by Julie Miller
His chin dropped to his chest and he studied the sling and bandage she’d rigged, as if remembering the injury for the first time. “You patched me up?”
She nodded. “You didn’t leave me much choice. I couldn’t have you dying on my front porch. I’m driving you into town to the emergency clinic. It’s a satellite facility from St. John’s Health in Jackson.”
“Wyoming?”
Poor man. He wasn’t even sure of that much? “Yes. I’m driving you down to Pole Axe. We’re south of Jackson Hole and Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks, if that helps.”
“Pole Axe,” he repeated. “Sounds like a thriving metropolis. I think I’m a long way from where I started this morning.”
Was that a clue? Was he recalling his home? “Where did you start this morning?” she asked, slowing to take the next curve. His legs straightened and his right arm shot out, bracing against the dashboard. Odd. “Are you getting carsick?”
Instead of answering, he pulled his limbs back, as though he, too, questioned the instinctive reaction. “I checked out of a hotel room and went to work. Bad day to go.”
Although some of the color had returned to his rugged features, he still wasn’t making sense. “What hotel? One of the lodges around here? Sounds like you travel for work. Did you drive? Fly into Jackson?”
He considered her questions, although his tight expression made her wonder if concentrating on his missing memories was hurting him. He put a hand on Maxie’s back, using the dog’s strength to push himself upright and turn toward Ava. She wondered what those eyes looked like when they weren’t narrowed in pain and confusion. “Can you tell me my name?”
“I never met you before today.”
“You called me Larkin Bonecrusher. That’s a fictional name. Why Larkin?”
“Because you’re a big bruiser like he is? A warrior? You have an L.B. engraved on your key chain. No wallet or ID on you. Not even a phone. If we were in Chicago, I would think you’d been mugged. I needed to call you something besides ‘mister.’”
He released the dog and sank back against the seat. “Larkin’s cool. Got started on those books on my last deployment. Until everything went FUBAR.”
Ava frowned at the acronym. “What does FUBAR mean?”
He started to answer, then snapped his mouth shut. “Fouled Up Beyond Any Recognition, Repair or Recall is the polite way to explain it. Suicide bomber made it through a checkpoint. I lost a team of MPs. Busted up my leg. Got sent stateside.”
At least some of his ramblings were starting to make sense. “I can tell you’re a Marine. Your tattoo and the Semper Fi say as much. Are you a veteran? On leave? Do you know where you’re stationed?” No answer. “You went to work this morning. Was it a military base? The Air Force is the only branch I know of with a base in Wyoming.”
“How did a Marine wind up in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming?”
Since she had no answer for him, she kept pushing for something to click into place inside his head. “So, you went to work this morning, and everything went FUBAR.”
He chuckled, a soft, husky sound that skittered across her eardrums. “You pick up the lingo fast. I’m guessing with these injuries that’s pretty accurate.”
“Do you answer to Colonel? Gunny?” No response. “General?”
“I wish.” There was one fact he knew. He wasn’t a general. “Captain. I remember someone calling me that. I’m a captain...” His chin sagged to his chest before he raised it again. “I’m out of the Corps now,” he said with a degree of certainty. “My injuries—the leg pain is chronic.” He stroked Maxie’s fur, as though he found the same calming comfort from the dog as she did. “But I talked to a buddy of mine yesterday who’s still in.”
“That’s great.” Ava seized on the flash of memory. “What’s his name?”
He swore. “I can’t even tell you what we talked about.”
“It’s okay. You’ll figure it out.”
“I’m a damn invalid. And I don’t like it.” He curled his hand into a fist and thumped it against the door, startling Ava and eliciting an alarmed woof from Maxie. “Sorry, girl.” He stroked the dog before sinking back into his seat. “I hate being at such a disadvantage.”
