Cowboy Lies

by Lynde Lakes

  Two dogs, a black mongrel and an Australian shepherd with tan and white markings, jumped out of the shadows and barked at her. Startled, she jerked the stroller to the right, and then hurried along. They followed and seemed to be herding her. No dog names came to mind. She talked generic doggy-talk to them, and they wagged their tails. Well, at least they were friendly enough. Did they know the sound of her voice?

  On her way to the barn, she passed three pickup trucks—two primer gray with rusty bumpers and the newer, red one with a shiny chrome grill that Matt had used last night to drive them to the ranch from his nearby private airport where he tied down his Cessna and helicopter. Her husband—if in fact he was her husband—was obviously wealthy.

  Praying for keys, she peered inside each truck. No such luck. Where would she go, anyway? Did she even know how to drive? Yes. Somehow she felt confident that she did.

  In the distance, she saw men working on the split corral fences. Beyond the men, a big truck shrank smaller and smaller, heading out. Matt had said this was a cattle ranch so the rig was either taking cattle to market or going out empty to bring livestock back.

  Molly picked up her stride, all the while talking to Sara Jane and pointing out the antics of the dogs romping beside them. When they reached the barn she saw that most of the horse stalls were empty. Daylight streamed through the high eave-line windows. A horse snorted, and the sound echoed through the cavernous wood structure. Somewhere at the other end of the barn, a radio was tuned to a Mexican station playing a fast polka like Texas-Mexican piece called the conjunto. How did she know the music? Maybe she did have a Mexican background.

  She heard men’s voices speaking Spanish, and located two vaqueros cleaning out stalls. The tall, rawboned man made her think of Don Quixote, and the short squat man Sancho Panza. The theme from Man of La Mancha hummed in her head. Why did she know those things? Maybe her memory was coming back. Or maybe she’d only forgotten things in her past too painful to remember. That’s what the doctor believed.

  She focused on the vaqueros again. Both dark-skinned men appeared to be in their late fifties. She approached, smiling. “Have you seen Matt or any of the Ryan family?”

  They gave a shake of the head. “No speak English.”

  She tried Spanish. It was the same as with Tita—more shaking of the head. Damn it, she’d heard them speaking Spanish. Matt had to be behind everyone’s silence. But why? Molly kicked a bale of hay in frustration and left the barn.

  “Well, Sara Jane, what now?” Molly plunked herself down on a boulder, and shading her eyes from the sun with her hand, she looked off into the distance. “Do you think we’d have better luck with those men working on the fences?” If she walked out there, the bumps and ruts would shake Sara Jane’s brains out, and then she’d be given the same silent treatment anyway. Eying the nearby pickup trucks again, she wondered how to get her hands on a set of keys and how far it was to the nearest town.

  For miles, there was only gently rolling land, replete with scrub oak, mesquite, and cactus, and, in the far distance, the purple haze of the rocky mountains. The barrenness had its own kind of beauty, but the cloudless light blue sky reinforced Molly’s sense of isolation.

  From what Matt had said on the drive from his landing strip, he raised a breed of cattle called the Santa Gertrudis—the best breed for this arid climate because it was unaffected by heat and insects. He had all kinds of livestock, he’d said, including bulls and quarter horses. And he used to compete in rodeo competitions. Why didn’t she remember any of that? It was as though she’d never been here before.

  She bent over the stroller and lifted Sara Jane onto her lap. The baby kicked her feet and gurgled, a big smile on her face. Love for this little angel had been instantaneous, but if this was her child, why didn’t she remember her?

  At the thunder of horse hooves, Molly looked up. In the distance, swirls of dust spiraled up from the desert floor as a lone rider galloped her way. She watched the fluid beauty of motion and admired the way rider and horse moved almost as one. He was coming straight toward the barn.

  It was Matt. Subtle danger emanated from him. He dug his knees into the red quarter horse’s flanks, yanked hard on the reins to bring the horse to a stop near the split rail corral, and dismounted fast, the buckles on his vest jangling. He spat out a succinct oath, flipped the reins around a rung of the fence a couple of times, and stomped over to her. Levi’s hugged his thighs like a glove. Molly forced herself to look up at his face.

