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Authors: Pamela Toth

BOOK: Buchanan's Pride
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She still looked annoyed. “Yes.” She thanked the sheriff for seeing them, but the earlier warmth had gone out of her voice.
“So tell me,” John said as soon as they were outside on their way back to Leah's pickup. “Who is this Taylor Buchanan and what did he do to you?”
“Killed my father,” she said shortly, “stole part of my land and ruined my life. Isn't that enough?”
As John stopped in the middle of the wooden sidewalk and gaped at her, Leah felt a little ashamed for exaggerating, but not much. Taylor Buchanan had been instrumental in bringing on the events leading to her father's death, and even though he'd paid a fair price for the land, she would never have sold it in the first place if her father had lived. Nor would her mother be where she was now.
Tossing her head, Leah climbed behind the wheel of her truck and looked expectantly at John. “You coming?” She was shocked that he hadn't wanted to do everything possible to find out who he was. How could he stand not knowing?
Also, she was still annoyed that Buchanan had been asking about her. Why couldn't the man leave her alone to get on with her life the best she could? Since her father's death, Taylor had offered to lend her money, had sent over a couple of his men to help with the roundup and had made her a standing offer to buy more of her land. He also came by periodically to check on her.
If he was trying to make up for what he'd done to help tear her family apart, he could jolly well give up. She didn't trust his intentions and she would never forgive him.
John sat down next to her in the cab of the truck and turned to study her profile. Defiantly, Leah started the engine and switched on the radio, cranking up the music loud enough to discourage conversation. From the corner of her eye, she saw John drumming the fingers of one hand on his knee. Ignoring him, she pulled out of the parking spot and headed for home.
Finally John reached over and turned the radio down.
“What do you think you're doing?” Leah demanded, knowing she was acting like a brat but unable to stop herself.
“If Buchanan did everything you say, why isn't he in jail?”
She glared at John. “He's a wealthy rancher. He and his brother, Donovan, were big-time rodeo stars. Unlike my family, the Buchanans have influence around these parts.”
“I don't think any of that would cut much ice with Brody if they committed a crime.” John's tone was dry.
Leah's hands tightened on the wheel. “I told you my father was a bullfighter. Do you know what that is?”
John nodded. “That's the rodeo clown who keeps the bulls away from the riders after the buzzer goes off.”
“Or if they get hurt, or hung up in the rigging, it's the clown's job to help them,” she elaborated. “The work's a lot more difficult than it looks. Unlike most broncs, bulls don't stop just because the clock does. They're vicious and unpredictable. And they're surprisingly quick for their size.”
“Sounds pretty dangerous,” John commented. “Your father must have been a brave man.”
“He risked his life every time he went into the arena and he prevented a lot of riders from getting hurt,” she agreed. “But then a rider was killed in the ring and they blamed my dad.”
“That's awful. What happened?” John asked.
She pushed the hair back off her forehead. “It was an accident. The rider was thrown and the bull got between him and Daddy. The other clown was standing in the barrel, waving his arms and trying to distract the bull, but it turned the wrong way. The rider was still down and the bull gored him. There was nothing anyone could do.” She took a deep breath. “Afterward, they said Daddy was out of position, that his reactions were slow and he wasn't aggressive enough.”
“What did Buchanan have to do with it?” John asked.
“He was there. It was his testimony that got Daddy fired. Word got around. After that, none of the other shows would hire him.”
“I'm sorry.” Briefly, John rested his hand on her leg. “What did your father do after that?”
“He stayed home and ran the ranch. Mama liked having him around all the time, but I don't think his heart was in it. He drank too much, and they quarreled a lot. Then I went away to school, and while I was gone he got killed. That's when I came home to stay.”
For a few moments there was silence in the cab of the truck. “And later on Buchanan was the one to buy up some of your land?”
Leah nodded. “We share a common border and he's always wanted to get his hands on it.”
“Sounds as though he had a vested interest in testifying against your father,” John said in a grim voice.
“Now you know why I don't want anything to do with the Buchanans.”
“Some people don't care who they have to hurt to get what they want.” John spoke like a man who'd had some doings with people like that himself.
Leah would have liked to ask him about it, but she suspected he probably wouldn't be able to answer and the question would only frustrate him. Instead, she turned off the main road and pressed down on the accelerator. It was late and the animals still needed tending. She was lucky to have John to help her with the chores, but she also wanted some time to sort through her feelings about him and what she'd found out today.
Was he telling the truth about his memory loss? She had no reason to think otherwise, but his unwillingness to try to find out his identity still rankled. How could she allow herself even the slightest feelings of attraction toward a man she knew nothing about, not even his real name?
