Christmas Angel (7 page)

“How about a cup of tea?” He stood. “My mother used to give me hot tea when

I was sick.”

“Sounds nice. You wouldn’t happen to have a shot of whiskey you could toss in?”

He stopped in his tracks and gave her a startled look.

“What?” she asked, unsure why the request should sound odd.

His brow rose. “You don’t impress me as the whiskey type.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I don’t keep liquor in the house. Sorry.”

She shrugged, curious why the request had popped from her mouth. “I don’t know why it sounds soothing to me, but I’m fine with a cup of tea. Do you by chance have chamomile with rose hips?”

He eyed her. “Uh, I was thinking more along the lines of Lipton?

She’d never heard of Lipton before, but then again, there were bound to be a number of new things she might need to adjust to until her memory returned. “That sounds lovely, thank you.” Hoping to alleviate the tension a bit, she sought to offer assistance instead of having him wait on her. She rose on wobbly legs. “May I be of some help?” The floor swam before her, and a small sound escaped her throat as her knees buckled. In an instant, he was there, catching her before she fell and drawing her upright against him.

“Maybe you should sit down.” He searched her face. “With a head injury, you’re liable to feel a bit woozy.”

His strength, the nearness of another person to lean on, caused her to fall against him, desperate to make a connection with something real, something she could physically touch. She pressed her cheek to his chest, telling herself it was only for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered, content to be close. “For everything.” It didn’t matter that he stood unresponsive, his arms at his sides, and let her draw what she needed from him. She spotted a dark image on the bulge of his shoulder, peeking from beneath the fabric of his undershirt. Holding his arm, she touched her finger to the intricate scrolling etched into his skin, mesmerized as she traced the unusual design. It was beautiful against his smooth, muscular skin.

“It’s one of my first tats.” He had turned his head, eying her exploration.

“Tats?” she asked curiously. “How is it stuck on your skin?”

His eyes met hers. “The usual way, with ink and needles.”

“Strange.” she replied not wanting to sound ignorant, but still curious about its artful design “Where does it go?” She moved to his side and with eyes only, followed where it disappeared beneath the fabric.

“You really want to see it?”

She swallowed, met his gaze over his shoulder, and nodded. “Do you mind?”

He shrugged and the corner of his lips tilted with a crooked smile. “They’re not for everyone.” He lifted the thin shirt over his head and her knees grew watery at the sight of his sculpted body. She stared at the corded muscles across his back, how his waist narrowed to the odd trousers he wore.

“Seen enough?” he asked after a minute or two. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

She’d all but forgotten the reason he took off his shirt in the first place. With care, she reached out and followed the dark scroll design, tracing gently over his flesh. She saw him flinch at her touch.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

He blew out a breath, cleared his throat, and tugged his shirt back over his head. “Not anymore. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll bring us that tea.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the view of his muscled back or the injury making her feel flushed, but she agreed without question. Easing to the chair, she took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head and her heart. This man’s gallantry could weaken a woman’s heart and make her vulnerable to a world of hurt. He’d made it clear she was here only until she healed properly and could be safe on her own—wherever that might take her.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, right in the next room. You’re sure you’re okay?”

She nodded. “I think so. You’ve been very kind. Thank you.”

“Except for the free show there, I’m just doing my job.” He tossed her a dimpled smile.

“Are you in the habit then of bringing women to your home to protect them?” His gait slowed, and he turned to her. “Uh, no, this is not standard protocol.” “Why me?” she asked, truly curious why he would break rules for her.

He sighed. “Where else would you have gone?” His meaning was loud and clear.
I’m kind, but don’t mistake compassion for more.

“I suppose you’re right, and I have to thank you. This won’t cause trouble for you, will it—I mean, with your superiors?”

He hesitated then shrugged. “Gleason will cover for me. The sooner we finger this guy; the sooner you can safely move on with your life.”

“And you, too, can move on with yours,” she reminded him.

He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. I’ll put the water on.” He left the room in haste, not wishing to pursue the conversation, she guessed. It must be odd caring for someone you don’t even know. A distinct image emerged in her brain of her walking up a narrow staircase, carrying two buckets. Her heart faltered as she scrambled to remember the time, what it meant. She drew in a shaky breath, reminding herself to be patient and allow the healing of her memory to take its natural course. No sooner had the image appeared than it dissipated in a vapor. She closed her eyes to regroup. Despite her confusion about the past, the nap had given her some of the rest she needed, restoring her natural curiosity.

She opened her eyes and took in the small room with its pale painted walls. Most were bare, except for the spot near the front entrance where he’d hung the coats. A definite contrast, however, to the possessions squeezed into the one room. The settee, a bookshelf crammed with books, papers, and framed pictures, as well as another large overstuffed chair created a parlor area. Some objects appeared new, others a little worn. An oddshaped lamp emitted a soft light. It seemed fueled by neither candle or kerosene, but by some other power.

She inched closer, curious about what the shade hid, paying little heed to the tingling beginning to occur in her eyes as she drew near the bright light. Fascinated, she peered under the strange shade, and then flung herself back against the cushions, reacting as though she’d stared directly into the sun. Her sudden movement caused the lamp to sway and before she could move, it wobbled and fell to the hard wood floor with a terrible crash, sending shards of debris across the floor. Suddenly cast into pitch-blackness, she held her breath and waited, not knowing what might happen next. A rustling sound piqued her interest and then a light from above illuminated the room.

“What happened?” Shado glanced toward the broken object lying on the floor. “Are you all right?” He set the lamp upright and assessed the bits of scattered glass.

