Return to Paradise

by Carol Grace

  He stood staring at the front door. Surprised at how easy it had been. He didn't know what he'd expected. She might have protested, said she wasn't well enough to travel. She could have asked for a chance to stay on permanently. Maybe she really was ready to go. Maybe she wanted to leave as much as he wanted her to. That must be it. Yes, tomorrow everything would be back to normal. He was looking forward to that. He really was.

  In the night the smell of flowers came and choked off the air around her. The bouquet of white roses, the centerpieces of pale yellow freesias that matched the dresses came to surround her, press in on her. Once so sweet, now cloying, suffocating. Christine sat up in bed and gasped for air, throwing the blanket off the daybed with shaking fingers. The white satin dress encrusted with pearls fit like a glove, a glove too tight, too small, too confining. She had to take it off, but she couldn't reach the tiny buttons that marched down the back. Panicky, she yanked at the flannel pajamas that hung on her slender frame. She looked down and forced herself to breathe deeply. There was no dress. There were no flowers. She was in the guest room at the Robinson Ranch. She was safe, for now. But tomorrow she would have to face the past, a past so sad she could only remember it in nightmares.

  She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. What was wrong with her that the smell of flowers should remind her of something so sad she couldn't stop crying? Why should a beautiful wedding dress be the cause of a nightmare? Weddings were happy affairs, filled with love and laughter. Not this one. Not this time.

  Gradually the tears dried on her cheeks, but underneath, a sadness too deep for tears wouldn't go away. She covered herself with the blanket and lay down again, but sleep refused to come back. The thought of leaving the ranch to go back to her old life terrified her. She didn't know why, she just knew she was better off where she was. But better or not, she was leaving tomorrow. Or rather today, she thought with a rueful glance at the clock.

  In the middle of the morning Parker brought his truck around to the front of the house, told his father he was going, knocked on the door of the den, heard her answer, then went out to the truck to wait impatiently. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

  When Christine finally came out, she was wearing the same extra-large jeans, a man's shirt and pair of unisex athletic shoes. He didn't ask where any of it had come from. He didn't want to know.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said, reaching for the passenger door. "I wanted to say goodbye to your father."

  "No hurry," he said, turning the key in the ignition. Just take your time. Say goodbye to my father, why not to the rest of the boys, too? Plenty of time.

  "He's such a nice man."

  He knew what she meant. He's such a nice man. What happened to you?

  "He's been at it a long time," he explained, grateful to have a subject for conversation. "Came out here and homesteaded with my mother. Maybe he told you."

  "He's had quite a life, full of ups and downs."

  Parker knew what one of the major downs was. "I'm somewhat of a disappointment to him," he said.

  She turned to look at him. "That's not what he said."

  "What did he say?" Parker asked, genuinely curious.

  "He's worried about you. He thinks you ought to get married."

  "Did he tell you I've been married?"

  Her eyes widened. "No."

  "That I have a twelve-year-old daughter?"

  "You do? Where is she? Why didn't I see her?"

  "She goes to school in Denver. Local schools are no good. I know, I went to them."

  "I see," she said thoughtfully. "I wish… I could have met her."

  "You like kids?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why..."

  "Why don't I have any? I don't know." She stared out the window. "Maybe I'm not married." She held up her hand. "No ring."

  She didn't have to tell him. He'd noticed. "Maybe you left it behind. All I know is, anybody who looks like you and cooks like you is probably married."

  She smiled faintly. "I guess that's a compliment."

  He shook his head. "Just an observation."

  She shot a swift glance in his direction. "I could say the same about you. Anybody who looks like you is probably married. But you're not. That's not a compliment, by the way. Just an observation."

  He bit back a grin, fought off the urge to say "touché," then focused on the long ribbon of road ahead. It was better to count telephone poles than to have a personal discussion.

