“Like what?” he asked carefully.
“So wonderful.” Her voice, that sexy proper British tone, was pitched so low he could barely hear her. “Like Roman candles zinging around in my stomach.”
If he hadn’t already been aroused and ready to go, her words would have done the trick in an instant.
She looked tousled and beautiful and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep his hands off of her.
He drew in a ragged breath. He didn’t want to see stars in her eyes. She should save them for the kind of man who deserved them. God knows, he certainly didn’t.
He wanted to lie, to tell her their kiss hadn’t been anything special but the words froze in his throat. He had spent a dozen years doing nothing but lie, until even he couldn’t remember the truth anymore. So why couldn’t he utter the smallest of falsehoods to this woman?
He couldn’t do it.
“No. It’s not always like that,” he finally admitted, his voice gruff.
She digested that for a moment, then she smiled slightly. “I didn’t think so. I was certain I should remember if it were.”
He absolutely didn’t want to think about that, about any unlucky bastard whose kiss she might have forgotten. It was none of his business, he reminded himself. She could have kissed the entire British navy for all he cared.
Like Roman candles zinging around in my stomach.
He pushed her words away. “It shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry. You can be sure it won’t happen again.”
She compressed her lips together and drew the blanket up to her shoulders. “Of course not.”
Mason didn’t like this feeling of regret, the odd sense of loss when he walked to the door. He had no business touching her, wanting her. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be feeling this tenderness that thrummed through him like a tiny, frantic butterfly.
“It’s late. We should both try to get some rest.”
“Yes. We should.” She tilted her head, studying him with something in her eyes he couldn’t put a name to. “You don’t sleep well, do you?”
He blinked at the unexpected question. “What makes you say that?” he asked slowly.
“I heard you moving around downstairs earlier, before I fell asleep. I’ve heard you every night. You seem…restless.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that. No way could he tell her she was responsible in part for some of his edginess.
“Does it have anything to do with Charlie and Miriam’s parents?”
The question pierced him like a poison-tipped arrow, finding its way instantly to his heart, and his hand tightened on the doorknob. He let out a breath as pain and guilt swamped.
Something about the rain pounding on the window created a cocoon of intimacy in the room and he was stunned at how badly he wanted to tell her about the Betrans.
The fact that he was tempted to confide in her left him unsettled. He shouldn’t even consider it. He was a man with many secrets, some he couldn’t reveal even on threat of death. The Betrans weren’t necessarily in that category but they were part of his life before, a dark world he couldn’t talk about.
He had to say something, though. She was watching him expectantly, her blue eyes huge.
“Samuel and Lianne Betran are only two of the many ghosts who haunt me,” he finally said.
She must have thought he wouldn’t answer. Surprise flickered across her lovely features, followed quickly by a soft, devastating compassion. He tightened his hand on the doorknob, appalled at his fierce urge to sink into that compassion, into her.
He didn’t like this tenderness, didn’t want it. He certainly couldn’t need it—that would make him weak, and he couldn’t afford to be weak.
“Good night,” he said, his voice brusque. “I hope your dreams are more pleasant the rest of the night.”
She drew the quilt around her. “Thank you,” she answered after a moment. “And I hope your ghosts leave you in peace.”
Little chance of that, he thought, but he nodded and let himself out the door, closing it behind him firmly without looking back.
He checked on the children and found them both sprawled across the banig on the floor of Miriam’s room. With a sigh—and more of that uncomfortable tenderness—he tugged the pink quilt off Miriam’s bed and tossed it over them both then headed for his own room.
There, he stood at the window looking out at the rain again and at the ranch he thought he’d left forever.
He had to hope she regained her memory soon—or played her hand so he knew what the hell her game was once and for all. As he had amply demonstrated tonight, he had no willpower around the woman. He should have left her room the moment she returned to full awareness. He had been caught, though, tangled in a web of intimacy and need and the deep loneliness he didn’t want to face.
Somehow Jane made him see all that was missing in his life. Companionship, laughter, the sweet comfort of a woman’s touch—all those soft, fragile things he had spent a dozen years convincing himself he didn’t need.
He needed to end this somehow, to return things to the way they were before she came to the Bittercreek.
The only question left was how the hell he would accomplish that.
And what he would do when she was gone.
* * *
The rainstorm of the night before had blown through, leaving everything on the ranch fresh and clean.
Jane sat on her bed with the window open, breathing in the sweet-smelling air and wishing the storm had done the same to her as it had to the ranch.
She could only hope Mason had slept better than she. Their odd, dreamlike encounter had left her restless and edgy. After he left her room, she had lain in bed for a long time, listening to the rain clicking against the window and trying to ignore the buzz and smolder of her body.
When the hunger seemed to abate and her heartbeat finally seemed to slow to normal, she turned her energy toward straining her brain in hopes of recovering any kind of memory of her past and the events that might have led her to Mason Keller.
