by Sylvie Kurtz
Grasping the sheets on the side of the bed into fists, he forced his eyes to stay open until he saw nothing but the white ceiling. And as his breath slowed, as the beating of his heart moderated, he became aware of the anger roiling through him like Class VI rapids. All of his thoughts converged to one overwhelming desire—escape.
“You’re awake.”
The voice jolted him into hyperarousal, sending the pulse monitor at his side into another wild jangle of beeps. He dragged in a long draw of breath and looked at the man beside his bed. “Who the hell are you?”
He was tall and thin. His features were long and pointed and reminded Chance of an egret. A pink skull showed through the man’s close-cropped blond hair. He wore a beige uniform shirt with a gold star above the left pocket and held his hat before him with both hands in a way that struck Chance as a supplication.
“Tad Pruitt.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Your deputy.”
Chance looked away, closed his eyes, then jerked them open when the red haze threatened him again.
Tad Pruitt. His deputy.
The name, the man, didn’t ring a bell. He almost laughed out loud. Nothing was real anymore. His brain seemed to have been wiped clean of everything except the snapshots of the muddy images running through his mind. His emotions seemed to be able to handle nothing more than the fear running rampant through his body or the anger stirring a fevered need for action.
He fixed his gaze on the acoustic tiles on the ceiling and started counting the holes. One. Two. Three. He was riding a thin line between two nightmares. Any minute now the thread would break and sling him straight into insanity. Four. Five. Six.
“I’ve got to ask you some questions, Chance.” Tad gave a rough attempt at a laugh. “Paperwork’s a bitch, but you’ll have my head if I don’t do it right.”
Chance. They kept calling him that, but the name fit about as well as a boot two sizes too small. He sure didn’t feel lucky—blistered and bloody was more like it. “The answer to all of them is ‘I don’t know.’”
“Why don’t we give it a try anyway?”
“Why don’t you go to hell?”
Tad cleared his throat. “Well, now, I wish I could, but while you’re down, I’ve got an obligation to the town to fulfill.”
“You’ve been here. You’ve seen me. Your obligation has been fulfilled. Now leave.”
“It’s not that easy, Chance. Sam Wentworth said he saw you coming down the ramp. Halfway down you accelerated and kept going until you hit the water. They found no mechanical reason for what happened.”
No, the dysfunction had been one of his own doing. He knew that on a level as primal as the fear running through his veins. One hundred seventy-one. One hundred seventy-two.
“That leaves two options, Chance. Did you mistake the accelerator for the brake?”
“I don’t know.”
The heels of Tad’s boots squeaked as he shifted his weight from left to right. “Is there some other reason you’d want to drive into that river?”
“I don’t know.” Three hundred and one. Three hundred and two. And that was just one corner of one tile. Counting all those holes on the ceiling would surely keep him too busy to think.
“You’re an expert diver, but Sam said you didn’t even try to get out of the car. You just sat there, staring at the sun while water was pouring in all around you.” Tad paused and Chance heard the sound of felt slipping round and round through fingers. The deputy was nervous. “What did you see?”
Blood. Death. Whose? Why? Were they even real? Five hundred and nine. Five hundred and ten. “I don’t know.”
“You were lucky your rear bumper caught the bank. If it hadn’t, the current would have swept you away. Sam got on the horn to RoAnn and got help.”
Chance didn’t feel particularly grateful for Sam’s Good Samaritan act or RoAnn’s efficiency at the moment. Whoever they were. Their good deeds had left him swimming in this hell of red and bloodshed and constant dread. Nine hundred and fifteen.
“Let me walk you through what happened right before you hit the water.”
“No.” He wasn’t going there. The best thing to do, he decided, was to walk away and never look back. Escape. He swallowed hard. The need itched through him strong. Damn! He’d lost count. One. Two. Three.
“You were on the highway heading toward the Brett ranch. After RoAnn gave you the call, you headed toward Gator Park.”
Tad paused and seemed to want the silence filled. Chance obliged to cover the quickening whoosh in his ears. “I don’t know.”
“Sam said you were there pretty quick after he called in the safe’s sighting. You climbed the exit ramp. Then what happened?”
“I don’t know.” Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
“Just close your eyes and put yourself back in the cruiser.”
“No!” Chance’s heart beat frantically in his chest. The monitor’s wild beeps only added to his feeling of being out of control. Like a fish out of water, he started struggling for breath. Fisting his hands around the edge of the mattress, he grappled for control. He wasn’t going to fall into that red haze. He wasn’t going to be carried away on this surge of panic. He wasn’t going to drown.
“You’re not even trying to figure this out,” Tad said.
“I told you. I don’t remember.” The monitor took another leap and a nurse came in. He saw a syringe in her hands and a fresh wave of terror swept through him. With the drugs, he would be helpless, a bit of debris tossed about with no control. The images would drown through him again.
“No drugs.” He grabbed at the IV line. “I’ll rip it right out. No drugs.”
“Your vitals are off the chart, Mr. Conover. This will help calm you down.”
Chance dragged in a long breath, then another. Sweat soaked him from head to toe. “I’m calm. The deputy irritated me, but he’s leaving now. I’m fine. No drugs.”