  Christine wished she hadn't said that. Yes, he was good-looking. Today with a fresh shirt that matched the blue of his eyes and clean, well-worn jeans that hugged his narrow hips, she could hardly tear her eyes away from him. But what was the point of letting him know she noticed? In a few hours she'd never see him again. He'd be on his way back to the ranch with a new cook. She'd be on a bus for Denver, back to her old life. Her real life. The thought terrified her. She would rather jump off a speeding train or go back into a coma. But why? What was it back there that was so bad? Maybe it was time to find out. On the other hand, maybe it wasn't.

  It was strange how much at home she felt on the ranch. How comfortable. Despite Parker who made her feel something, but not comfortable. He puzzled her, intrigued her, and yes, attracted her. There were moments when she thought it might be mutual. But maybe not. He didn't want her around anymore. But the kind old man did. He thought she ought to stay on and cook. If it weren't for Parker she could have. But if it weren't for Parker, she'd be lying in the middle of that pasture with the vultures nibbling on her bones. She sighed.

  He looked at her. "Tired?"

  "Just a little nervous. How would you feel if you were about to uncover your past?"

  "Terrible."

  "Was it so bad?"

  "Well..." he said, deliberately avoiding her question as he slowed his truck and rolled down his window. "Here we are. Welcome to Clear Creek. Once a thriving mining town, now mostly ranchers."

  Christine looked out the side window at narrow streets, plank sidewalks and some carefully restored buildings. She should have known better than to ask a question about his past. He wasn't going to tell her anything.

  "And there's the general store I was telling you about." He gave her a sidelong glance. "They ought to have something to fit you. Just tell them to put it on my charge."

  "I don't like to do that."

  "You can't wear those clothes in Denver."

  She looked down at the rolled-up cuffs of her pants. "Pretty ridiculous, huh? I'll pay you back," she assured him.

  He parked in front of the store, reached across her and opened her door for her. His arm brushed her breasts. Accidentally. For some reason she suddenly remembered the night he'd undressed her. She sucked in a quick breath.

  He cleared his throat. "I'll meet you back here in an hour."

  She nodded and slowly got out of the truck. She knew he was going to the agency to interview the new cook. Why it hurt so much to be replaced by an anonymous man, she didn't know. It wasn't as if she wanted the job. It wasn't as if she could stay on at the ranch and just ignore the fact that she had no memory. She had to face her past sooner or later. It was just that she'd rather it was later.

  As she walked across the planked pavement a ripple of awareness ran up her spine. Without turning she knew he was watching her. Instead of hurrying to the agency he was sitting in his truck with his eyes on her. She opened the door to the dry goods store and reminded herself that he wanted her to go. She told herself there was no way she could stay. Not unless... She forced herself to stop dreaming and face reality. The smell of denim and leather filled the air. Stacks of blue jeans lined the walls in every style and every size. Felt hats hung from racks and in the back of the store was the shoe and boot department.

  A middle-aged saleswoman who wore relaxed-fit jeans, a red-and-white checkered shirt and leather boots took one look at Christine and smiled knowingly. "The works, right?" she asked.

  "Something I can wear in the city
as well as..." As well as what? She was going to the city, period. She was never coming back there. She didn't finish her sentence. She didn't have to. The woman seemed to know exactly what she wanted.

  It wasn't long before Christine was outfitted in smooth, soft, prewashed denims that hugged her hips, an off-white, all-cotton shirt and a pair of suede boots. To ward off the chill spring breeze, she bought a lightweight fitted jacket. And just in case it took a while to find out who she was in Denver, she bought some extra cotton underwear, jeans and shirts. As the woman totaled the bill she wondered how and when she'd pay Parker back.

  The saleswoman looked up in surprise when Christine told her to put it on his bill.

  "He does have a charge account here, doesn't he?" Christine asked anxiously.

  "Oh, yes, of course. I was just wondering... You're the lady who's been staying out at the ranch, the one who was struck by lightning?"

  She should have known. It was a small town. "Yes, that's me. But I'm fine now. On my way home, in fact."

  "I heard you...you lost your memory, is that right?" The woman stood on the other side of the counter with her pencil poised, the amount of the bill still untotaled.

  Christine nodded. What could she say?