Ava shrugged, feeling the tension in the truck. Logically, she knew none of his anger was directed at her. But still, she knew enough about violence that seeing others express it could sometimes trigger one of those dreaded flashbacks. Automatically, she reached for Maxie and stroked her fingers through her long hair. The big dog switched allegiances, and they both relished the familiar contact. “I already know more about you than I did twenty minutes ago, Larkin. You’re a veteran Marine. You probably haven’t been out for too long, judging by that haircut and the fact that you talked to a friend who’s still on active duty.”
“You called me Larkin again. I like it. It feels familiar.” When he inhaled a deep breath to force some of the tension out of him, Ava found herself relaxing a fraction, as well. “I know The Bonecrusher Chronicles are fiction, but those are details I can remember. There’s a little bit of comfort in knowing my brain isn’t complete gelatin.” Twisting his body again, he reached over to brush his fingers over the scar on the back of her hand where it still rested on Maxie’s back. One thousand one...
Oh, hell, no. Ava flinched away and squeezed her grip back around the steering wheel. Even though she’d developed a rule of three with her therapist—allowing someone to touch her for three seconds instead of jumping at even accidental contact—she was already over her quota of human contact today. She couldn’t help it. Getting touched without knowing its intent was still a hot button for her.
“Larkin” splayed his fingers apart in a silent apology and pulled away, letting his hand settle into Maxie’s fur instead. He scrubbed his knuckles around the dog’s ear and beneath her chin, and the big dog leaned into that caress, as well. Maxie seemed to have her own rule of three, four, five, ten—however long you want to pet me—where this man was concerned.
Traitor. You’re my therapy dog. Not his.
“Sorry,” the man apologized. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I can see where you get some of your inspiration. Your scars remind me of Willow. She’s freakin’ hot.”
“Scars are not hot.”
“She can kick butt. She’s royalty, but not a girlie-girl princess. Real woman.”
Willow Storm was another member of the Bonecrusher Brigade who used sorcery, swordplay and a team of allies to defeat their enemies and complete their quests. “I’m nothing like her. She’s brave and beautiful.”
“So are you.” If he was waiting for a thank-you for a compliment she didn’t believe in, he’d be waiting a long time. He pulled his hand away from Maxie and leaned back against the seat, his eyes drifting shut again. “Glad you didn’t shoot me.”
“It creates too much paperwork when that happens. Brings too many cops to my front door.”
Without opening his eyes, he arched a golden eyebrow and hooked up one corner of his mouth. At least his temporary amnesia didn’t impact his ability to understand her sarcasm. “Is that why you’re driving me to town instead of calling 9-1-1? You don’t like people in uniform? Or is it company, in general, you have an aversion to?”
They passed the road sign indicating they were within a few miles of their destination. Ignoring his probing questions, Ava tried one more time to help jog his memory. “The Bonecrusher Chronicles are fantasy stories. I need you to come back to reality and tell me your name. Why someone shot you. A coworker’s name. Anything.”
They passed another mile marker before he answered. “I don’t remember.”
“How did you get to my cabin?”
“Followed the road.”
“From where?”
His growing agitation evident in the drumming of his fingers on the armrest, he sat up straighter. “I don’t r
emember.”
“Who shot you?”
Whatever amusement he’d enjoyed a moment earlier had faded. “I don’t remember.” She jumped when he snapped his fingers. “I took Option B.”
“Option B? What does that mean?”
“A bullet to the head or rolling off the edge of the cliff. I remember that much. Someone was trying to kill me. I chose Option B.”
Rolling off the edge of a cliff? On purpose?
“I’m driving you to the hospital—the clinic we have in Pole Axe. They can do more for you than the first aid I gave you. You’ve lost a lot of blood. And I’m worried about that head wound. It’s probably why you can’t recall details. Once the swelling goes down, I’m sure you’ll remember everything you need to. Then you can call someone. A friend. Your wife.”
He studied his left hand where it hung from the edge of the sling. “No wife.” He propped up his wrist and twiddled his fingers in the air, explaining his certainty. “No ring. Not even a tan line where I used to wear one.”
“That’s hardly definitive proof.”
