You Must Remember This

by Clara Wimberly

  “Why?” she asked. “Does it bother you so much for a woman to tell you no?”

  Hagan’s head turned to one side and he frowned. But still he didn’t release her, or step away from her.

  “Well, now, I really can’t answer that, can I?” he drawled. “All I have to go on is how I feel right now. And right now, yes, it does bother me. What’s the big deal?” He shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “My husband is dead.” She blurted the words out in one harsh jumbled rush. “That’s the big deal…okay?” She jerked away from him and headed toward the kitchen.

  Hagan’s mouth was open as he stood watching her go. He took a deep gulp of air, feeling as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Why hadn’t he realized it? All the signs were there. That quiet look of hurt in her eyes…the scar on her face, the way this house didn’t seem to fit with his image of her. He’d seen for himself that she was a caring, efficient nurse. Yet she wasn’t practicing what she’d been trained for. Hell, that was probably the biggest giveaway of all.

  He could see her in the kitchen, quietly opening the cupboards, setting out cups and coffee creamer. Hagan closed his eyes and shook his head, then raked his hand down his face.

  He must have sounded like the biggest jerk in the world.

  Slowly he walked into the kitchen. He saw Sarah turn just slightly toward the entryway, then go back to what she was doing with her back to him.

  He leaned against the wide arched door frame.

  “I should have known…It was the car accident.” His voice was soft…searching. “The same one where you got the scar.”

  Sarah nodded, but she didn’t turn to face him. She placed the filter and coffee in the basket, then poured the water into the coffeemaker. Still she didn’t turn around.

  “It was more than a year ago,” she murmured. “Ev- eryone says I should be over it by now. They probably think I’m crazy for continuing to live out here alone, like some kind of hermit.”

  “You’re not crazy,” he said. “You’re the sanest person I know.” He laughed softly. “But then, hey…you’re the only person I know.”

  Sarah’s laugh sounded more like a sob. She caught her- self against the counter, head bent. When she finally turned to face him, there were tears sparkling in her eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you by being so insensitive,” he said. “I’m sorry…really sorry.”

  Sarah’s chin trembled. She blinked her eyes against the pain in her chest, trying to push away the tears. Her entire body trembled from the effort.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  With two steps, he was there, taking her into his arms, and holding her against him as the sobs came. His hand cradled her head against his chest as he murmured soft words against her hair.

  Sarah made protests, quietly chiding herself for her weakness. But his sweet words and the look of sympathy in his eyes turned her legs to jelly and she didn’t seem to have any control left.

  “It’s all right to cry,” he said, holding her tightly. “God knows if anyone deserves a good cry, you do. Sometimes I wish I could cry—hell I haven’t cried since I was…”

  Sarah felt his body stiffen and she pulled back. She was no longer thinking of herself or her loss, but of him and the odd, puzzled look in his eyes.

  “When?” she asked gently. “Tell me when the last time was.”

  “I was twelve,” he said blankly. Holding his sore ribs, Hagan moved away from her and carefully slid onto one of the kitchen chairs. There was an air of expectation about him, a quiet look of wonder on his face as if he were a child trying to recite a memorized poem.

  Sarah waited breathlessly.

  “My mother was angry because I’d barged into the apartment. She had a visitor.” Hagan’s lips curled with disdain, but still he kept staring into space.

  “She had a lot of visitors,” he said quietly. “And a lot of them were drunk. But this one was an ugly drunk…and mean.” Hagan frowned and clenched his teeth together.

  Sarah wanted to go to him. To touch him…hold him while he remembered this thing that was so obviously painful to him. But she didn’t dare break the spell for fear his memories would shatter and disappear.

  “Did…did he hit you?” she said, her voice a bare whisper.

  “No,” he answered grimly. “It wasn’t that.” When he lifted his head, his eyes were glittering and hard. “He asked if I wanted to join them, if I wanted them to teach me…My mother just laughed…and I ran. I guess that was the last day I ever spent in that place.”

  “Oh, Hagan…” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes and she took a step toward him. “Oh…” she sighed, feeling the tears mark their hot path down her cheeks.

  She thought for a moment that he was near tears, too. But then with a lift of his brow, he stood up. She could see his clenched jaw and the hard look in his eyes.

  “Well hell,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “No wonder I didn’t want to remember anything, huh?” His laugh was harsh and forced.

  She wiped away her tears. “Has it all come back?” she asked, knowing that it sometimes happened that way with amnesiacs.

  “No,” he snapped. “Not all of it…just the good parts.”

  “Hagan,” she murmured. “Don’t do this. Let me fix you some breakfast. I’ll—”

  “Sorry, but I seem to have lost my appetite.” His reply was brusque, with that hint of irritability she’d seen be- fore.

  He didn’t look at her again as he pushed himself away from the table and took a slow step into the hallway.

  “I need to walk a little. If I stay in that bed one more minute…” He gritted his teeth and glanced around at her. “Do you mind if I look around?” he asked, nodding to- ward the rest of the house.