  "My cousin Luke shears for them. He went out just before lambing. Says Parker's a good man to work for. Fair and honest. Always pays right on time."

  Christine nodded and looked at the unfinished bill on the counter. "I'll bet he does."

  " 'Course, the women in town are more interested in his looks and his money. Not a one of them who wouldn't like to cheer him up, make him forget about Cheryl. Be a mother to poor little Sarah. But no such luck." She paused. "I guess it's the kind of thing you never forget. From the day his wife left the only woman ever to work there was dear old Mrs. Dodge, Sarah's nanny. Don't think they didn't try though. Practically lined up on the front porch wanting to cook for him, clean for him, teach his daughter to play the piano or speak French. Maybe that's one reason he sent her away to school. Well, anyway..." she said, finally ringing up the sale on her cash register. "You get the picture."

  Christine got the picture. The picture of herself at the end of a long line of applicants, of women trying to get their foot in the door to make a play for the town's most eligible bachelor. She put her packages under her arm, said goodbye and walked out the door. There on the sidewalk, leaning against a hitching post, was Parker, his hat shading his face from the sun shining from a cloudless sky.

  When he saw her he did a double take. "Well," he said with a long look that started at the top of her head and ended with her new boots. "You did all right."

  "I'm afraid I spent a lot of your money, but I'll..."

  "Pay me back, I know," he said brusquely, tearing his eyes away from her to glance across the street at a cafe advertising home-cooked food. "I picked up your bus ticket. It doesn't leave until two. I don't know about you, but I didn't have breakfast this morning. I'm ready for lunch."

  She shifted the packages from one arm to the other. This was going too far. First the ride to town, then the clothes and now lunch. It was time to break it off. Now. "I don't think so."

  He jerked his head back to look at her. "What do you mean?" He took a step forward until his face was inches from hers, until she could see into the depths of his blue eyes. "Aren't you hungry? Are you sick?"

  She licked her lips, hoping she'd be able to speak, to come up with an excuse, but all she could do was shake her head. He took the packages from under her arm, then grasped her elbow firmly and led her across the street. "Then you'll eat. We'll eat."

  The place was packed. As they passed crowded booths on their way to the back of the restaurant, people called out.

  "Hey, Parker."

  "What's doin'?"

  "How's things?"

  She was only too aware of their curious glances in her direction, but he kept moving, his hand exerting a firm pressure on the small of her back, until they were settled in the last booth in the comer.

  She rested her elbows on the table and looked at him. Seeing him through the eyes of the townspeople, the women who wanted him, the men who liked him. No wonder her heart was beating double time. He was an enigma, a challenge, a man with a past, where she had none. A man who hid his feelings, if he had any.

  He looked up. "What?" he asked, startled by the awareness in her eyes.

  "Nothing." She picked up her menu and hid behind it. "The Western omelet sounds good."

  Parker continued to look at her, at what he could see behind that menu, at her shoulders, the sleeves of her new shirt, at her fingers, slender and ringless. He had to grip the edge of the table to keep from taking the menu out of her hands and looking into those wide gray eyes again, just to catch a glimpse of whatever it was he saw. But he wasn't going to do anything rash. Not now. Not ever. And he wasn't going to offer her the job, not if they had to eat peanut butter sandwiches from now to eternity.

  As if she'd read his thoughts, she set her menu down and said, "How did it go? The cook," she reminded him. "Was he okay?"

  "No," he said shortly. "He wasn't. He'd been fired at the last two places for stealing the silverware."

  Her eyes widened. The waitress came. They ordered. He stared off into space over her head. She unfolded her napkin. "That's too bad," she said.

  "He was a good cook though. They all vouched for his cooking," he volunteered.

  "What are you going to do?" she asked.

  "Go back after lunch. Keep at it until they find me someone."

  She nodded and the food came; his hot roast beef sandwich and her omelet with toast and hash browns. He watched her down her glass of milk and wondered where she'd be eating dinner tonight. At the head of a long table in some high-ceilinged dining room, with her long-lost family, or in one of those restaurants downtown where they carve the meat at your table? Or would she never get out of the Greyhound bus station, would she wander around lost and confused, unable to find her way to the Department of Missing Persons?