“It’s entirely my fault. My apologies.” The words tumbled clumsily from her mouth as spots continued to dance before her eyes. “I must have knocked it askew when I moved back. It was so very bright.”

“Askew?” His expression showed concern, but she could see he was not happy.

“Oh, dear.” She assessed his face. “Had it been in your family a long time?” she asked, her focus beginning to clear.

He blinked with surprise. “Uh, no. No harm done. It’s an old thing I picked up at a thrift store. Just needs a new bulb.” He glanced at her. “You didn’t get cut, did you?”

She shook her head. The initial shock in her brain was beginning to subside.

He looked down at her. “You mind me asking what prompted you to stare directly into the light?”

“I wanted to see how it worked.”

“How it—you’ve never
seen
an electric lamp?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I’ve heard of them, of course, but I’ve never been close to one.”

He studied her with greater interest. “Are you starting to remember? Have you had any other flashes of your past, of where you live, who we might contact to let them know you’re okay?”

“I had a dream earlier. I was wearing this dress and running through a canyon with very high walls.”

“A canyon,” he repeated.

“I remember dressing for my lesson.”

“Your lesson?”

“My piano lesson.” She frowned. Mystified, she shook her head, wishing she could put the pieces, no better than the glass shards on the floor, together. “All I can remember was being afraid of missing my piano lesson.”

He sighed. “Okay…that’s good.” He braced his hands on his lean hips. “Don’t worry. The doc said it could take a few days for everything to make sense to you.” He smiled, and it helped her feel less clumsy. “Guess I need a broom and dustpan.”

She waited, her legs curled beneath her as she watched him sweep up the broken pieces, following carefully with a wet cloth to get up all the unnoticeable bits. For a man without a woman in his life, he fared well on his own. He was confident and comfortable in his own skin.

Her attention dropped to the way his trousers stretched tight over his firm backside as he stooped down to clean. Curious to know what form of attire they were, she considered the fabric, which revealed much of the muscular form beneath. “What type of trousers are you wearing?”

He straightened as though he’d been swatted and looked over his shoulder.

“Around here they aren’t called trousers. They’re sweatpants, or sweats for short.” He raised his brow. “Never worn a pair?” He turned to face her, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.

“Sweatpants,” she reiterated, her gaze dropping to the where the strings tied together in the front. Her palms did feel moist, if that was indeed their purpose. “Nope. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” He cleared his throat and her eyes shot to his. A high-pitched whistle from the next room escalated to a feverish decibel, breaking the spell.

“Water’s ready. I’ll be right back.”

She watched him walk away and found his swagger as appealing from behind as it was from the front. Pressing her lips together, she determined, if she was to be his guest for a number of days, she’d do well to keep her emotions, no matter how handsome he was, in check.

He possessed some fascinating objects. One large apparatus made of metal and ropes stood in the corner. It had the word
Bowflex
emblazoned across one side in bold red letters. Another strange piece was a large silver rectangle. One side was black and when she peeked over the top she was startled to find cords protruding from the back. It was like no picture frame she could recall, but the mere size of it would hold the painting which appeared without warning in her mind.

She stared at the large, darkened space inside the silver frame and in her mind saw the watery image of a woman reclining on a tufted lounge chair. She wore a tightly fitted corset, black pantaloons, and stockings beneath a whisper thin gown that did little to cover her. She fought to harness the memory, hoping to identify the place or the face of the woman to see if either had any bearing on who she was, where she was from, but it disappeared as quickly, leaving nothing familiar in its wake.

A shelf filled with books and framed photographs caught her attention. She held the arm of the settee to gauge her balance and then walked to the shelf, perusing the titles, but didn’t recognize any of the authors’ names. The photographs were fascinating, splashed with vivid colors. By her own recollection, she’d only ever seen such things in shades of black and white, most with a brownish tint to them. She lifted one and studied the picture, seeing a man with a little boy sitting atop a horse corral. They were smiling, which for some reason seemed odd to her, but she couldn’t say why.

She heard a noise behind her and turned to find Detective Jackson staring at her with a strange expression etched on his face. Perhaps he didn’t like her touching his things. “Is this you?” she asked, gingerly returning the frame to the shelf, which was in serious need of a good dusting.

He placed a tray with two cups on the table. On a small plate were arranged a handful of small black crackers. He patted the settee. Once she’d settled, he sat down beside her then handed her a lovely cup with a sunrise painted on its side. A string hung over the rim, and she drew it from the cup, marveling at the tiny pouch stuffed with tea. So unusual was the sight she was certain she’d never seen anything like it before.

“It’s a picture of my brother and his boy. We’d taken a trip to Cheyenne to see the rodeo.”

She let the small bag plop into the hot water, grabbing the string at the last minute to keep it from falling in. “Rodeo? Like a roundup?”

He glanced at her after taking a sip. “More like barrel racing, calf-roping…bull riding. Ever been to one?” He studied her as he dipped the teabag into the cup several times. She watched, mimicking his actions. Little by little, it seemed with each new aspect she learned about Shado Jackson’s life, one or more contrasting pieces of her disrupted memory emerged.

“Rodeo. I can’t say, but it sounds exciting.” The more she tried to force herself to remember events, the more frustrated she became. “It’s not easy, you know,” she said finally, speaking aloud her thoughts. “Not being able to remember.”

He nodded and took another drink. “Yeah, and some people live their entire lives trying to forget some things.” He focused on his cup.

Though curious to know more about the picture and about his family, it was clear he was not interested in pursuing the conversation. She took a sip and quietly sighed. “By the way, your mother is a wise woman. This,” she nodded toward the tea, “really hits the spot.”