 
Later that night, John lay on his cot in the tack room wondering the same thing. How could he stay here, attracted to Leah the way he was, when he had no idea what he'd left behind or what waited for him to return? Somewhere out there he must have a life, a job, a place to live. Possessions, a pet, friends. Parents, family? He shied away from the idea that he might have children, an ex-wife. So why was he reluctant to let Sheriff Brody try to find out who he was?
John shifted restlessly on the narrow bed and punched his pillow before he jammed it back under his head. As he stared into the darkness, listening to the night sounds the horses made in their stalls, an image of a woman popped into his head. A pretty woman with dark hair.
Bits of an argument floated through his mind. No, not an argument exactly. There was sadness, but no anger. The woman was crying as she folded clothes and put them in a cardboard carton sitting on a bed. John was watching her, torn by mingled relief and regret.
He tried hard to remember more, what they'd said, who she was. As he narrowed his eyes and peered into the darkness, searching for clues, more images faded in and out. Scenes of the two of them laughing, talking, walking together. Waking up next to her. It all felt so distant, so long ago, but he couldn't tell if that was because of the amnesia. There'd been some kind of break between them, though, he was sure of it.
Finally, exhausted, he gave up with only a vague idea who the woman was and what she'd meant to him.
As he lay in the darkness, sleep eluding him, he tried hard to remember other things in his life. Maddeningly, the answers seemed to linger at the edges of his consciousness, just beyond his grasp. It was as if his mind could deal with only so much at a time and no more. With a frustrated sigh, he finally gave up. His head was beginning to throb dully. Glancing at the luminous dial on his watch, he turned over, squeezed his eyes shut and willed sleep to come.
 
The next morning when Leah came out to the barn, John was already up and dressed. When she handed him a steaming mug of coffee, he barely grunted his thanks. He looked tired.
“Didn't you sleep well?” she asked as he turned away, pitchfork in hand. It was barely dawn, but he'd already turned out several of the horses, including the two with foals at their sides.
“I'm okay.” His tone discouraged further questions.
Leah watched him walk away, his shoulders slightly bent as though the weight of the world rested on them. Making a sudden decision, she hurried after him.
“Are you sure you don't remember anything about where you're from?” she asked. She'd been thinking about it half the night, trying to find a way to learn more about him. When she got to the library, she was going to call the sheriff and ask if there was anything he could do without John's consent. Even if
he
didn't have to know, she did.
John swung back around, eyes blazing. When she saw his expression, Leah stumbled to a halt. He held the pitchfork in one hand, the coffee mug in the other.
“Damn it, Lisa!” he exclaimed. “Leave me alone.”
Leah's whole body stiffened. “Who's Lisa?” she asked.
John shook his head. “Leah. I meant to say Leah.”
“No,” she responded quietly, heart aching. “You said Lisa, plain as day. It was no mistake. You've remembered something,
someone
, haven't you?” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and took a deep, steadying breath. “John, is Lisa your wife? Is that what you've remembered?”
Chapter Six
“N
o, Lisa wasn't my wife.” John was sure of that, as certain as he was of standing here now, but how to convince Leah? He leaned the pitchfork against a post and walked outside, his head starting to pound with the effort of sorting out the hazy images that darted through his brain like minnows and then disappeared before he could analyze them.
Hands on hips, he frowned at the ground. A light rain had fallen during the night, just enough to dampen the dust in the yard and leave it clinging to his boots. The air had a sharp, metallic scent to it. At least the sky wasn't a leaden gray, the ground beneath him a stew of deep, gluey mud and puddles of standing water like—
“Is your memory starting to come back?” Leah asked, excitement in her voice as she darted around him and peered into his face.
Refusing temptation, John shook his head regretfully. “Not really. I mean, I get flashes, but that's all.” For a moment he let himself believe that her interest was personal, that she might even feel a twinge of jealousy toward Lisa. Then common sense prevailed. He and Leah barely knew each other. It should be enough that she'd taken him in and not thrown him out when she realized everything he'd told her about himself was a fabrication.
“So you think you aren't married, but you don't really know?” she asked casually, leaning over to pat the orange cat he'd seen hanging around the barn.
John's heart gave a little jerk. Was it possible she did care whether or not he was free? That she returned some of the sizzling attraction he felt toward her? She'd given no indication, other than not slapping the hell out of him when he kissed her.
She was holding the cat she called Sassy as she watched him with an expression of mild curiosity, nothing more. Purring, the cat butted her chin and Leah scratched behind its ears. Duke was nowhere around. He was probably out chasing rabbits—an exercise in futility, according to Leah.
