She slipped between two sturdy beams that supported the topmost arch of the barn and then stopped to lean against a built-in ladder that led to the loft. She hooked the heel of her boot on the first rung.

  It was show time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darlene clung to the sides of the ladder, an unexpected surge
of familiarity washing over her and leaving her dizzy and weak.

  Climb the ladder. All the way to the top.

  The words were spoken so clearly in her mind, she thought for a minute they had come from Clint. But no, he was still at the door with Randy. Pain thrummed in her fingertips. Looking down, she found her hands clenched so tightly around the wooden rails that her knuckles had turned white.

  She closed her eyes, shuddering, suddenly overcome with emotion she didn’t understand. When she opened her eyes, Clint was standing inches away. The last beam of the setting sun flickered through the windows above the loft, casting an almost eerie glow about his features. His face was a stony mask that revealed nothing, but his eyes betrayed him. Smoky with desire, they reached inside her and twisted around her heart.

  Her breath caught in her throat, as wisps of memory rushed her mind. She’d been here before, in this very spot. With Clint. She knew it, as surely as she knew she’d just driven back from town with Randy. The details were shadowy silhouettes in a muddied pool, but the feeling was crystalline.

  She reached out, and Clint took her hand. “Let’s go back to the house,” he urged. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Not so dark. There’s a full moon tonight.” She tugged on his hand until he stepped closer. “Climb up in the loft with me, Clint.”

  He drew his lips into tight lines. “Why are you doing this, Darlene?”

  “I have questions that need answers.”

  “We can talk better in the house.” He nudged at the imposing Stetson, pushing it back farther on his head, so that he could look up at her.

  She climbed another rung but didn’t let go of his hand. The void stretched between them. “Did we make love in your barn, Clint?”

  He exhaled slowly, audibly, and she sensed more than saw the agony that bunched his muscles and clenched his jaw. He let go of her hand and backed away.

  “Don’t go there, Darlene. Not tonight. Not now.”