Flame

by Ophelia Sexton

  "Hi," she said softly, her voice a throaty contralto nearly as soothing as her sweet scent. She had a light twang that spoke of the South. "Are you Thor Swanson?"

  Now it was his turn to blink as he realized he had no fucking clue what his name was.

  Thor Swanson. He tried the name on for size, hoping for some hint, anything, to help him.

  Nothing. A renewed spike of pain in his head momentarily obliterated thought. Whatever had happened to him, it must have been bad if he couldn't even remember his fucking name.

  "I—" he began, feeling nauseous. Who am I? "…don't know who I am."

  The light in the room was suddenly unbearable, and his head felt on the verge of exploding. He closed his eyes.

  And felt her hand, soft and warm, rest lightly on his forehead.

  "I think you might have a concussion," she said. "You landed pretty hard, and your helmet looks pretty trashed."

  Landed? Helmet?

  None of this was making any sense at the moment. And the waves of blinding pain rolling through his head weren't helping any.

  Before he could rally himself to ask her for details, she continued.

  "It looks like you fractured your arm and leg too. Are you hurting anywhere else?"

  He forced his eyes open to see her bending over him with a concerned expression. He felt the warm brush of her breath against his face, and he badly wanted her to lean down just a little further and close the distance between their lips.

  He tried to laugh and was immediately sorry when a fresh spear of pain stabbed him in the left side.

  "Might be easier to ask me if there's anywhere I don't hurt," he told her honestly. "I feel like I lost a kickboxing match. I think I may have cracked a couple of ribs."

  She sighed and compressed her luscious lips into a tight, unhappy line. "You need to see a doctor, but I don't know if any of the hospitals nearby are shifter-friendly."

  Shifter. He felt as though he ought to know what that word meant, but the definition eluded him.

  "Can you tell me if there's anyone I should call?" she finished, sounding hopeful. "Friends? Family?" She hesitated fractionally before asking, "A mate?"

  He took a cautious breath, balancing the pain in his side against his need to fill his lungs with her scent, and pondered her question.

  Where do I live? Who are my friends? Am I married?

  Frustratingly, no real memories answered. He had a vague impression that he lived in an apartment, and he felt an instinctive denial when she asked him about a mate. But like his name, the rest of the answers to her questions were shrouded in mystery.

  "I don't know," he said and heard his frustration bubbling up through his words.

  He felt her give his hair a quick, comforting stroke.

  Do that again, he thought, but frustratingly, she withdrew her hand.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  He noticed her slight hesitation before she replied. "Cassie."

  No last name?

  "Nice to meet you, Cassie," he said slowly. "Can you tell me what happened? How did I get here?"

  She told him about seeing him fall out of the sky in front of her car, about the parachute in the tree, and the equipment he was carrying.

  "You had this with you. I think you might be a park ranger," she said and turned away to retrieve one of the objects sitting on a battered wooden coffee table.

  It was a hard hat with a US Forest Service decal.

  He frowned, staring at the hat. I'm a ranger? A sky-diving park ranger?

  That sounded…not right. Though he didn't have a clue as to what the correct answer might be.

  He groaned softly and closed his eyes.

  None of this made sense, and trying to put the puzzle pieces together was stirring up fresh waves of pain in his head.

  "Nothing?" Cassie asked sympathetically.

  He slitted his eyes open against the sharp needles of light and shook his head minutely.

  She sighed. "I don't know what to do. You need medical attention, but if I just take you to a hospital…" She shook her head emphatically. "It's a risk. They might realize that you're different."

  Shifter…shapeshifter?

  Yes, that felt right.

  Instinctively, he reached inside himself, his mind trying to contact something that ought to be there.

  And found nothing. It felt like he'd lost half of his soul.

  "Are you…a shifter, too?" he asked tentatively.

  Again, that odd hesitation before she nodded.

  "Do you know what kind I am?"

  She leaned over him to take a deep sniff. The soft mounds of her breasts pressed against his upper arm in the most delightful way.