She had finally drifted off around the same time the rain slowed, sometime before dawn—only to experience more disjointed, alarming dreams that left her shaken and uneasy.
Now, only a few short hours later, dressed and ready for the day, she sat on the edge of her bed, fighting the temptation to don her nightgown again and sink into the comforting embrace of the bed. Her stomach quivered and her head ached almost as much as it had that first day Mason had found her in the mountains.
It didn’t feel like a normal headache, she thought. Pain pulsed from the base of her skull, radiating out in all directions and she was almost certain the headache was causing her nausea.
Even more disquieting than the physical discomfort was her emotional unrest.
She couldn’t shake the lingering sensation there was something important she was supposed to remember, something vital her subconscious needed urgently to tell her. She felt as if she were on the edge of recalling…something.
What? She curled her hands with frustration. This was all so maddening. If she had something vital to remember, why the devil couldn’t her brain just get on with it? Instead she sat in the guest bedroom of a small Utah ranch, wishing she could just hide here forever, where she was safe.
Safe from what?
She shivered, afraid of something she couldn’t even name.
This was ridiculous. What did she possibly have to fear? She would probably regain her memory and discover she led a perfectly boring life where nothing exciting ever happened.
She could hope, anyway.
Enough of this maundering. She couldn’t stay here all day. Most likely she would feel worlds better once she was up and moving.
She found Pam and the children in the comfortable, inviting ranch kitchen. Pam stood at the big six-burner stove singing lustily along to an American country music song on the radio while Charlie and Miriam watched her, giggling over their heaping plates of pancakes.
Des
pite her headache, she had to smile at the scene. Just that tiny stretching of muscles sent even more pain radiating through her skull. She couldn’t contain a tiny gasp, which drew Miriam’s attention first.
The girl smiled at her. “Jane. You are awake. Good morning,” she said in English.
“Good morning,” Jane replied, forcing a smile.
Pam had stopped her performance at Miriam’s greeting and now her gaze sharpened. “Oh, hon. You look awful. Those circles under your eyes are heavy enough to drive a tractor through. You okay?”
“I’ve a bit of a headache, that’s all. And I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well. No worries, though. I’ll be fine.”
“Sit down. You need to get something in your stomach so you can take some aspirin.”
Just the thought of food made her stomach roll but the aspirin certainly sounded appealing. She knew Pam was right, taking one on an empty stomach would only make things worse.
Pam set a plate of pancakes down at the table. “Sit down,” she repeated. “I’ll go see what I can round up in Mason’s medicine cabinet.”
Jane obeyed—at least the sitting part. Even taking a tiny bite of pancake seemed beyond her capability just now.
The children didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. They chattered away in their funny mix of English and Tagalog, though she couldn’t seem to focus on what they were saying. She could only be grateful they didn’t seem to require any sort of response from her.
Pam returned a few moments later. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Mason probably hasn’t had much time to stock his medical supplies. All I can find are a couple of aspirin in a bottle that was probably past its expiration date the year I graduated from high school.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
Pam made a face. “If you can hang on for five more minutes, I’ll run over to our place and find you some Extra-Strength Excedrin. You look like you need it.”
Extra-strength anything sounded brilliant right about now, especially as the sunlight shining in through the kitchen window stabbed at her eyes with a hundred blades.
She could only nod. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Jane managed not to wince when Pam slammed the door on her way out, though it was a near thing. She might have wanted to bang her head against the table a few times but she forced what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her features and turned to the children.
“What are your plans today?”
“Fish,” Charlie exclaimed. “Fish, fish, fish.”
“I take it you’re going fishing,” she said dryly.
His vigorous nod left her dizzy. “After Mason meets with the horse doctor.”
The veterinarian, she assumed. She hoped everything was all right with his new stallion and that the vet was only there on a routine exam.
“You come fish with us,” Charlie said in careful English.
Oh, dear. Wouldn’t Mason love to have her tagging along on his grand excursion with his children? Besides that minor detail, she had to assume that at this rate, by the time they left to go fishing, her head would have throbbed completely off her shoulders.
She mustered a smile. “I’d better not,” she began, but her attention was suddenly caught by a word or two from the radio announcer.
“FBI agents in the Salt Lake field office say three men are in custody this morning, held on charges related to an alleged plot to steal chemical agents stored at the Deseret Chemical Depot in the west desert. The men, all Vandelusian nationals, reportedly planned to detonate the chemical agents at the scheduled signing next week of an historic trade agreement between the U.S., Great Britain and their country. Our Trudy Gallegos is working on the story and we will bring you more details of this breaking story as they become available.”
The bright sunshine of the kitchen suddenly dimmed and the room seemed to spin. The pain in her head crushed out any thought and she had to lay her head down on the table.
“Jane?” Miriam asked suddenly from what sounded like some great distance away. “You are okay?”
She couldn’t answer—a thousand images were flashing through her brain so rapidly she couldn’t keep up with them, couldn’t absorb what they might mean.
