In this classic story by Amanda Stevens, a woman reappears eleven years after her disappearance…but is she who she says she is?
When Amber Tremain went missing, her boyfriend, Connor McBride, was accused of murder. Eleven years later, it seems Amber has come back from the dead. But all is not as it appears. Amber’s family suspects she is an imposter. Yet, Connor is willing to help her find out who wanted her to disappear.
Originally published in 1999.
Her Secret Past
Amanda Stevens
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
PROLOGUE
Magnolia Bend, Mississippi
FRANKIE BODINE CUT the outboard motor on his flat-bottomed fishing boat and drifted toward the iron girders of the old Choppowah River bridge. Tying off, he threw a fishing line overboard and then situated himself in the bottom of the boat, head propped on one of the plank seats as he gazed at the stars.
It was so quiet out here, he sometimes imagined he could hear the phantom cries of the Confederate soldiers who had been ambushed in the piney woods just upstream. He knew the sounds were made by the whippoorwills and the hoot owls that nested in the trees, but it was easy to get spooked on the river.
One night, peering over his boat at the blackened surface of the water, Frankie could have sworn he’d seen a reflection that wasn’t his staring back at him. The image had been that of a woman with long blond hair.
Frankie had convinced himself that the face hadn’t been a reflection at all, but the ghost of Miranda Tremain, who had thrown herself off the bridge a few years back. The body—what was left of it—hadn’t been found until two weeks later, thirty miles downstream, and by then, the catfish and the gar had been at her.
Frankie shuddered, remembering the stories he’d heard all his life about the man-size alligator gar that lay on the muddy river bottom near the bridge, waiting for someone to fall into the water. Or to jump, like Miranda Tremain had done.
But in spite of his fears, Frankie loved the river. It was the only place where he could feel at ease. His sister, Winny, called him special—others in town called him slow. He didn’t learn things the way regular people did, didn’t understand some of their ways, so when he’d turned fifteen, Judge Tremain had sent him away to a special school, one with bars on the windows and locks on the doors. One far away from the river.
There had been times when Frankie thought he might die in that place, had even wished for it. His hatred for the judge had festered deep inside him back then, but by the time Frankie was let out at eighteen, his rage had turned into a strange kind of acceptance.
He’d been free now for over two years, and except for the occasional visit from Winny, he lived alone in the old two-room house where he’d grown up. He kept to himself mostly, and generally, everyone left him alone.
A car engine sounded in the distance, but Frankie tried to ignore the intrusion by counting the lightning bugs that darted through the cypress knees near the bank. As the sound drew nearer, he sat up in the boat and listened.
The car came to a stop almost directly over Frankie. He waited for the whoops and rebel yells of the teenagers who came out here to drink beer, but when all remained silent, he decided it must be a couple who’d come to park. The thought made him a little uneasy, and he wondered if he should start up his motor and take off.
But he remained where he was, and after another few moments of silence, a car door opened. Footsteps rumbled on the wood flooring overhead, and then another door opened. As Frankie looked up, he saw the shimmer of illumination between the cracks in the planks where the interior light was on in the car. The light went out when the door was closed, and then he heard scraping sounds against the wood, as if something were being dragged.
He thought at first someone was dumping trash. The river bottom was littered with old stoves and refrigerators, even a car or two that had been pushed into the water to collect insurance. Frankie wondered if he should holler up at them, let them know he was there so maybe they’d just up and go away. But before he could decide what to do, something fell from the bridge, and a loud splash set his boat to rocking.
Someone had jumped off the bridge!
Frankie’s heart slammed into his chest, and for a split second, he couldn’t breathe. Someone had jumped off the bridge—just like Miranda Tremain had done.
But even as that thought came to him, footsteps hurried along the plank flooring above him. A car door opened and closed, and the engine, which had been idling the whole time Frankie realized now, gunned as the car was put into gear. The vehicle shot forward at a dangerous speed, and Frankie thought for a moment the car might come hurtling over the railing, too.
But at the end of the bridge, the car slowed and pulled off the road to make a sweeping turn, and then roared across the wooden planks again, back in the direction it had come from. When it reached the end of the bridge, the headlights came on.
Frankie watched as the car rounded the sharp curve in the road that made it visible for an instant from where he sat beneath the bridge. He couldn’t tell in the dark the make or model of the car, but he knew it was headed back toward town.
Or was it?
In the distance, the white chimneys of Amberly gleamed in the moonlight. The place was gloomy in the dark, full of legends and ghosts. It was a house that had driven Miranda Tremain to her death one night.
The roar of fear in his ears brought Frankie’s attention back to the water, to the rippling circles that marked the spot where the body had gone under seconds before.
What in the world should he do?
CHAPTER ONE
Houston, Texas, nine years later
THE WOMAN WITH the platinum hair was staring at her again. Caught in the act, the blonde dropped her gaze to the menu in front of her, but Amy Calloway knew the woman had been watching her ever since she’d followed Amy into Miguel’s, a Mexican restaurant popular with the downtown lunch crowd.