“I do know I'm not married,” John insisted, trying to think of some way to convince her. Tugging off his glove, he held up his bare left hand. “I don't wear a wedding band,” he said triumphantly. “There's no mark on my finger to indicate that I ever did.”
“Lots of men don't wear rings,” she countered. “My ex sure didn't. That doesn't prove anything.”
There was a bitter edge to her voice that John had never heard before. “I didn't know you'd been married,” he exclaimed, taken by surprise.
“It's nothing I brag about,” she replied dryly. “I've been divorced for over a year.” Her tone made it clear the subject wasn't open to discussion. While John did his best to squash his curiosity, Sassy began to squirm in Leah's arms, so she set the animal down with a murmured endearment and a last loving stroke.
Watching her hand on the cat's fur, John imagined her touch on his bare skin. Fire raced along his nerve endings, distracting him from their discussion, and he realized he was grinning foolishly.
“I have work to do,” Leah said, expression haughty.
Before she could go back into the barn, he reached out and grabbed her arm. The very air seemed to crackle between them.
“Don't run away just yet,” he coaxed.
She stopped in her tracks and looked pointedly at his hand, but he didn't release her. He was curious about her marriage and why it had ended, but he could tell now wasn't the time to quiz her.
“I remembered Lisa leaving me,” he said instead. “I know she meant something to me at one time, but we definitely broke up. I'm sure of that.”
Leah relaxed slightly, but her eyes were troubled. “Maybe your memory is starting to come back, or perhaps it's just what you want to think.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“So you won't have to deal with the idea of anyone worrying about you while you refuse to even try to find out who you are.”
Frustrated, John let go of her arm. “Why do you care?”
Leah's cheeks went pink. “Why don't you?” she countered, stepping away from him. “It's unnatural not to want to have an identity. What are you scared of, anyway?”
Scared? He wasn't afraid of anything and he almost told her so. And then that sense of nagging dread returned. And the pleading voice.
Promise me
. But what had he promised? And why did he not want to remember?
Leah was still waiting for a reply.
Determined to prove his point, John captured her hand in his. When she didn't protest, he tugged lightly until she was standing very close. Her eyes widened with surprise and her lips parted.
“I know the kind of man I am,” he growled. “If I was married to someone else, I wouldn't be doing this.” Then he gave in to the temptation that had been eating at him since she'd first sashayed into the barn. Dipping his head, he covered her mouth with his.
He'd meant to take out his frustration in a punishing kiss, but as soon as his lips touched hers and he felt the slow heat rising between them, his brain shut down and pure sensation took over. For a timeless moment, she responded, kissing him back, her hands clutching his shoulders. Then, just as desire threatened to completely overrun his self-control, she broke away and pressed her hand to her mouth.
“Don't do that again!” she exclaimed, eyes blazing. “Married men kiss other women all the time. That doesn't prove anything. Until you're willing to find out who you are, you have no right to touch me.”
“Maybe other men act badly, but I'm not one of them,” he argued. “I may not know much about myself, but I do know that.”
Clearly unconvinced, Leah whirled around and stalked back to the barn. Her back was rigid with disapproval, her hands curled into fists at her sides. The cat ran after her, meowing hopefully.
She was one stubborn woman. She exasperated him. For some reason John didn't want to look at too closely, Leah's opinion mattered a great deal. He hated for her to think of him as a cheat or a coward, but he didn't know what to say that would satisfy her. There were still way too many things he didn't understand himself.
 
 
“Thanks for letting me know about this,” Leah told the sheriff in an undertone. “Keep me posted, okay?” Looking over her shoulder to see where the librarian was lurking, Leah said goodbye and set the receiver back down. Despite Miss MacPherson's disapproval of personal phone calls, Leah had wanted to ask Sheriff Brody if there was anything he could do to find out John's identity without his consent. To her surprise, the sheriff admitted that he'd already sent in the prints he'd lifted from John's coffee mug. Now all they had to do was wait for the results.
“Have you boxed up the discards for the book sale yet?” Miss MacPherson asked from behind her as she stood nibbling on her lip. “The volunteers want to start setting up the table sometime tomorrow.”
Wondering how much, if any, of her conversation with the sheriff Miss MacPherson had overheard, Leah took a deep breath and swung around. To her relief, the older woman's face revealed nothing but vague annoyance, her habitual expression.
“I'll get right to it,” Leah promised. Every so often, the collection had to be culled, the outdated books discarded to make room for new ones. Going through the shelves with a list of titles to be pulled was dusty, boring work, but today Leah welcomed it. She needed to keep her mind off the problem of her employee and his identity. Sheriff Brody might not have filled in any of the blanks surrounding her mysterious drifter yet, but John's prints could prove something. Leah just hoped that the news, when it came, wasn't bad.