  His jaw flexed, and his earth-brown eyes flashed. “I told you to stay in the house.”

  His low, hoarse drawl hummed through Molly like an electrical current. She jumped to her feet and shifted Sara Jane in her arms. “Look, I don’t take orders.” She kept her volume as close to a normal speaking voice as possible for Sara Jane’s sake. “Why do you want me to stay in the house anyway? Other than your phony non-English-speaking hired hands, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around for miles.” She wondered if she should mention the other exception—the pencil-thin shadow. But what if he’d assigned the man to watch me…“Am I a captive here or what?”

  Matt pushed his black Stetson high on his forehead. His eyes softened some. “No, ma’am. But you aren’t used to it out here. There’s rattlers and—”

  “Not used to it? This is supposed to be my home!” Close to tears, Molly jostled the cooing baby against her breast. “I’m your wife, and yet you call me ma’am!” Her mind was like a nearly blank tablet, and Matt was scribbling gibberish on it.

  Matt shifted his weight on dusty black leather boots. His lanky, hungry stance made her want to run. But those long, powerful legs suggested that perhaps he could outrun her.

  “Didn’t want to scare you off like a skittish filly by getting too familiar. The doc said it’d take a spell for you to get used to the idea of being my wife.”

  Wife. The word pounded at her. Her throat felt raw. “What makes you think I’ll ever get used to it?” Her voice cracked like a dry twig.

  His lips twitched. “You did before.” Predatory magnetism radiated from the hard planes of his face and the lean lines of his body charging the air around him.

  She was in big trouble. “Well, maybe I’m a different person now.” Her annoyance jelled into a cold lump in her stomach. Why did she get so angry every time she looked at him?

  Images flashed in Molly’s mind—the adobe hospital with the giant cactus at the entrance; the dark, hawk-nosed Dr. De La Fuente with unsmiling black eyes; daily shots in the arm; going in and out of consciousness. Molly’s heartbeat pulsed in her ears. Dr. De La Fuente had said that the amnesia was temporary, that her past would come back in scant images, unfolding moment by moment. She glared at Matt. He was so overwhelmingly male. His intensity burned her like a brand. Maybe it was her marriage to this bossy, domineering cowboy that she wanted to forget—if indeed she was married to him at all.

  He’d told her his ranch was in South Texas, but that covered a lot of land. “Exactly where are we?”

  Silence. He watched her with an intensity that made her squirm. Molly tapped her booted foot, wanting to shake him. The wind blew her hair about her face and lashed her body with nerve-jangling electricity. The silence tore at her until she wanted to scream. She pressed her lips tight. The hay was in his loft, so to speak.

  Finally, he said, “I told you. My ranch.”

  She met his glaring look head on. “Not our ranch?”

  “Of course. Our ranch.” He shifted his weight again, and she noticed the holstered six-shooter at his side for the first time. The distant screech of a hawk sent a tremor through her—or was it the predatory demeanor of this gun-toting cowboy?

  “Give me a break,” she said. “I need some specifics here. What is the nearest town? And how far away is it?” It surprised her when his lips broke into a slow grin, and he stepped forward. “Why, darlin’,” he said, lowering his voice so that the endearment he’d used for the first time flowed through her like heated h
oney, “we’re in the grand ol’ Lone Star State of Texas. South Texas, that is. South of San Antonio. Didn’t I tell you that already?”

  Molly refused to step away, even though Matt was so close she could feel his breath on her cheeks. His face was a blur of taunting lips and teasing eyes. He made no move to touch her, but his smoldering stare caressed her like enveloping flames. A swift, hot flush rose in her cheeks. She didn’t know this man, maybe she’d never known him, and she sure as hell didn’t trust him.

  Unable to stand his closeness a second longer, she stepped back from his heat, his maleness, and hated that she was the one to retreat first. “Why are the phones in the house disconnected? Why won’t anyone talk to me?”

