Reclaiming His Past (3 page)

“I can't thank you enough for allowing me to stay, Mrs. O'Malley. I regret putting you out like this.”

“Call me Alice, please. You're not a burden. The good Lord has blessed us, and we're eager to pass those blessings on to others. We're happy to aid you in any way we can.”

Her daughter didn't share in that particular sentiment. “As soon as I'm able, I'll work off my debt.” He'd show Miss Jessica O'Malley that he wasn't a lazy, no-good excuse of a man who preyed on women's generosity.

“Don't worry about that. Concentrate on getting well.” Cocking her head to one side, she lifted a finger to stop her spectacles' downward slide. “How has Jessica been treating you?”

“She's been very attentive.”

While she hadn't tried to hide her dislike, she'd taken pains to see to his comfort. There'd been compassion in her expression when he'd embarrassed himself by almost being sick in front of her.

Alice twisted her hands. “Jessica isn't one to hide her feelings. She's always been my most outspoken offspring. If she does come across as somewhat difficult, bear in mind that she's been through a terrible ordeal and hasn't allowed herself to heal.”

He kept his silence. Inside, his thoughts whirled out of control. To what was she referring to?

“I probably shouldn't have mentioned it.” Glancing toward the hallway, she sighed. “A mother never stops worrying about her children.” Pushing out of the chair, she said, “I've got an errand to run. Try to get some rest.”

When she'd gone, he turned his attention to the view beyond the window glass, not really seeing the trees arrayed in brilliant crimson, orange and gold framed by majestic mountain ridges. Curiosity ate at him. The alluring, feisty redhead was as much a mystery as his past. The only difference being that, with time, persistence and a little finesse, he could unravel hers.

Chapter Three

O
f all the farms in these mountains, he just had to go and wind up on theirs.

Jessica didn't need another complication. She had enough to deal with without adding an aggravating male to the mix. Chopping the mound of raisins into tiny slivers, she tried to rein in her frustration.

Why did You lead him here, Lord? Why did You choose us to be his caretakers?

Of course, there wasn't an answer. There never was. She'd been asking God why for a long time. She'd come to despise the silence.

Laying down the knife, she turned to check the almonds bubbling atop the stove. The heat from the firebox wrapped around her, and she was considering opening the rear door to let in fresh air when she heard the slide of stocking feet across the floorboards.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she exclaimed.

“The walls were closing in.” His lips contorted into a half grin, half grimace.

Looking scary-pale and about a second from collapsing, their patient—Grant, she must remember—reached for the closest sturdy object, which happened to be a ladder-back chair at the table. She rushed to his side. Without thinking, she wrapped an arm about his waist and took some of his weight as he slumped into the seat. Hovering there for a moment, she waited to make sure he wasn't going to lose consciousness.

“You could've ripped the stitches open.” Her fingers digging into her waist, she felt the sting of temper flare in her cheeks. “And Ma said you weren't supposed to walk on that ankle.”

“It's sweet how concerned you are for my well-being,” he panted, an outrageous twinkle in his eye.

“You keep mistaking my intentions,” she said through gritted teeth. “The fact of the matter is, the faster you heal, the sooner you leave.”

“Ah. Well, I promise to be a good boy and return to my room before Miss Alice comes back.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. She refused to give in to his charm.

Satisfied he wasn't going to slide to the floor, she retrieved the kettle and set about fixing him tea, uncomfortably aware of his steady regard. It had been ages since she'd spent one-on-one time with any man outside her family. Perhaps she wouldn't be so bothered by his presence if he were older and had warts on his nose.

“Smells like Christmas in here. What are you making?”

“A cake.”

“What's the special occasion?”

Crossing to the hutch, she removed a delicate blue-and-white teacup and saucer. “Mrs. Ledbetter is turning fifty on Sunday. She commissioned me to make her birthday cake.”

“You must be a talented baker.”

She shrugged. “I know my way around a kitchen.”

For years now, she and Jane had earned income by providing desserts to the Plum Café. Every day save for Sunday, they'd baked pies, cakes and assorted treats for delivery before the evening meal. When the café switched owners in August, the sisters hadn't anticipated the new one wouldn't require their services. The canceled agreement had come as a shock, and the extra money she'd grown accustomed to had all but dried up.

These personal orders helped but weren't consistent.

Grant sat with one arm tucked against his ribs, his busted hand resting protectively over his wound. “Have you ever thought about opening your own shop?”

Jessica inhaled sharply. Lee had asked that exact question right there on their front porch. At the time, she and Jane had been comfortable with their arrangement with Mrs. Greene, the former owner. The notion had struck them as far-fetched. In recent weeks, dogged by a restlessness she couldn't pin down, she'd revisited the idea.

“I mean, I haven't sampled your food,” he went on, “so I couldn't say if folks would pay money for it. For all I know, this Mrs. Ledbetter hired you because she feels sorry for you.”

She set the cup carelessly on the work surface, and it rattled in its saucer. “I'll have you know, folks around here clamor for my baked goods. My sister and I have a reputation as the finest bakers this side of the Tennessee River.”

Soft laughter rumbled through his chest. Jessica stood immobile, affected by his grin, the flash of straight, white teeth, the way his entire face lit up like a vivid autumn day. Between those sparkling bright eyes and the boyish smile, this man was downright lethal to a woman's good sense.

“You are infuriating, you know that?”

“And you, Jessica O'Malley, are easy to rile.”