Turning the tables on the woman, Amy studied her for a long moment, but didn’t recognize her. The layered hair, dark suit and lacquered nails could have belonged to any number of the young professional women—including Amy, who worked for a small but innovative advertising firm—populating downtown Houston during work hours.
But whoever the blonde was, she didn’t appear threatening, so after another moment, Amy gave up the game and idly sketched on a paper napkin while she waited for her fiancé to join her for lunch.
She scowled as her pen flew over the paper. It was still hard to believe she was getting married in two weeks. Harder still to believe that a man like Reece Kantner, a handsome, ambitious, brilliant attorney, was willing to accept her just the way she was. No questions asked.
And maybe, just maybe, that was why those nagging doubts had been plaguing her for the past few weeks, Amy mused. Maybe she’d feel a little better about the impending marriage if Reece would ask those questions, if he weren’t quite so willing—eager even—to accept the fact that she couldn’t remember anything beyond nine years ago.
“You must at least be curious about my past,” she’d said to him recently.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I know everything about you I need to know. I’m only interested in the woman you are
now.” And then, to prove just how insignificant her memory loss was to him, he’d persuaded her to move up their wedding date. The sooner they married, the sooner she could get rid of her fears, he’d reasoned.
His arguments had made sense at the time, but now Amy regretted having given in to his wishes. She felt rushed and off balance, and found herself wondering, all too often, if she was doing the right thing.
It was probably just a case of nerves, she told herself firmly. Prewedding jitters. She’d been alone for so long the prospect of sharing her life with someone was bound to be daunting.
Sighing, she glanced down at the drawing on her napkin. The masculine features she’d sketched were not those of her fiancé, but in some ways, they were more familiar to her than Reece’s.
Amy had no idea who the man was. Over the years, she’d simply come to refer to him as the Face, the unknown man with the dark eyes and the angry expression.
For all she knew, he didn’t even exist outside her imagination, but he’d come to her nine years ago, after she’d awakened in a strange hospital with no recollection of who she was or what had happened to her.
Her aunt Nona, after a while, had gently explained to Amy that she’d been in a tragic accident. A fire had taken her parents’ lives and destroyed their family home in Iowa. Amy had been seriously injured after a fall from her upstairs bedroom window while trying to escape the burning house.
Nona, Amy had soon learned, wasn’t a blood relative but her dead mother’s best friend since childhood and Amy’s godmother. Since Amy had no other family and no one to take care of her, Nona had traveled to Des Moines and brought Amy back to the Houston hospital where Nona worked as head nurse.
Upon Amy’s release from the hospital, Nona had insisted she move in with her, and Amy had been very grateful. With her parents gone and her personal belongings all destroyed in the fire, there was nothing left of her former life, not even memories. The past, with all its tragedy and heartache, appeared to be lost to her forever, and maybe, Nona had often said, it was better that way. Maybe it was better if Amy never remembered what had happened.
But shortly after she’d gone to live with Nona, the Face had begun to appear to Amy, sometimes in her dreams, sometimes when she was fully awake. She would draw him, over and over, and when she showed the sketches to Nona, her aunt explained that he was probably someone Amy had known back in Iowa. A neighbor or a boy from school. Someone from her past but no one important. No one for Amy to worry about.
Why, then, couldn’t she forget him? Why did his face haunt her at the oddest times—during a crucial meeting, in the middle of the night, in the arms of her fiancé? Why were the visions almost always accompanied by the coldest of chills, the blackest feelings of dread and fear?
Amy stared down at the Face and shuddered. She literally had hundreds of drawings of this man. His face—the shadowy eyes, the sensuous mouth that contrasted sharply with the rigid set of his jaw and chin, the angry scowl—was the only image she had from her past.
But Nona had been so meticulous in supplying Amy with the details of her life before the fire that she sometimes thought she could remember her home in Iowa, her parents and even the little Scottish terrier named Mickey she’d had as a child. The vivid images Nona created were like the homey figures in a Norman Rockwell painting.
But the Face didn’t belong with those memories. To that contentment.
The Face sparked a turmoil inside Amy she didn’t dare explore.
Sensing the woman’s gaze on her again, Amy looked up. This time, the blonde didn’t glance away, but held Amy’s gaze for a long, enigmatic moment. Then she rose from her table and walked toward the booth where Amy sat facing the entrance.
When she stopped at the booth, Amy stared up at her. The woman hesitated, biting her lower lip as if not quite certain what to say. A cloud of musky perfume enveloped her as she bent forward slightly, staring into Amy’s upturned face. “I can’t believe it,” she finally murmured.
“Excuse me?”
The woman shook her head. “I know it’s impossible, but…” She trailed off, her gaze raking Amy’s features.
Amy frowned. “Do I know you?”