  ****

  The cord in the back of Matt’s neck tightened, and he clenched his hands and wished she’d just accept things. “Doctor’s orders,” he said, bridling his frustration. “Dr. De La Fuente said the quieter the place, the sooner you’ll remember.” For good measure, Matt gave a choked sound and cleared his throat. “And then I’ll get my wife back.”

  He watched Katrina Molette Radlavich—or Kat as he used to call her—to see if she was buying any of it. She’d gone through several names in the past year, Margaret Jones, Sally Smith, and others. He’d switched to calling her Molly after the amnesia hit. He could have cut the silence with a machete. She raked her fingers through her fiery tangles of thick auburn hair, sending the tips dancing across her shoulders like flames. Her eyes, flashing and green as Verde Creek, measured him with distrust. A distrust that he’d earned, much to his regret. Sorry, li’l darlin’, he thought. To keep you and the baby alive, I had no choice.

  Using Sara Jane to gain Molly’s trust was a dirty trick, but the baby was her weak point and the heart of her vulnerability. He reached out his arms to Sara Jane. “Come to Daddy,” he said. It was easy to play daddy to this beautiful little filly. Everyone who saw her loved her.

  He took the child from Molly’s arms, and Molly’s fringed vest got tangled up in the process. Lordy, lordy, he thought, brushing against the high-tipped breasts he knew so well. He felt an absurd and dangerous triumph when the buds sprang up.

  In spite of Molly’s apparent arousal, her expression came alive with indignation. “Watch your hands, cowboy.”

  He grinned. It was ridiculous to apologize for brushing against her after all they’d been to each other. But what the hell. “Sorry, little darlin’, but we do have a license to touch each other.”

  The document looked pretty damned authentic, too, he thought, then was disgusted at his smugness.

  “I want to see it.”

  Damn, she would. But he didn’t want to talk about documents. His loins burned. With vivid memories lurking at the edge of his mind ready to spark at the slightest provocation, how would he get through this charade? His pulse throbbed in his temple. Was it just thirteen months ago that she’d writhed in his arms, all willing, moist, and perfumed? Her mouth had been soft, responsive, and fiery against his. His knee had parted her thighs. She’d opened to him, and he had sunk into the silky passage to her womanliness—a pulsating, hot poker against moist, blazing satin. Lord, give me strength. But there was no stopping his Levi’s from tightening against the zipper.

  ****

  Smells of strong coffee and spicy food wafted around the ranch house kitchen, which reminded Matt it had been too many hours since breakfast. He’d skipped lunch, and it was a bit early for supper, but eating now would give him a chance to visit with Molly. Tita had left their meal in the oven before she left for the day—the good ol’ bowl o’ red. He smiled. Few meals were better than chili con carne and Mexican corn bread.

  Tita lived in her own little place on the ranch with her husband Alfonso and son Roberto, the stable boy. Alfonso was the head vaquero on the ranch and a trusted amigo.

  Matt handed Sara Jane to Molly and served up the food. Molly jiggled the baby until the infant’s eyes drooped closed. Molly carried her to the nursery, and then rejoined Matt at the table. “I still want to see our marriage license.”

  He went to a drawer, pulled out the bogus document, and slid it in front of her.

  She frowned at it. “Is this real?”

  “Your distrust is getting tiresome, Molly.” They ate in silence, Molly picking at the food. When Matt finally had had about all the silence he could stand, he drawled, “If you’d just relax, you’ll get used to things around here. It’s not a bad place.”

  She snorted. “Relax? That’s laughable. Damn it, what happened to me?”

  Driving a hand into his hair, he slicked it back from his forehead and sighed. Maybe if he told her some of it, it would ease her mind and she’d settle in and let him worry about the problems they faced. “I’d be mighty proud to tell you what I know, little darlin’. Dr. De La Fuente said your amnesia is an acute non-psychotic syndrome. Without evidence of bruises, fractures, or double vision, he didn’t think you’d fallen. And your EEG was fine.”

  “So what caused the amnesia?”

  Matt knew the doctor had covered some of this with her, but it seemed she needed more assurances. “The doc thinks it was stress-induced, and you’re in what he called a fugue state. There’s a limit to how much stress a person can take at a given time, and when things become too stressful, the mind escapes for self-preservation.”