  “No, go ahead,” she murmured. She still had to fight the impulse to touch him, to put her hand on his arm and comfort him. Instead, she waved her hand toward the tiny house. And when he moved away, she didn’t follow.

  Hagan stopped at the room just next to his and pushed the door open.

  “That’s my room,” she said. She didn’t know why she said anything. Of course he could see it was hers. But sud- denly, she felt so awkward, so vulnerable, having him see.

  Hagan’s eyes darkened as he let his gaze move over Sarah’s bed.

  It was so obviously hers. So different from the room where he was, from the lacy white bed coverlet to the mound of embroidered pillows that lay atop it. A soft light glimmered through a rose-colored glass lampshade, a sight that looked welcoming. It was a room that was soft and warm and feminine. Just like her.

  He recognized the perfume that lingered in the still air. That hint of rain and wild roses, mingled together in a scent so unique and intoxicating that it made him want to breathe it in forever.

  So different…so good and clean, after the first fleet- ing memory of his dirty childhood.

  It was a mistake looking into that room.

  Hagan turned to look at Sarah, his black gaze meeting hers only a moment before moving down over her breasts and hips and back up again. He didn’t say a word, but turned and walked past her toward the kitchen.

  When he looked at her that way, Sarah had a problem controlling her pulse and her breathing. Those looks could make her feel hot with confusion and pleasure.

  She realized that this was a man who could communi- cate strictly by senses. Who could install an emotional re- sponse that threatened to send her spiraling out of control in a matter of seconds. And that was something she had to be careful about. She countered the feelings by telling herself that Cord would be here soon. That this would be all over and Hagan would be gone.

  Yet that thought was anything but comforting.

  With a quiet murmur of protest, she made herself move. She also made herself talk. About her own past—rather than Hagan’s imminent departure.

  “My grandparents lived here from the first day they married more than fifty years ago. My mot
her was their only child—a divorced mother trying to raise me alone. When she died, they took me in and raised me. I was very young so this really is the only home I remember very well.”

  Hagan nodded, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat? Something to drink?”

  “A nice juicy porterhouse would be nice,” he said wryly as his gaze moved around the kitchen.

  “Actually, I have steak in the freezer,” she said, nod- ding toward the back door that led to the workshop. “But then I suppose you’ll be gone before I could manage to thaw it out,” she added softly.

  His eyes met hers in a look that had absolutely nothing to do with food.

  “Yeah, lucky for you,” he said. “Where does that door go to?”

  Sarah opened the door, revealing a screened and cov- ered breezeway.

  “This leads to the workshop. It used to be open, with wild roses trailing over it, but after Grandmother became ill, my grandfather enclosed it so she wouldn’t have to go out in the rain to get to her washer and dryer. He wanted to enclose it completely, but she insisted that he screen it so she could still smell the roses. I don’t think I ever walk through this breezeway without thinking about how much they loved each other.”

  Her gaze met Hagan’s briefly, then glanced away.

  She hoped he didn’t ask to see the workshop. She had an easel and paint supplies there. An uncovered painting of a little girl sat unfinished, something she’d started as ther- apy, and she wasn’t ready for anyone to see that yet.

  She closed the door and walked to the coffeepot. The delicious scent filled the kitchen. She filled two cups and handed one to Hagan.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a house like this,” he said.

  “My grandparents were simple people,” she said. “Gram always said she didn’t need much in the way of material things. Just a home with room for a garden and her flowers.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a critical way,” he said. “After the childhood I had, believe me, this looks pretty damn good. I grew up on the mean side of downtown Atlanta, in a neighborhood filled with the kind of people who’d been dealt an unfair hand in life. Poor. Uneducated. And most of them angry. I was a wiseass street kid who’d fight any one of them at the drop of a hat.”

  These revelations surprised her. Somehow the picture his words brought didn’t fit with the expensive clothes he’d been wearing. Or perhaps that was why he dressed that way…perhaps he had something to prove.

  Sarah smiled sweetly.

  “It’s coming back to you.”

  “Just that,” he said, frowning slightly. “I don’t re- member much about school, or work. I can’t even re- member how I went from the neighborhood where I grew up to being a cop.”

  “That transformation from street kid to law enforce- ment officer does seem rather ironic,” she said.

  “Well, you know what they say…kids in that kind of situation usually end up on one side of the law or the other. In prison or as a cop walking the beat.”

  “I’m glad you ended up on the right side,” she said.

  She thought his smile actually held a bit of modesty. And it made her knees weak.

  “There’s a warmth here in this old house,” Hagan said. “An atmosphere that made me feel safe from the first moment I opened my eyes.” That and you, he wanted to add.

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “I’ve always felt that, too.”

  “Is that why you came here after your husband died?” he asked quietly. “Because you felt safe?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” she said. She lifted her hand to the scar. “And partly because I wanted to hide away some- where.”

  “You must have loved your husband a lot.” His words were quiet and oddly tender.

  “Yes,” she said. “Very much.”

  “You said it’s been a year.”