He unhooked his broken utility watch, revealing a distinct pale line on his forearm. “Look at me. I spend a lot of time outdoors.” He tucked the watch into his shirt pocket. “Nope. No little woman at home waiting for me.”
“Not if you call her the little woman.”
He chuckled. “I suppose not.” His eyes narrowed to slits again. “You’re really A. L. Baines? Don’t think I didn’t catch that slip you made earlier. That’s why you chose Larkin instead of Larry or Lance or any other name you could have guessed for me. I’ve read all your books. You’re good.”
Yeah. She wrote the New York Times bestselling fantasy series.
She was A. L. Baines.
At least, that was the name millions of readers around the world knew her by.
“Baines” came from the Latin root for bones, the star of her books. Although the initials had originally been an homage to her parents, Alice and Leo, they had come to represent so much more. A.L. Ava. Lives. Despite one very sick bastard’s attempt to keep that from happening. No one knew her by her pen name here in Wyoming.
“As far as anyone around here knows, I’m Ava Wallace. That’s my real name. If you don’t remember anything else about today, remember that.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ava Wallace. Keeping secrets.” He seemed to be drifting off again. “You should be proud of those books.”
“I am. But I also need my anonymity.”
“Why?”
Too many questions. Ava shook her head. “I liked you better unconscious.”
“You’re funny. A little prickly. But funny.” His chest expanded with a deep breath and he sank farther into the seat. “Why are we keeping secrets?”
Survival. Hopefully, if he let anything slip, the clinic staff and anyone else they ran into in town would dismiss it as the ramblings of a man with a head injury. “Once you tell me your secrets, then I’ll tell you why I need to be Ava Wallace.”
“Need to be. Interesting choice of words. Deal.” Not really. She intended to be long gone and out of his life by the time he remembered anything.
He drifted off again. But he was smiling. It softened his hard, masculine features and made him almost handsome. Annoyingly so because she didn’t want to be attracted to a man again. Ever. She certainly didn’t want one interested in her.
“Eyes on the road, Willow.”
She snapped her gaze back to the windshield. “Ava.”
“If I’m Larkin, you’re Willow. Dog’s the dragon.”
“Fine. Go with that when you get to the hospital. They’ll call in a psychiatrist.” Thankfully, they’d reached the city limit sign with the whopping population of 103, a number that could multiply ten times during tourist season. She slowed her speed to drive the main drag to the clinic on the far side of Pole Axe. “And if you’re going to look at me, would you open up your eyes so I know when you’re doing it? That whole slitty-eyed stare is a little unnerving.”
“Light hurts my eyes.” The lone stoplight changed to red and she stomped on the brake. They both jerked against their seat belts and he moaned in pain. “That hurts, too.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you. I...” Have issues. Maybe even more than this man who was in such obvious pain and suffering from partial amnesia.
“This is Pole Axe, hmm?”
Thankfully, he hadn’t asked her to finish that last sentence. “Just another three blocks and I’ll have you at the clinic. I know the doctor there. He’ll take good care of you.”
“You’ve taken good care of me, Ava. Despite our rocky introduction. And I’m grateful.”
“I hope you’ll be okay.”
“I hope you will, too. I’m looking at you now, by the way.” She glanced across the seat and caught him grinning, despite the effort he was making to keep his eyes open and readable for her. But the grin disappeared as the light changed and she drove through the intersection. “Whatever secrets are haunting those beautiful blue eyes—I hope you’ll be okay, too.”
Chapter Three
Ava sat in her truck in the farthest corner of the clinic parking lot, playing the voice mail one more time.
“Hey, Ms. Wallace. Detective Charles, Chicago PD, here. Hope you’re doing well.”
Gabriel Charles had been the first detective on the scene after she’d stumbled into a local trucking office in the warehouse district where she’d been held, and collapsed after her three-day ordeal. He was still the only man she trusted enough on the force to maintain this regular contact with once or twice a month since moving to Wyoming. The man with the gold studs in each earlobe had been supportive and dedicated yet frustrated with her inability to identify the man who’d taken her. She knew her attacker’s voice, his general build and the feel of his hands on her body. With her research into weaponry for her books, she’d been able to give Detective Charles a pretty good idea of the different knives he’d used on her. She knew her kidnapper’s smell, a pungent blend of garlic, grease and sweat. But she’d never seen his face.
