Almost Remembered

by Marilyn Tracy

  “It’s hard to believe you’ve been gone so lone,” Chas said.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Marilyn Tracy

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright

  “It’s hard to believe you’ve been gone so lone,” Chas said.

  “Fifteen years,” Allison said softly.

  “A long time.”

  “Whatever was between us, Chas, is in the past. And that past is fifteen years old.”

  She leveled a look at him that would have reduced a lesser man to jelly. She’d had heads of state cower beneath such a hard look.

  Not Chas. And somehow, in some indefinable way, he’d turned the tables on her and taken control of the situation. She didn’t want to touch him, yet she wanted nothing more than to place her hand in that broad, callused palm, to feel his fingers wrap around hers once again....

  Don’t miss book #3 of ALMOST, TEXAS: Where a hazard-free happily-ever-after is almost always guaranteed!

  Dear Reader,

  This is it, the final month of our wonderful three-month celebration of Intimate Moments’ fifteenth anniversary. It’s been quite a ride, but it’s not over yet. For one thing, look who’s leading off the month: Rachel Lee, with Cowboy Comes Home. the latest fabulous title in her irresistible CONARD COUNTY miniseries. This one has everything you could possibly want in a book, including all the deep emotion Rachel is known for. Don’t miss it.

  And the rest of the month lives up to that wonderful beginning, with books from both old favorites and new names sure to become favorites. Merline Lovelace’s Return to Sender will have you longing to work at the post office (I’m not kidding!), while Marilyn Tracy returns to the wonderful (but fictional, dam it!) town of Almost, Texas, with Almost Remembered. Look for our TRY TO REMEMBER flash to guide you to Leann Harris’s Trusting a Texan, a terrific amnesia book, and the EXPECTANTLY YOURS flash marking Raina Lynn’s second book, Partners in Parenthood. And finally, don’t miss A Hard-Hearted Man, by brand-new author Melanie Craft. Your heart will melt guaranteed.

  And that’s not all. Because we’re not stopping with the fifteen years behind us. There are that many—and more!—in our future, and I know you’ll want to be here for every one. So come back next month, when the excitement and the passion continue, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  ALMOST REMEMBERED

  MARILYN TRACY

  Books by Marilyn Tracy

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Magic in the Air #311

  Blue Ice #362

  Echoes of the Garden #387

  Too Good To Forget #399

  No Place To Run #427

  The Fundamental Things Apply #479

  Extreme Justice #532

  Code Name: Daddy #736

  *Almost Perfect #766

  *Almost a Family #815

  *Almost Remembered #867

  *Almost, Texas

  Silhouette Shadows

  Sharing the Darkness #34

  Memory’s Lamp #41

  Something Beautiful #51

  MARILYN TRACY

  lives in Portales, New Mexico, in a ramshackle turn-of-the-century house with her son, two dogs, three cats and a poltergeist. Between remodeling the house to its original Victorian-cum-Deco state, writing full-time and finishing a forty-foot cement dragon in the backyard, Marilyn composes full soundtracks to go with each of her novels.

  After having lived in both Tel Aviv and Moscow in conjunction with the U.S. State Department, Marilyn enjoys writing about the cultures she’s explored and the people she’s grown to love. She likes to hear from people who enjoy her books and always has a pot of coffee on or a glass of wine ready for anyone dropping by, especially if they don’t mind chaos and know how to wield a paintbrush.

  To Melissa Jeglinski,

  for all her help and faith in this series.

  Prologue

  If you haven’t visited Almost, Texas, before, you’ll probably be struck by how well kept the town appears. In this desert-dry section of the Panhandle, in this time of drought and wind, most towns appear as dried-up as the shriveled crops. Not in Almost. Every house sports freshly painted porches, neatly trimmed yards and gardens, newly scrubbed mailboxes and, as often as not, recently swept sidewalks. Almost’s pristine condition is due to a set of triplets performing “community service.”

  And now, if you’re searching for any of the people in Almost, look for a big two-story Midwest-style house with the yellow trim and the broad front porch. That’s Taylor Leary Smithton’s house—soon to be known as the Kessler place. Just walk on up the steps and ring the bell. It’ll seem like the whole town’s there—Homer Chalmers, Delbert Franklin, Steve Kessler, Carolyn, Taylor, the girls, the triplets, Alva Lu Harrigan, Fredda Schooler and Marilyn Huber from over at the alternative school in Pep—and you can sip some iced tea or lemonade while rocking in one of Taylor’s back-porch chairs.

  You’ll probably feel the excitement of Taylor’s soon-to-be wedding. And you’ll probably also feel the tension in the air because, after fifteen years, Allison Leary is coming back to Almost.

  Chapter 1

  Through the date on Allison Leary’s tickets read February, the light afternoon breeze in the Texas Panhandle city spelled late spring. A clear, pale blue sky arced from horizon to horizon, and the few skyscrapers in Lubbock, a full five miles away, stood in sharp relief against the skyline to the southeast.