  “Yes.” Sarah could feel the pain building the way it al- ways did when she wondered why it had to be Joe. The old resentment began eating at her just the way it did when anyone tried to tell her she should be getting over it by now. “But a year’s hardly long enough to—”

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m not judging you. God knows I’m not in a position to judge anyone. Here I’m supposed to be this big tough agent and I can’t even remember who tried to kill me. And I know enough about amnesia to know that’s probably because I’m too afraid to remember.”

  She hadn’t expected him to say that. She hadn’t really expected him to even think of it. But it was true. The wound to his head was not that serious and his amnesia probably had more to do with the trauma he went through that dark rainy night than anything.

  “I wish I could help,” she whispered. I wish I could love you, take you to my bed, she wanted to add. Make you forget everything and take away that glint of fear and pain I see in those beautiful eyes.

  “You have helped,” he said. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  They stood for a moment looking into each other’s eyes. Hearing only the tick of the clock and the muted sound of birds singing outside.

  “Hey,” he said, shaking himself. “I’m going to take a shower. Cord will be here and I won’t be ready.”

  “I’ll see if I can find some clothes for you,” she said, just as blithely.

  When she heard the shower running, she placed a pair of jeans and a cotton shirt on Hagan’s bed. They were Joe’s. Things she’d brought with her out to the farm just to look at and touch. Sometimes, those first dark months, she had taken them to bed with her, clutching them against her as she cried herself to sleep.

  They had been precious to her, the only things besides memories, that made her feel close to Joe again. But that closeness had faded over the months and she’d finally laundered the clothes, folded them and put them away. Now she thought she could give the clothes away without feeling any remorse.

  She hurried out to the shop to put some of her own clothes into the washer. As soon as she stepped into the building, she reached for a cloth to cover the painting of the little girl. Other similar canvases lay scattered on a table or propped against the wall.

  Sarah didn’t paint pictures of Joe anymore, or the im- age of their unborn child. Time had taken away much of the anguish and the sense of loss. The only thing it hadn’t banished was her resentment and her anger.

  She painted wildflowers now. Masses of exquisite swamp lily, baskets of Queen Anne’s lace. Moss-draped live oaks with gray abandoned shacks nestled beneath them.

  She’d even done a painting or two of old Tom since he came. Not that he liked it or would sit still for very long. But she thought she’d captured his image very well de- spite his disapproval.

  She smiled as she placed the clothes into the washer and turned it on.

  When she went back into the house Hagan was dressed. He was standing near the front door, peering out through the window. For a moment as she saw him dressed in Joe’s jeans and shirt, she caught her breath, waiting for the pain to come.

  She was somewhat surprised when it didn’t. Instead she felt a warm pleasure wash over her. Hagan looked good in the faded jeans. They clung to his hips and emphasized a lean waist and long legs.

  But he didn’t remind her of her dead husband.

  He was Hagan. The man she’d nursed and comforted, a man very different from the husband she had loved. And at the moment, she couldn’t find Joe in any sense as she stared at the man at the door. He’d managed to make the clothes his own.

  “I see you found the clothes,” she said, moving into the hallway behind him.

  When he turned toward her, Sarah made a quiet sound. She had always found him handsome, but now, dressed in the soft jeans with the plaid shirt snug across his broad shoulders, she thought he was one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen.

  Hagan couldn’t quite decipher the look in Sarah’s eyes as they wandered over him. Sadness? Pleasure? He wasn’t sure.

  “I take it these didn’t belong to you
r granddad.”

  “No,” she said. “They were Joe’s. I…I brought them with me out here to…just to have something of him close…you know?”

  Hagan frowned and ran his hand down his chest over the shirt.

  “I hope it doesn’t bother you,” he said.

  “What?” Sarah was still lost in her thoughts and she shook her head to clear them away.

  “Seeing someone wear your husband’s clothes?”

  “Oh…no. No, it’s all right. It’s fine.”

  If he only knew what she was really thinking, and the guilt she felt for it, he’d be shocked. She certainly was.

  Yet despite her guilt, there was a part of her that wanted to be bold, wanted to approach him. Seduce him. Now. Quickly, before Cord came and the opportunity was lost to her forever.

  But another part, that conservative Southern lady part, was afraid. Afraid of rejection. And maybe even afraid of so much more.

  She wasn’t sure how she would respond now to a man’s lovemaking. It had been so long. Yet there was a part of her, locked away deep down inside, that trembled with ex- citement at the thought.

  Sarah sensed that with this man there would be no holding back. No room for caution or halfway measures. He would demand all of her—heart and body and soul. And perhaps that knowledge was what kept her from car- rying through with her fantasies—she just wasn’t sure she was willing to pay such a price to any man.

  “Cord should be here anytime now,” Hagan said, as if trying to learn what she was thinking.

  “Yes…any moment.”

  Sarah found herself pondering what and who this man was. An officer in one of the South’s most respected law enforcement agencies. A man who by nature combined cool, rational thinking with a fierceness that could some- times be frightening. He lived and breathed danger in his job and because of that she sensed he chose to avoid emo- tional ties.

  He was the kind of man who would take her if she said the word. With raw, untamed sensuality that made Sarah tremble just thinking of it.