“What's wrong?” Miss MacPherson was staring at her suspiciously.
“Nothing at all.” Leah kept her expression as neutral as she could and headed toward the science section with her list as two elderly women came in the front door. With a smile and an effusive greeting that grated on Leah's ears, Miss MacPherson hurried over.
No doubt the fact that both women were regular patrons and Gertrude Lawrence's husband served on the board of trustees had something to do with the librarian's attitude. Tuning out their chatter, Leah glanced at the clock. Amy would be in shortly, probably full of questions for which Leah had no answers. Until then, she had work to do.
 
Later that day, John was in the barn cleaning tack when he heard a truck pull up outside. Leah had come home twenty minutes before, but she'd gone directly into the house. John figured he'd give her another half hour before he went looking for her. Although he'd been mulling over their earlier conversation all day, he still had no idea what to say to her. What he did want to tell her was that while he was at the house fixing himself lunch, an image of some kind of office had come to him, along with the feeling that he belonged there. Despite how much he enjoyed working at the ranch, his regular job might involve sitting behind a desk.
Although he had visualized a computer, ledgers, file folders and rolls of what might have been blueprints in the office in his mind, trying to picture himself as an accountant or a draftsman of some kind had gotten him nowhere. All he had for his trouble was a slight headache.
Now he was curious who their visitor might be. Leah hadn't said anything to him about any riding lessons being scheduled after work today. Before he could show himself, the screen door slammed open and her footsteps clattered forcefully down the porch steps.
“What the hell are you doing on my property, Buchanan?” she shouted.
Hearing the open hostility in her tone and recalling what she'd told him about the other man, John decided to stay out of sight for the moment in case there was trouble. Let Buchanan think Leah was alone and make some move or even threaten her. John would be on him like a rabid dog.
Carefully, he peeked around the open doorway of the barn. Shock hit him like a bucket of melted snow when he saw that Leah was standing in front of the house with her feet spread apart and a rifle nestled in the crook of her arm.
He should have known she could take care of herself, he acknowledged with a wry shake of his head. She'd been doing just that since way before he'd come along.
A late-model pickup with a loaded gun rack was parked in the yard. A tall man wearing the standard ranching uniform of boots and jeans paired with a handsome brown suede jacket was standing with his back to John. His hands were hooked in his belt, and despite Leah's hostility, he appeared to be totally relaxed.
“Ashley and I just wondered how you've been,” he said, stopping a few feet away from her. “Did the roundup go okay?”
John could hear every word easily and he could see Leah's angry expression. If she was scared, she didn't show it. Muscles tensed, he wondered if he should duck back inside and grab the pitchfork, just in case.
“You've got a lot of nerve coming on my land,” Leah replied in a hard voice to her visitor's query. “And this is still my land.” Her face was flushed with temper and her nose was stuck in the air. “How I'm doing is none of your business, so there's no pomt in your sniffing around here.”
John felt a bubble of pride at her tenacity. According to Leah, this man was her sworn enemy and a powerful member of the local community, but she was facing him down without a visible qualm.
“We've known you for a long time, Leah,” Buchanan replied in a conversational tone, as if there were no bad blood between them. “We worry about you.” He was sure as hell arrogant.
She shifted the rifle warningly. “Don't you bother your head about it. I can take care of myself. Thanks to your meddling, I've had no choice these last few years.”
John thought he saw the other man flinch, but he wasn't sure. What did he want, anyway? He sure had a hell of a nerve, coming here as though he had some right to poke into her business.
“I know you blame me for a lot of things, but Ashley and I still care a great deal about your welfare,” Buchanan said. “A pair of coyotes have been spotted over east. Larson says they got two of his calves the other night. Have you had any trouble?”
“No, I haven't.
My
calves are all nice and healthy.” Leah pressed her lips together and stared Buchanan down.
“We heard you hired a drifter no one seems to know much about,” he continued, obviously unperturbed by her rudeness. “Just wanted to make sure you're okay.”
“Who I hire or what I do is none of your business,” she replied coldly. “Your ilk isn't welcome here.” For emphasis, she waved the gun, although she didn't actually point it at him. “You don't own all my land, so you can just get off what's still mine right now.”
“Okay, Leah, have it your way. Just promise you'll let me know if you need anything, won't you?”
In the face of her open animosity, he sure didn't give up easily, John thought with a shred of grudging respect. The man must have one hell of a guilty conscience eating at him.

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