  Not wanting to betray how much he was enjoying this contact, he forced himself to lie utterly still.

  The tip of her nose brushed against the hollow of his throat, and it felt like the most incredibly erotic caress he'd ever received.

  His cock stirred to sudden life, and he prayed fervently she wouldn't look down. He wasn't wearing pants, and his tight briefs made it impossible to hide his interest.

  When she straightened up, her expression was apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you are. I haven't met very many other shifters, so I don't know what they smell like. I can tell you that you're not a coyote shifter or wolf shifter or a…uh, big cat. But other than that…" She shrugged.

  "What are you?" Her scent teased his nose. She smelled both familiar and unfamiliar.

  "I'm…a cougar shifter."

  She was lying to him. Even if he didn't remember what a genuine cougar shifter smelled like, he could hear the falsehood in the acceleration of her pulse, smell it subtly permeating her scent.

  But now that she had identified herself as a cat, he recognized the musky note in her scent as feline. So what was she lying about? And why?

  "Can you remember anything about yourself?" Her soft voice broke into his thoughts.

  "No." He felt like someone trapped behind a wall of impenetrable fog. He knew that there were memories and revelations on the other side of that wall, but he couldn't get to them.

  He sighed and closed his eyes again, feeling choppy ripples of pain moving through him.

  She touched him again, a tantalizingly light pressure against his cheek.

  "Don't fall asleep," she said. "That's dangerous with a head injury."

  "Talk to me," he suggested, reluctantly opening his eyes. He tried to think of something to kick off the conversation. "You're a waitress at the Cougar Creek Diner? Tell me about your job."

  She froze. "How did you—?" She paused, and then she gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Oh, right. My T-shirt. And I probably smell like breakfast, lunch, and dinner all rolled up into one."

  "It's not a bad smell," he assured her. "But don't be surprised if I get hungry soon."

  That won him another soft laugh. "There's nothing really exciting about my job. It's been really busy for the last couple of days because of the fire. Ted—he owns the diner and he's the head cook—he's a real nice guy, though he does tend to yell a lot."

  After a moment, when he was sure she wasn't going to say anything else, he asked, "Have you worked there long?"

  She shook her head. "It's just a summer gig. I, uh, decided to drop out of graduate school and take some time off to travel around the country. When my friend Amanda asked me to house-sit for her, I figured I'd work here for the summer and beef up my savings a bit before continuing on."

  Her words had the flavor of truth, but he didn't think she was telling him the whole story. And he wished she would. There was something about her that called to his protective instinct.

  I want to help her, he realized. But I don't know how. After a moment, he admitted to himself: As if I could actually do anything useful right now!

  "But enough about me and my boring life," Cassie continued lightly. "Let's talk about you, mystery man. Maybe we can figure this out…or at least keep you awake until I'm sure you're not go
ing to slip into a coma."

  "I'm not sure what I can tell you at this point," he admitted.

  "I'll start with an easy one. Anchovies on pizza: yes or no?"

  "Yes," he said, without thinking. And could immediately recall the intensely salty bursts of flavor amidst the hot gooey goodness of melted cheese. "Definitely yes."

  "I like them too," she said, rewarding him with a smile that lit up her amazing eyes. "And now we both know one more thing about you," She chewed on her lower lip with a thoughtful expression. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

  "Uh," he said, stumped. "No sisters…I think."

  The image of a tall, dark-haired man in a firefighter's coat came to him, followed by a fragmentary flash of sitting in a bar, talking and laughing with three other men, all wearing the firefighters' informal uniform of a dark blue T-shirt and cargo pants.

  "I think I might have brothers, though," he said slowly, trying to chase that memory down a twisting rabbit hole laced with pain like coils of barbed wire. "Maybe three? I don't know."

  He gave a frustrated huff.

  "Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream?" she asked quickly. Then the corners of her eyes crinkled in the cutest way as she grinned down at him. "Or are you an artisanal salted caramel gelato kind of guy?"