  When they finished, he frowned and left money on the table. Then he took her to the bus stop, pressed some money into her hand and gave her her ticket and her package of new clothes. She looked calm and competent. There was nothing to worry about.

  "Thanks again," she said with a quick smile. Did her lower lip tremble or was that his imagination?

  "You're welcome." He kissed her on the cheek, tipped his hat and turned and walked away. Told himself it wasn't as bad as he'd imagined. She'd be fine. He kicked a stone the size of a small boulder off the road next to his truck and winced as the pain shot through his foot. Yes, she'd be fine. But would he?

  Chapter Four

  Parker went back to the agency and restlessly thumbed through the files. He tossed the folders back across the desk. "Nothing. There's nobody I could even interview," he explained.

  "Sorry about that, Mr. Robinson," the woman said. "A good cook is always in demand, man or woman. But I may have something next week. Why don't you check back with me then?"

  "Next week? What am I supposed to do till then?" he grumbled, getting to his feet. "My men have got to eat."

  She shrugged as if it wasn't her problem, which it wasn't. Parker walked out of the office. He stood out in front staring at his truck, knowing he couldn't go home and face the men without a cook. He couldn't ask them to work as hard as they did without a hearty breakfast or a good meal to look forward to at the end of the day. Without knowing where he was going he started walking, past the feed and fuel store, past the grange, the university extension agriculture office, and around the block.

  He looked at his watch. A few minutes past two o'clock. His mind was spinning, picturing her face in the bus window, the lost look in her eyes, her lower lip trembling. Impulsively, he turned and ran toward the bus station. The bus for Denver was just pulling away. He sprinted after it, not knowing what he'd do if he caught it. It stopped to let a car pass and he peered in the windows one by one. She wasn't there. He ran
behind the bus and canvassed the passengers on the other side. There was nobody with short brown curly hair and gray eyes and wearing new clothes. Where was she?

  He should never have let her go by herself. No matter what she said, he realized she still needed help. He should have taken her to the bus and made sure she got on it. Was she lost and wandering around somewhere? Damn it, where was she? How far could she have gotten? He got in his truck and cruised the narrow streets of Clear Creek, originally built for horse-drawn traffic, his fingers gripping the steering wheel, his gaze sweeping the quiet neighborhoods. In front of the grade school a bell rang. The crossing guard signaled him to stop. Children crossed the street in front of him. He rolled his window down.

  Impatiently he ran his hand through his hair. Then he saw her, standing at the fence, her gaze fixed on the children as they poured out the front door.

  Keeping one eye on Christine, he parked the truck across from the school and crossed the street. As he approached he realized her gaze was so intent on the children she was unaware of anything else, especially him. He stood a few feet away, watching her watch the kids with an unmistakable look of longing in her eyes.

  "Christine?"

  She turned toward him and he was stunned by the look of sadness mingled with the longing. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

  With obvious effort, she drew a long, shaky breath and wiped at the tears that threatened to spill out of her eyes. "Hello, Parker," she said, giving him a tremulous smile.

  "Why weren't you on the bus? Why aren't you on your way to Denver?"

  "I am, I am..." she said. Then she frowned. "Why aren't you on your way home?"

  "Because..." He grabbed her by the shoulders. "I was worried about you. You weren't on the bus. Damn it, Christine..." He wanted to shake her, to tell her he couldn't leave not knowing where she was, but instead he bent his head and kissed her. If she was surprised, he was even more surprised. He had no intention of kissing her in front of the Clear Creek elementary school or anywhere for that matter.

  But once his lips met hers he forgot where he was. Forgot everything but how her lips tasted and how fragile she felt in his arms. Her arms tightened around him as if he was her anchor. He wasn't. He wasn't her anything. And yet for one crazy moment he wanted to be. Wanted her to lean on him, to depend on him. To throw her arms around him and kiss him as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.