  “My life stressed me out?” She tilted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Like being married to you?”

  He chuckled. “Very funny. Whatever caused the stress, it happened while you were away on a shopping trip in San Antonio. The next thing I knew, you were in the hospital in Mexico.”

  He hated lying, and the shopping trip stuff was a lie, but if she remembered too fast, it could cause a serious setback, deepen the trauma, and make his job more difficult.

  “If my memory loss is temporary…then how temporary is it?”

  “Anywhere from a few days to several months.” Matt wasn’t ready to tell her that to get well, eventually, she would have to deal with what caused the trauma.

  “When did we meet?”

  The question caught him off guard, but he didn’t mind telling her that. The date was etched into his mind forever. “December first, two years ago.”

  “How and where?”

  He’d already said too much. “Best to let it all come back naturally. Now, about the routine here, what I expect—”

  “Hold it, cowboy. I don’t care what you expect. If I’m going to live here with you, I need to know something about our life together.”

  Kat—rather, Molly—was sassier than ever. Damn it, he’d have to give her more half-truths. “We met at a party. You were wearing a stunner of a green dress that matched your eyes. You accused me of drinking too much and demanded my keys. Said you’d drive me home.”

  Molly’s steady look and glinting eyes were mocking. “And you let me? A big, strong, macho cowboy like you?”

  Matt shrugged. “Why not? You’re a looker. Besides, your take-charge ways amused me.”

  “Amused you?”

  Her caustic tone sent up red flags, but he had to tell her about the kiss. “In front of my apartment, before I staggered out of your car, I stole a kiss. And you kissed me back. I mean you really kissed me back. I reckon I fell for you right on the spot.” He grinned, enjoying the memory.

  “Hmm,” she said, sounding unimpressed. “Whose party?”

  “A guy named Smitty, I think. But after guzzling all that beer, I couldn’t swear to it.”

  Matt left out the specifics. He didn’t want to give her enough to follow up on—for instance, that the guy throwing the party had connections to Dallas’s biggest crime boss, or that Molly had been a crack reporter for the Dallas Morning News working on a key crime story, or that he was a federal agent and the case had brought them together….and then torn them apart.

  For a year, she’d lived under armed guard while waiting to testify against crime boss Fernando Antonio Maltese Del Fuego. But because of the repeated attempts
on her life, she’d disappeared into the Federal Witness Protection Program. She had had to give up everything—her identity, her family, her friends, her relationships, and her job as a reporter, which he knew she loved.

  Matt had told her from the beginning that their romance couldn’t go anywhere because once she went into the program, he wouldn’t be going with her. The abrupt end of their affair had hurt worse than if he’d cut off his arm. They were together only once after that. They had run into each other quite by accident, and after sharing a bottle of wine, they’d done something stupid and woke up together full of regret. He hadn’t regretted making love to her—only that, for her safety, it could never happen again.

  Too bad she’d found someone else—the man who had fathered Sara Jane. Matt hadn’t picked up the pieces of his own life so easily. There hadn’t been anyone for him since Molly.

  Now, out of necessity, they had been thrown together again. He’d been ordered to replace the dead agents who’d been guarding her. The mob had splattered the guts of Agent Bob Clancy and Agent Tom Murphy all over the wall and had taken Sara Jane. They knew if they grabbed the baby, Molly would clam up in order to get her child back. Instead, Molly went off the deep end and blanked out her whole life.

  Matt had arranged to get Molly admitted to a hospital across the border into Mexico, in the capable hands of his longtime friend, Dr. De La Fuente. Once Molly was safe, Matt rescued Sara Jane using the same bloody tactics against the mob that they had used on the dead agents. It was the first time he’d killed, and he hoped the last. He still felt nauseous when he thought too much about it. Even if he never got over it, Sara Jane’s life was worth his anguish. Now it was up to him to keep both Molly and Sara Jane out of harm’s way. Soon, he’d have to decide how much he could safely tell Molly about her forgotten past. He knew his lies up to now had made trust between them almost impossible. He wished he hadn’t gotten her talking, questioning.