The woman remained silent for a moment, her gaze one of astonishment. Then, as if collecting herself, she explained in a rush, “I’m…sorry. I know you must think I’m crazy, but I’m not a stalker or anything like that. It’s just…when I spotted you out on the street, I thought I’d seen a ghost, so I followed you in here, just to get a better look. But even up close like this…my God—” She broke off, shaking her head in disbelief. “The resemblance is uncanny. The hair…those eyes…”
Amy shifted uncomfortably against the red vinyl upholstery. She wished the woman would go away and leave her alone. The intense scrutiny was unnerving.
As if sensing Amy’s discomfort, the blonde apologized again. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to stare, but you look exactly like someone I went to high school with back in Mississippi.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t be her, then,” Amy tried to say lightly. “I’m originally from Iowa. I’ve never even been to Mississippi.” But even as she voiced the denial, a powerful emotion swept over her, a longing so intense it was almost a physical ache. The scent of magnolia blossoms swirled through her senses, and the sound of a whisper came to her. A man’s voice murmuring to her how much he loved her. How much he wanted her.
What he would do if he couldn’t have her.
Startled by the memory, Amy glanced down at her drawing. Without knowing why, she picked up the napkin and turned it over, so the blonde couldn’t see the Face.
“Oh, I know you’re not her,” the woman was saying. “You couldn’t possibly be her. Amber Tremain is dead.”
Her words sent a chill coursing through Amy’s veins. “Dead?” she repeated vaguely.
The woman nodded, her eyes glittering. “She drowned in the river, just like her poor mother. It must have been a family curse or something.” She paused, then said, “Of course, there were some who thought she’d just run off. That would have been like Amber.”
Amy had no idea why the woman’s story distressed her so much, why that name had jolted her. She’d never seen the blonde before. Had never been to Mississippi. Had never heard of anyone named Amber Tremain.
And yet…
A memory tugged at her. Maybe she had heard that name before.
And then it came to her all of a sudden. Her aunt had mentioned an Amber Tremain several months ago, after Nona had first been diagnosed with breast cancer and she’d learned her prognosis wasn’t good. She’d broken the news to Amy over dinner, and then the two of them had stayed up all night talking.
For the first time since Amy had moved in with her aunt, Nona had told her about growing up dirt-poor in a rural Mississippi town, the same place where Amy’s mother had been raised.
Nona had also talked about a younger brother, who still lived there, even though he’d been ostracized by the community because of his learning disabilities. When he was fifteen, a girl had accused him of trying to assault her.
“My brother wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Nona had said angrily. But the judge who heard the case had been good friends with the girl’s mother. He’d sent the boy to a state mental hospital until he turned eighteen. The incarceration had all but killed him. When he’d finally gotten out, Nona, by then a widow, tried time and again to get him to move to Houston and live with her so that she could protect him, but he refused because of his almost fierce sense of independence.
“The judge’s name was Tremain. Emmett Tremain,” Nona said, studying Amy with an intensity she didn’t understand.
“He doesn’t sound like someone I’d want to know,” Amy replied loyally.
Nona shrugged. “The Tremains had their good points. Though I never could forgive the judge for what he did to my brother, I always admired his first wife. Her name was Miranda. She was a lovely woman, the best I remember. Very kind and gentle. She committed suici
de one night by jumping off a bridge into the river. Her body was found two weeks later.”
A profound sadness came over Amy. She hugged her arms around her middle, as if in protection. “Why did she kill herself?”
Nona shook her head as her gaze grew even more intense. “No one ever knew. But it must have been something terrible for her to leave behind her two daughters. The youngest, Jasmine, I think her name was, was hardly more than a baby. The other one was a teenager. Her name was Amber. Amber Tremain.”
As the memory faded, Amy realized she was gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles whitened. She stood abruptly, feeling as if those dark waters that had taken Miranda Tremain’s life were closing over her own head. Amy didn’t understand her panic. Her sudden fear. All she knew was that she had to get out of the restaurant and fast. She thought, somewhat dramatically, that her very life might depend on it.
“Excuse me,” she blurted, glancing at the blonde. “I have to go now. I just remembered an appointment.”
The woman looked alarmed. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”
“No, of course not.” Amy gathered up her purse and briefcase. But when she tried to brush by her, the woman caught Amy’s arm, and for a moment, they stood staring into one another’s eyes.
“It’s amazing. You really are a dead ringer for Amber Tremain. Same height, same body type, same hair. Even your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone else with those same strange-colored eyes. If I didn’t know better…” She broke off, shuddering. “Amber’s body was never found,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Her gaze lifted to meet Amy’s, and Amy suppressed her own shudder, pulling her arm from the woman’s grasp. “I assure you, I’m not her. I’ve never seen you before in my life, and I don’t know anyone named Amber Tremain. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Amy turned and hurried through the crowded restaurant, refusing to look back even though she could feel the woman’s gaze on her. But once she reached the door, she couldn’t resist. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the blonde was still standing at the booth, scowling down at the table. As Amy watched, the woman reached down and picked up the napkin Amy had left behind.
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