  He found himself returning her smile and saw her eyes widen slightly. Her scent changed again to include a gratifying whiff of sexual interest. Yay!

  "All of the above," he said firmly. "I love any kind of ice cream." That felt like a true statement to him.

  Inside him, a tight knot of tension began to loosen. He hadn't been aware of it until it eased and began to be replaced by hope.

  "The best ice cream I ever had was something called Crème Glacée Canadiennes, a ridiculously expensive scoop of maple ice cream with candied pecans and bits of candied bacon," she said, with a faint smile. "That was back home in Texas, at a place near the university called Glacier Antoine that made all kinds of cool flavors."

  "You wouldn't happen to have any of that in your freezer right now?" he asked.

  She laughed. "You'd have to travel to Austin for some of that."

  And then stopped speaking with a dismayed expression, as if she'd said too much.

  So, this beautiful, kind cat shifter was from Austin, Texas? As far as he knew, that wasn't a crime. So why was she being so mysterious?

  None of your business, he told himself firmly.

  After more rounds of questions and answers, during which his violent headache finally began to recede and he learned that he liked Thai food and outdoor sports but couldn't remember anything about his parents or where he'd grown up, his stomach began to growl.

  "That's a good sign," Cassie said, perking up. There was no hiding that kind of thing from a fellow shifter. "It means you're beginning to heal."

  She had seated herself on the coffee table and at some point had taken his left hand to check his pulse…and never let go. He relished the feeling of her warm fingers wrapped around his palm. It felt somehow incredibly right, a connection that seemed totally natural.

  He felt genuine regret when she finally released his hand.

  As if only now realizing what she'd been doing, her cheeks flushed adorably under the smooth tanned skin as she stood and headed for the fridge in the cabin's kitchen.

  As she walked away, her body language screamed deep discomfort. But her tone was upbeat as she said over her shoulder, "Ted always sends his employees home with lots of food. I've got a big container of his special chili in the fridge, and there's cornbread on the side. And I bought back some banana puddin' for dessert—it's nearly as good as the kind back home."

  After she disappeared into the kitchen, Thor managed to maneuver himself slowly up to a sitting position, though his various injuries, particularly his ribs, weren't happy about it.

  Then he listened to the comforting sounds of the microwave running and dishes rattling until Cassie returned to the living room a few minutes later.

  She was carrying a tray with two steaming bowls of chili, a large plate piled with squares of golden cornbread, and two tall glasses, one filled with cold milk and the other with a soft drink that he recognized by scent as Dr. Pepper.

  "You should have waited for me to help you with that," Cassie said sternly as she caught sight of him.

  She put down the tray and hurried to prop his broken leg on a cushion placed on the coffee table.

  "Thanks, Cassie. That feels a lot better," he said, sincerely, when she had finished fussing over him.

  And was pleased to note a shift in her scent. Yep, she was attracted to him.

  Which was good, because he was definitely attracted to her.

  He liked everything about her so far—her soft, throaty voice, her face, her lush figure, and most of all, the way she smelled.

  Injuries be damned, he just wanted to lie back down on the couch and spoon with her. She'd be a cuddlesome armful, no doubt about it.

  As if somehow reading his thoughts, she said abruptly, "I should probably make you a sling for your arm." And fled to the bathroom without meeting his gaze.

  He looked after her thoughtfully. She was such an intriguing set of contradictions wrapped in a curvy, lovely package.

  When Cassie returned with a roll of gauze in hand, she quickly fashioned a sling. He didn't protest, enjoying her proximity and the quick, deft touch of her hands as she tied off the sling around his neck.

  Before she sat down, she switched on the cabin's TV.

  He tackled the tray she had laid across his lap and began awkwardly spooning up chili with his left hand. The chili was thick and pleasantly spicy with lots of beans and ground meat, and he was ravenously hungry.

  Half of his bowl disappeared in the five minutes before the local news broadcast started.