The nurse looked at Tad. “Maybe it would be best if you left.”
Hat still in hand, Tad nodded. “I’ll be back.” His boots squeaked to the slow rhythm of his departure.
“Now,” the nurse said as she reached for the IV, “why don’t you let me look at that line and make sure you haven’t knocked anything out of kilter?”
“Take it out,” he ordered.
The nurse clucked at him. “I can’t do that without a doctor’s order.”
“I’m leaving,” he said, and started to sit up.
She snorted her disagreement. “And where would you go? You don’t even know where you live.”
“But I do.”
They both turned at the gentle, yet insistent voice. The woman from last night stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other holding a bag. He couldn’t recall her name, but something about her presence sang through him.
She was small, nothing outstanding. All of her features were soft, almost invisible against the pale walls. But her eyes stood out like beacons, warm and welcoming. They were wide, bluer than a summer sky, and had a hypnotic quality to them that kept his gaze riveted and had his throat going dry.
“Do you want to come home with me?” Her eyes were earnest. Her body was braced to handle whatever answer he gave her.
She’d cried for him. She’d said she loved him. She’d told him she wouldn’t let him forget. He’d wanted to hang on to that promise. But promises were brittle. They broke like branches on the river and left you drifting still holding on to the thing that had let you down.
Now she was offering him a way out, another scrap of hope.
“Yes.”
A whoosh escaped her. Then she went into action, striding past the nurse and standing between them.
“I’m signing him out now.” The straight posture of her body dared the nurse to walk through her. If he’d had to take odds, he’d have placed them on the small woman’s determination even given the nurse’s fifty-pound and five-inch advantage. Did he deserve that fierce loyalty?
&nb
sp; “That’s against regulations. The doctor—”
“Said there was nothing physically wrong with Chance. There’s no reason to hold him.”
“Dr. Benton—”
“Isn’t the admitting physician.”
The woman glanced at him over her shoulder. Her blue eyes revealed a mixture of soul-stirring warmth and utter sadness. “He’s my husband. I’m taking him home where he belongs.”
He got his wish; he was getting out of this nightmarish place. But as the nurse slipped the IV needle out of his arm, he swallowed hard.
He would be leaving with a woman who was almost as disturbing as the images flashing through his mind.
Chapter Three
Chance had been home for nearly a week and he didn’t seem to be making headway. Taryn had tried feeding him all his favorite dishes. She’d tried showing him the pictures taken of their life together. She’d tried taking him out into the community he’d loved. Nothing had made a difference.
He’d eaten with apathy. He’d barely glanced at the photos. Though she’d invited him to make himself at home, he acted as if he were a guest uncomfortably detained against his wishes. Her questions were either ignored or answered with a grunt. He’d refused to go out or to receive visitors—including Angus and his wife, Lucille. They’d been father and mother to him for fifteen years, and being turned away by one they considered a son had hurt.
And always there was an underlying current of anger that seemed to propel him into constant action.
He spent his nights awake, pacing the halls of their small house like a caged animal. Day didn’t bring him relief, either. It was as if he had to keep ahead of whatever was haunting him or risk being devoured by it. Not knowing how to help him made her feel as helpless as when she’d been a girl and watched her mother rant and rave at her sorry lot in life.
His blank stare, his restless turmoil, his aloofness toward her were like a bruise she kept hitting over and over again. She hid the pain with a smile and continued encouragement. But the tenderest ache was knowing that he was home and didn’t want to share her bed. So in the bedroom he refused to enter, she cried herself to sleep every night.
Even though every defeat stung, it was up to her to find a way through the amnesia to the Chance she knew. She wasn’t going to give up.
Tonight she’d awakened from a light sleep to the quiet. Not hearing the soft footfall of his bare feet on the carpet had whacked her out of drowsiness with a fresh wave of worry. She found him standing in the dark by the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Two hundred yards down the grassy slope of their backyard, the river glistened in moonlight. His gaze was riveted on the water as if it held all the answers.
She went to stand next to him. “It’s late. Past midnight. You’re exhausted. Why don’t you come to bed?”
He flinched as if she’d suggested self-mutilation, and a bolt of panic jagged through his eyes. What was causing the fear? Was he afraid that if he slept he would lose the rest of himself?
“You don’t have to sleep,” she said, reaching for him then letting her hand fall back to her side. “Come rest.” Let me take care of you.
He didn’t say anything, but kept staring out the window. She hesitated, then stood closer, wrapped one arm around his and twined their fingers as she’d done a thousand times before. Something sighed inside her at the rightness of his hand in hers. He didn’t jerk away. She took it as a good sign.
“See the roses by the fence?” She pointed at the dark shape of bushes in the yard. “You planted those for me on our wedding day. You said you didn’t want me to live in a home without flowers. The way you said it was so sweet, I cried.”
There was no sign of recognition in his eyes, no shifting of muscle to indicate anything she said was getting through. The tears burning her eyes this time were tears of frustration.
“And the swing by the pecan?” she continued, proud the rawness in her throat barely wavered her voice. “You thought we could spend romantic evenings there talking and planning. But we hardly ever use it because the mosquitoes are too fierce. Instead, most nights, we linger over iced tea right here in the kitchen.”