  Allison drew a deep breath of air and tasted west Texas on her tongue, a flavor she would have thought she’d forgotten in fifteen years. Suddenly all the nuances of the Panhandle came rushing back to her—cattle, cars, tractors, milo, dust, baking asphalt, oil and gas wells and miles and miles of dry grasses.

  Occasionally, hurrying down an avenue in New York City, she would pass a specialty shop and stop a few paces away, snared by a memory of west Texas, unable to understand why her hometown of Almost suddenly came to mind. Now, outside the Lubbock Airport, swallowing the ash-dry Texas air, she knew what had captured her on those busy streets: a faint memory of home.

  Allison blinked.

  Outside the terminal, she counted less than ten squinting people making for cars, casually searching for vehicles. Allison cautiously made her way across the loading-zone street and found her rental car without any difficulty. Her suitcase felt heavier than usual and seemed unnaturally loud as it rolled and jolted beside her across the macadam. Her right leg ached a little, a reminder of why she’d chosen this of all times to come home. Something in nearly dying made her feel a keen awareness of the fifteen years of time lost, of too many words left unspoken.

  That, and the growing fear she was losing her mind and shortly wouldn’t be able to remember even her childhood.

  She pressed on the rental-car signature key ring several times, waiting for the dual-toned beep signaling the unlocking of the rental Buick, and when nothing happened, she realized the car didn’t have a
n automatic-safety-lock feature. It had been years since she’d been near a car without such devices. It had been a couple of months since she’d been this near to driving a car at all.

  She loaded her suitcase and carryall into the trunk of the car. After arching her travel-stiffened back, she withdrew her pocket telephone and punched in the code for her answering machine without bothering to glance at the number pad. She’d called it so often her fingers knew the pattern.

  Two messages played back for her, both from co-workers and both wishing her a good holiday and a quick recovery.

  As she replaced the phone into her handbag, she wondered if she wasn’t feeling out of kilter because the messages had wished her a happy holiday. Not vacation, as most Americans would say, but a holiday. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah. Not the standard two weeks of paid time off granted most salaried people.

  The last holiday had been Christmas. Had it been that long since she checked her phone mail? The thought sent a shiver of primal fear down her spine. She was going crazy.

  Once inside the Buick, she checked the car thoroughly before gripping the steering wheel with a white-knuckled clutch. It had been two months since her near fatal car - accident. And this was the first time she’d been behind the wheel of any car. Her insurance company had sold her own demolished vehicle to a wrecking yard for scrap metal. Though she’d never wished to see it again, for a brief second, she longed for the familiar grooves and curves of that old and reliable companion.

  What if she suffered one of her “attacks” while behind the wheel of a car? Wasn’t she being criminal even driving the vehicle? Friends Don’t Let Friends Drive Drunk. What about friends letting friends drive while going crazy?

  Except she didn’t have very many friends, did she? Not anymore. She used to. Colleagues, co-workers, people she met through Timeline. She frowned, trying to remember the last time she’d seen any of those friends. She sighed struggling to recall anything that made any sense in the past two months.

  As she slowly reversed, shifted gears and accelerated infinitesimally toward the parking-lot fee booth, she was grateful to realize that her subconscious still remembered how to maneuver a car and, moreover, she felt relieved that she’d delayed so long that few other drivers were trying to exit the lot. This dual realization allowed her to relax, albeit marginally.

  “I’m Allison Leary. I’m a reporter for Timeline, five-time Associated Press award winner. I live in New York City. I’m thirty-three years old. I was born on December 20 in Lubbock, Texas.”

  She followed another departing passenger to the automated exit gate. She continued whispering her careful litany of facts. She’d read that early-Alzheimer’s victims could remain focused for far longer if they repeated simple facts on a daily basis.

  “Last night I packed my bags to come to Almost. I watched Timeline. I...and I...” Her voice trailed away, and the silence in the car seemed preternaturally loud as if someone waited for her to continue. Someone who would tell her what she really had done.

  She watched the driver of the car ahead of her. The man’s jerseyed arm arced across to the machine’s slot and released the mechanism. He pointed back at her, signaling her that she was free to move forward.

  She seemed to be seeing the scene played in slow motion. Nearly in stop-frame animation. She had trouble catching her breath. A familiar sensation of panic threaded its way through her body.

  Not now, she silently begged. “Not now,” she murmured aloud. Not here, not in a car. But the sensation of being sealed off, of the world fading from view, pressed on with relentless speed.

  The man ahead of her inserted his rental waiver and smoothly exited the gate while she sat still, her foot jammed against the brake, her heart suddenly pounding in furious rhythm. A voice in her mind seemed to be screaming for her to run, to escape the car.

  Many times in the past two months, she’d given in to the raging, panicked voice. Strangely the panic and the need to run stayed with her while so much else seemed to evaporate. Several times, without knowing why, she’d heeded the instinct to turn blindly from whatever she was doing, whomever she’d been talking with, and dash mindlessly away from... something. Some unknown terror.