  Above a banner that read Tragedy Strikes Elite Firefighting Team, a solemn female news anchor said, "Our top story today is about a routine firefighting mission gone horribly wrong. It all began this afternoon when authorities called in the Rocky Mountain Hot Shots smokejumper team to help battle the Mt. Thomas wildfire, which has consumed 40,000 acres of the White River National Forest so far.

  "One smokejumper, Kara Latrans of Pueblo, Colorado, was badly injured when freak gusts of wind drove her parachute away from their planned landing spot and into the tree line. A second smokejumper, Thor Swanson from Bearpaw Ridge, Idaho, is still missing. Authorities have launched a major search and rescue operation."

  As the news anchor continued reporting on the day's events, a group photo of ten firefighters posed in front of a Douglas DC-3TP plane appeared on the screen.

  And he recognized the tall, bearded man in the back row of the photo as himself, even before a graphic highlight called out his image.

  So I really am Thor Swanson. It still felt like a stranger's name, though.

  "That's you!" Cassie exclaimed. She was sitting next to him and turned to him now, her eyes wide. "They're looking for you!"

  "At least that explains the parachute," he said, feeling a little numb.

  He still couldn't remember anything about his job, but firefighter felt right in a way that park ranger hadn't.

  He put down his spoon and took Cassie's hand before turning his attention back to the TV, where a tall, brown-haired female firefighter was being interviewed.

  To his pleasure, Cassie didn't pull away. In fact, she laced her fingers through his as they both continued to watch the news broadcast.

  It was both weird and wonderful to realize that he felt like they had known each other forever.

  The banner along the bottom of the TV screen identified the female firefighter as Kara Latrans, a member of the Rocky Mountain Hot Shots. She had a metal crutch propped under one arm and was telling the reporter how an unexpected downdraft had slammed her into the ground near the end of her parachute jump, breaking her leg and injuring the ligaments in her knee.

  "Hey, I think I know her!" Thor said.

  Cass
ie's fingers tightened around his. "Is, uh, Kara your girlfriend? Or your mate?"

  Was that disappointment he heard in Cassie's voice? He sure hoped so.

  "I hope not," he said seriously. After a moment's consideration, he added, "At least, I don't think we are. I think we're friends, but I don't think it's more than that."

  He felt Cassie relax slightly.

  "Help me out here," she said, staring at the phone number displayed on the TV screen. "I really think you need to see a doctor, but I'm afraid that some well-meaning Ordinary doctor or nurse might out you by mistake."

  "I trust you to do the right thing," he assured her.

  Something in his gut told him that it was true. He did trust her. Completely.

  And he wasn't sorry she had brought him here, to her home, before calling anyone. He was pretty sure that being treated for his injuries by the most attractive woman he'd ever met was a thousand times better than sitting in a hospital ER somewhere.

  Not that I can actually remember any of the other attractive women I might have met before my accident, he reminded himself. But he was sure that Cassie would be at the top of the list regardless.

  She blew out a breath, released his hand, and rose. "I'll make the call."

  Thor regretted the loss of contact but took the opportunity to finish the rest of his chili.

  He was polishing off a generous square of cornbread slathered with butter when Cassie returned, the cordless handset of the cabin's landline in her hand.

  "You probably won't know the answer to this," she began, sounding uncertain. "But if I call that number and tell them that you're here…will I be able to avoid any publicity?"

  "There might be a reporter or two," he said. It felt like a true statement. "But I don't think you have to speak to them if you don't want to. Are you shy?" he added teasingly.

  Instead of a laugh, he got a spike in her scent that smelled of extreme anxiety. "I—I just don't want anyone to know that I'm here. In Cougar Creek, I mean."

  Okay, something was definitely going on with Cassie. Everything about her indicated that she was afraid of something…or someone.

  "I'm not a criminal or anything," she said, obviously misinterpreting his expression. "I just—well, there are some people. I'd rather not have them knowing where I was.