“Sadly, I have to report that there was another abduction earlier this month. This guy’s been like clockwork these past five years. Including you, he’s taken someone every summer. Makes me wonder if he’s transient like a truck driver. Or a tourist who comes to the city to visit family or see the sights. I’m sorry to share bad news, but you asked me to keep you in the loop. We found the woman...”
Even hearing it for the third time, when the detective hesitated, her stomach cramped with dread.
“She’d expired. Excessive blood loss. The ME said one of the stab wounds nicked her heart.”
Ava shook her head, her fingers buried deep in Maxie’s fur. Even if her grip pinched, the dog didn’t shy away from her post. “He’s not sloppy like that.” It would end the torture too quickly. And for the man who had kidnapped her, it had been all about the torture and the sick release he got from making his victim suffer, not killing her. Even now she could hear the moans of satisfaction he got each time the blade had pierced her skin. “She must have gotten her blindfold off. Seen his face.”
Or it could be a copycat killer. But she doubted Detective Charles would call if he suspected that was the case.
“The MO matches yours and last year’s abduction,” the detective’s message continued. “I’ve got a couple of forensic leads I’m following up on. You’re still my best witness. Hell, you’re my only witness who’s been willing to stay in touch. When we catch him, we’ll need you to come back to Chicago and ID him.”
When, not if. Detective Charles was always positive that CPD would make an arrest. Or maybe that was the party line to keep survivors like her from giving up hope that they could one day stop greeting visitors with a shotgun and start leading a normal life again.
“As always, if you think of anything else that might
help our investigation, give me a call. We’ll catch this guy. I promise. Meanwhile, you take care and stay safe—”
Ava screamed at the sharp rap at her window and Maxie jumped up. The dog stepped right onto Ava’s lap and barked at the man in the white lab coat. When she recognized Kent Russell, the lone doctor who was working the clinic this weekend, she ordered Maxie back to a sit and rolled down the window. “Sorry about that.” She punched off her phone and held it up to explain her reaction. “I was listening to messages. Are you ready for me?”
A toothy smile appeared in the middle of the doctor’s curly, salt-and-pepper beard and he lowered the hands he’d raised in apology. “I’m the one who’s sorry for startling you. I appreciate you waiting around until we could talk.”
Ava breathed deeply, slowing the rapid thumping of her heart against her ribs, before nodding. “I take it ‘Larkin’ survived?”
The doctor stepped back onto the curb and waited by the landscaping of granite boulders and pine trees that framed the multiuse lot that also served a dentist’s office, a chiropractor and an optometry shop in addition to the clinic. “That’s one of the things we need to talk about. He’s answering to it, but that can’t really be his name, is it?”
Ava avoided making any mention of her books and shrugged. “It’s a nickname, I guess. I take it he’s still a little addled in the head?”
“You could say that. I want to keep him overnight for observation. But he’s fighting me on it. Don’t know if he’s afraid of the cost or getting another shot. Some men can’t handle the needles.”
Ava tried to picture Larkin backing down from any threat, even one as small as a syringe. “He seems pretty tough to me.”
“Sometimes, the tough guys are the biggest babies.” Uh, no. She definitely couldn’t see the man on her front porch being compared to a baby.
Dr. Russell opened the front of his white lab coat and pulled the pager from the belt of his jeans. He read whatever the message said and tucked it back onto his belt. The Pole Axe clinic couldn’t exactly afford cutting-edge technology, so she didn’t question his use of a pager. She’d missed Detective Charles’s call because there’d been no cell-phone reception inside the hospital itself. Better reception was the excuse she told herself for moving her truck so far from the clinic’s sliding front doors. Other people would understand that reason over her desire to hide the fact that Ava Wallace had come to town.