  She had the door partially open and was all set to jump from the car when the curious demand relaxed its grip on her and she knew she no longer needed to flee.

  After a few seconds, she pulled the door closed, forced her foot from the brake, let the car creep forward and used her own waiver to release the gate. By the time the bar rose, she’d regained some semblance of rationality. Her heartbeat felt steadier, though her hands still trembled but were strong enough to grip the wheel with authority. She told herself there was nothing to be frightened of. Not here in west Texas.

  The road leading from the Lubbock Airport seemed new to her. She felt certain no such elegantly curved and multilaned stretch of highway had existed fifteen years ago. Surely her recent lapses of memory didn’t extend so far back. And hopefully, these episodes of amnesia wouldn’t throw her into another panic attack as had happened with such alarming frequency lately. As it had nearly occurred only moments ago at the gate.

  Allison, is something troubling you?

  Who had asked her that? John Townsend, her boss? Her doctor...Dr. Cross? Dr. Knoss. Her psychiatrist...what was his name?

  She shook her head. She didn’t have a psychiatrist, did she?

  A low sob escaped her. Everything she’d worked so hard to create for so many years was crumbling around her. What was wrong with her?

  She soon found herself on the slender, two-laned farm-to-market roads that would eventually land her in Almost... and home.

  “For you, Taylor,” she murmured aloud, forcing herself not to seize the steering wheel when a massive grain truck roared past her at the new Texas speed limit of seventy miles per hour. A glance at the speedometer let her know how skittish she really felt, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she purposefully depressed the accelerator pedal before she was pulled over for driving too slowly.

  “Not for my sister,” she corrected herself, gritting her teeth. “For me.” For the lapses of time, for the indecision and confusion. And for the years of wondering and longing.

  Maybe you should take some time off, Allison.

  Have a great holiday, Allison.

  Hey, Allison, don’t forget to log in the love story before you get away.

  When had those things been said to her? She recognized the voices, could put names to them. But when had they spoken to her? Yesterday? A month ago? Two months ago?

  A sob tore at her throat, but she swallowed it furiously, trying desperately just to think clearly. The way she’d always thought in the past.

  ...no evidence of brain damage, Miss Leary.

  Maybe a rest will help you straighten this out, Allison.

  The empty roads, the yellow plains stretching out to either side of the pavement, Reba MacIntyre’s unique and lilting voice on the radio all conspired to weave a spell that seemed to defy time. Hadn’t she driven down this exact road in a similar car in another springlike February, another year, another lifetime, listening to Reba then, too?

  No...she’d been a passenger then, riding in an old, battered pickup, and Tammy Wynette had been singing some sad love song. And Chas had turned his shaggy head to look at her with that hint of a smile and a raw, blazing warmth in his brown eyes.

  Allison shook her head. Those kind of memories she could do without. She’d left home fifteen years ago to avoid them. And she had managed to successfully escape them for most of that time.

  She thought how her co-workers at Timeline would stare if they could hear that the indomitable Allison Leary was actually afraid of something. Most would probably just laugh and brush the thought away like some half-seen flying pest. A few, those few she was closest to, might frown and consider the notion, only to shake their heads in disbelief.

  Or they would have. Once.

  It was just the
concussion, honey, you’ll be all right in no time.

  Two months wasn’t “no time”; it-was an extended holiday in Hell.

  She could remember the day of the accident clearly. Every moment of it. Despite her fear of another panic attack.

  She glared at the road, drawing several deep breaths and reassuring herself that she could handle any situation, no matter how dire. She was surprised to learn she could look at the road as it was, could see it without seeing her recent accident. And without that damnable sense of panic.

  Though it brought no comfort, she told herself that her current panic had to do with seeing Dr. Charles Jamison again after all this time. Chas, who had married someone else, who had raised a son with that someone. Good old Chas, who had unknowingly and cruelly ruined her life.

  Allison felt a deep well of anger rising in her. Anger she’d never allowed to be aired. She welcomed the ire, nurtured it carefully, conjuring up other memories of Chas’s mountain of hurts. As long as she remembered the past, as long as she focused her thoughts on the days long ago, she had none of that dizzying vertigo, no panic. Just simple anger.

  But what if she had to see him again? How would she handle that, especially in her current condition? If she’d met him again while mind-whole, she could have disdainfully told him he was less than belly lint.

  But now, when she was so terribly vulnerable? How would she be able to cope with her anger at him, her years of longing for him?

  Was this trip home—ostensibly for her sister’s wedding—yet another in a seemingly endless stream of mistakes? Because without a single doubt, she would be forced to face Chas. She would be forced to meet his wife. His son. And she would, by sheer upbringing alone, be forced to put her hand in his and pretend she’d half forgotten his face, had nearly lost the memory of his name.