She leaned her head against his arm, heard the sharp intake of breath, smiled and snuggled closer. She could still affect him. That had to say something, didn’t it?
“You hate cutting the lawn. You grumbled about it every blessed weekend. I finally got so tired of hearing you complain that I hired the Taylor boy. He’s doing a good job, don’t you think?”
Chance made a noncommittal grunt. At least he was listening. She’d half feared he was lost somewhere in his own mind, or drowning in the phantom memories awakened by the river.
Red Thunder looked innocent enough tonight. Romantic even, with the moonlight dancing on its wake. The sound of the water through the closed glass door had a steady, soothing quality to it.
“You do love the river. You spend all your free time on it—fishing, paddling, diving.” She looked up into his dark eyes, wanting to be sure she wasn’t pushing too fast into dangerous territory. She wanted to bring her husband back, not drive him farther away. “You and Jake—”
He stiffened against her as he did every time a name was mentioned. He didn’t remember Jake any more than he remembered anybody else, and didn’t care for the reminder. She tried to gloss over the ties as if it were something she did every day.
“You went through the police academy with Jake Atwood. He works in Beaumont and we still see him and his wife, Liz, often. Anyway, after your ordeal, you were afraid of the current, so Jake taught you to dive. He was the one who told you that the only way to deal with the fear was to face it. He said you were a natural, that he’d never seen a strong swimmer like you. Must be why you survived.”
Chance’s jaw flinched.
“It’s brought you a great deal of joy, the river has, but it’s stolen a lot from you, too, hasn’t it? Twice now, it’s taken your memory.”
He started to turn from her, but she hung on to him. “I won’t let it take anything more from you.” Reaching across her own body, she placed a hand over his heart, felt the strong thunder of it against her hand. “Talk to me, Chance. I can deal with anything but your silence.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
To evoke memories of their life together, she’d tried feeding him, she’d tried talking to him, she’d tried showing him his world. Maybe what he needed right now was to escape for a while.
She swiveled until they stood chest to chest. Her fingers skimmed his jaw. Afraid to look in his eyes and see rejection, she concentrated on the dark stubble along his cheek, marveled at how the prickly softness showed off the exotic planes of his face, the strength.
With the tip of a finger, she traced the velvet smoothness of his lips, felt them part. His breath blew hot against her skin. She wanted to feel her mouth against his, wanted to feel him devouring her. The sheer power of the desire cut her breath short. Deliberately, she released it. Slowly, she leaned forward. Tentatively, she pressed a kiss against his neck, felt the answering leap of his pulse against her lips.
Chance growled. He captured her wrists in his hands, tore them from his shoulders and pushed them back. Her pulse bounced against the hard manacles of his fingers.
“No.” But there was no strength to his denial.
“Yes.” She rose on her toes, watched him watch her with his keen gaze, saw his nostrils flare, felt the waft of heat from his body wrap around her, smelled the familiar scent of his musk on that heated wave.
And as her lips touched his once more, there came that delicious helpless-warrior groan low in his throat. Desire flared raw and charged in his eyes.
She could reach him on this primal level. She knew she could. “Let me love you, Chance.”
“No,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed her with equal ardor.
The rich and warm taste of him sent her blood whooshing through her veins. Her fierce need for him had been a wonder to her since their
first kiss. Still was. Longing had her trembling, so she anchored her arms around his neck and brought him deeper into the kiss. Yearning unfurled low in her belly, reminding her what their love had created. A cascade of warmth and lust rippled through her and her kiss turned hard and wild. “Let me love you.”
He braced his hands on each side of her hips. The glorious heat of them burned her through her nightshirt. His breath rasped hard against her cheek. For an instant, she thought he would push her away, but his tongue tangled with hers, and the zig to push her away turned into a zag that pinned her against his hard body. Pulse thundered against pulse. Heart drummed against heart. Desire fed on desire.
The Chance she remembered was in there somewhere. She could feel it in his kiss, in his touch, in his fervor. If it took loving him every night, every day, until she found him again, she would. She wouldn’t give up. The power of the love they shared was strong. It would lead him home. Had to.
She buried her face against his neck, brushed her lips against his racing pulse and whispered in a low, harsh voice, “Let me love you.”
THE SOFT SEDUCTION of her words, of her touch, jolted through Chance like a sky full of lightning. He wanted to say no, should say no. He was as unsettled as a summer storm and needed to feel in control. But he couldn’t help himself. In the heat of her body, in the passion of her kiss, came a strange kind of escape. The world was no longer red, but a blessed, brilliant white. Hands no longer choked; they stroked and stoked. Hair didn’t writhe, it seduced with silky slides against his skin.
He wanted the oblivion she offered more than he wanted his next breath, so he let her lead him down the hallway to the room with the queen-size bed. The blue-and-white quilt’s windmill design seemed to taunt him, made him dizzy, so he closed his eyes. He let her unbutton his shirt, his jeans, run her hands over his chest, lower, graze her teeth over a flat, taut nipple. He let her soft sweetness infuse him with a desire that was keen and sharp, alive in the minefield of death.