All she could focus on was a single word—Vandelusia.
The word seemed to ricochet through her brain like a ball in a crazed pinball machine, bouncing off neural pathways, sparking memories here and there.
She knew that word. She knew that country! She’d spent six months in the hot and humid Southeast Asian country the year she turned eleven, while her father was on assignment with the British diplomatic service.
Her father!
Jane lifted her head and clutched a hand to her chest. Her father! She remembered him!
Harry Withington’s broad, handsome features formed in her mind, so wonderfully familiar she wanted to weep. Vivid blue eyes, that graying mustache, his wide, open smile.
She only had a brief instant of piercing joy before she remembered the rest. He was dead, she remembered now. That fearless, passionate diplomat had been murdered by rebels in South America while trying to rescue the daughter the rebels held captive.
While trying to rescue her, Jane Elizabeth Claire Withington.
She caught her breath as that horrible time hit her with stunning clarity—cowering in that hole where they’d kept her, the six long days she had spent there waiting to die, sure she would at any second.
And then, through a marvelous feat of cunning diplomacy and raw courage, Harry came for her, prepared to negotiate for her release. He hadn’t come alone, though, but with a small force of British and American special forces who had been training in the country.
After all this time, Jane could still see the scene vividly in her mind—the sudden glaring shock of sunlight as the material over her hole had been moved aside and then the even greater shock of seeing Harry lean over the edge with his familiar smile.
“Hello, Janie-girl. Shall we go home, then?”
Flat on his stomach in the dirt, he reached down. Still not sure if this was another hallucination, she’d grabbed his hands and a moment later he pulled her out and into his arms.
They had one brief, joyful reunion before all hell had broken loose. She heard a commotion coming from a cluster of buildings and then a moment later three FARC rebels in uniform rushed from the building, weapons at the ready.
“Whoops.” Harry’s smile looked a little strained around the edges. “I thought we might have a little more time. There’s a chopper through the trees there. Run for it!”
She had obeyed on legs weak from hunger, inactivity and unrelenting fear. Just as she’d reached the thick edge of jungle, she heard gunshots.
Only later did she realize Harry had created a distraction to allow her time to reach the helicopter. She saw him go down across the way. She could remember her confusion, her disbelief when he didn’t get back up. Why wasn’t he coming?
She screamed his name and would have run to him except she’d never had the chance. Suddenly she was surrounded by soldiers. A young American picked her up, screaming and crying, and carried her over his shoulder the rest of the way to the waiting helicopter.
Her last image of her father had been watching out the window of the chopper as the furious rebel leader who had taunted and tormented her for six days fired a gun at point-blank range into his skull.
Dear God. Remembering it now was like watching him die all over again. The same helplessness, the same grief, the same crushing guilt pounded her.
There was more.
She drew in a ragged breath. Terrorists. Vandelusia.
That’s why she had been up in those mountains when Mason and the children found her.
Everything rushed back—sitting alone in that restaurant in Park City and overhearing the trade minister, Simon Djami; meeting his gaze and seeing the recognition flash in his eyes as he realized who she was, that she understood every word of their conversation in the obscure Vandish dial
ect, that she now knew his plans; the cold greasy fear as she was shoved into the cargo area of that lorry.
They had planned to kill her. Only stupid luck—and her father’s voice whispering in her ear—had saved her life.
Wave after unrelenting wave of memories washed over her. The lovely cottage on the Thames in Buckinghamshire where she had lived quietly with her mother until Claire Withington died of pneumonia the year Jane turned seven.
The subsequent arrival of the exciting, dynamic father she knew only from rare visits.
How the next eight years of her life were wonderful and horrible at once as Harry dragged her with him to every corner of the world in his work as a troubleshooter in Britain’s diplomatic corps.
She had loved being with him but she had been a quiet child who would have much preferred staying in that Bucks cottage to traveling to dangerous locales with exotic food and strange insects.
She remembered everything, from those awful, lonely years after her father died to the present, her tiny flat in London and her stuffy job as a diplomatic interpreter.
She knew exactly who she was now—Jane Withington. Shy, boring and afraid to tumble out of bed most mornings.
She rather thought she liked herself better when she had no memory of that woman.
CHAPTER 11
“Jane? You must sit. Please, sit.”
Though she still felt shaky and disoriented as if she were whirling and spinning through space, she finally keyed into Miriam’s frantic words. Jane blinked back to the kitchen of Mason’s ranch to find both children gazing at her out of huge, frightened dark eyes.
How long had she been sitting here like an idiot, gazing at nothing but her own sudden wild rush of memories? She couldn’t blame the children for their unease.
She mustered a smile, reaching for Miriam’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’m all right. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
Charlie said something in Tagalog that she believed loosely translated to something about having a mouse in his chest. She took that for some kind of idiom she was unfamiliar with about being scared. Oh, dear. Poor thing. She tried to muster a reassuring smile through the tumult of emotions churning through her.
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