Attempting to stifle her growing irritation, she proceeded to ignore him as she readied his tea. She didn't say a word when she placed the cup and honey jar in front of him.

She gasped the instant his fingers encircled her wrist and prevented her from moving away. His skin was hot, rough in places, the bones underneath strong. Working man's hands.

His face tilted up in appeal. Up close, in this sunny, cheerful kitchen, she could see the large bruise on his cheekbone, the split in the middle of his lower lip, threads of navy interwoven with cerulean blue in his irises. There was a jagged scratch on his neck she hadn't noticed before.

Despite the fact his presence was like a splinter beneath her skin, this man had endured a lot of pain. Nothing in his current situation was familiar. Her heart thawed another degree, and it frightened her.

“Apparently I'm a tease.” His soft voice cloaked her. “Maybe I grew up with a passel of sisters.”

“It's also possible you have a fiancée or wife somewhere out there who's willing to put up with you.”

Dismay creased his brow, and he released her. “Maybe.”

Feeling as if she'd kicked an injured dog, she went and removed the almonds from the stove and transferred the heavy sack of flour to the counter. How would she feel if her entire life had been wiped clean like a slate? Her loved ones, her home, forgotten?

It hurt to imagine.

Measuring out the flour, she risked a glance at Grant, who was quietly sipping his tea, lost in thought.

“Would you like for me to wash your hair? After I finish with this?”

At his startled reaction, she bit the inside of her cheek. Where had that come from? Her guilty conscience?

He lowered his cup, touched a hand to his nape. “That would be wonderful. If you're sure you don't mind.”

“You wouldn't make it to the stream in your condition,” she quipped, striving for an offhanded tone. “This is the next best option.”

He lumbered to his feet. “And I'm sure you'd appreciate it if I didn't smell like yesterday's hog slop.”

Jessica almost admitted that was not the case. She'd been in close contact with him twice now and hadn't been offended. He smelled of earth and leaves, leather and spruce. He smelled like the forest.

“That's right,” she replied instead. “I'd much rather you smell like my favorite rose-scented soap.”

“Roses. Now, that's masculine.” His attempt at lightheartedness was unsuccessful. “Thanks for the tea.” There was a stiffness to his manner that hadn't been there before. “I'll leave you to your work.”

Returning her spoon to the bowl, she wiped her hands on her apron and trailed him to the dining space that housed a larger, more formal table. Between the busted ankle and tender side, his progress was incredibly slow.

He stopped her with an upheld hand. “No need to follow me. I can make it on my own steam. May take a while, but I'll get there.”

She started to argue—her wish to be rid of him not the
only
reason for her concern—before thinking better of it. She may have grown up in an all-female household, but having Josh, Nathan and Caleb for neighbors and playmates had taught her much about the male ego. Grant was already beholden to them, dependent on their whims. He wouldn't appreciate any further coddling.

Returning to the kitchen, her attempts to push him out of her thoughts failed spectacularly.

* * *

He woke with aching muscles and a head full of cotton.

Contemplating the yellow-hazed dusk blanketing the mountain view, he took a full minute to remember where he was. The soft click of metal alerted him to the fact he wasn't alone. Adjusting the pillow beneath his cheek, he studied his self-appointed sentinel in the glow of lantern light, admiring the way her hair shimmered like liquid fire rippling over her shoulder.

The light smattering of freckles added an air of playfulness to her otherwise elegant features. False advertisement, in his opinion. He'd yet to glimpse any upbeat emotion in her. He wondered how she'd look without the sour attitude, found it tough to imagine her laughing, her eyes brimming with warmth and good humor.

What had stolen her joy?

A furrow pulled her fine eyebrows together, and her mouth was again pressed into a frown. Her focus was centered on the half-finished project in her lap. Various-colored yarns filled the basket at her feet.

“What are you working on?”

She lifted her molten gaze, her expression frustratingly blank. “A new rug for the rear entrance.”

“You shoot, bake and create works of art out of yarn and burlap. You're a woman of many talents.”

“No more than any other woman in these mountains.”

“I've been out awhile, haven't I? Did you put something in my tea?”

Abandoning her task, she folded her hands together in a show of exaggerated patience. One flame-hued brow arched. “Yes. I doctored it so that you'd sleep the remainder of your recovery away. Guess I didn't put enough in there.”

Grant laughed, then winced when his stitches pulled and pain radiated toward his hip.

“You were asleep when I came in to wash your hair,” she said. “I didn't want to disturb you.”

He noticed the quilt had been adjusted, pulled up to chest level and tucked around him. Weak and trembling from his ill-advised journey through the cabin, he hadn't bothered with it when he'd lain down earlier. She must've thought he was chilled. While the thought of Jessica watching him sleep was unnerving, being the recipient of her nurturing instinct filled him with strange fluttery sensations. Especially considering her antipathy toward him.

“Instead of waking you, I went exploring in the general area around the smokehouse. I found something.”

He carefully maneuvered into a sitting position, his stomach going sideways. “What is it?”

Putting her things in the basket, she rose and, crossing to the corner, retrieved an alligator-skin travel bag.

His heart threatened to burst from his chest as she placed it on his lap. He ran his fingertips across the bumpy surface. “Doesn't look familiar.”

“I almost missed it. It was half-hidden beneath a shrub, some of the contents strewn over the ground.”

His fingers fumbled on the clasp. One by one, he lifted out items that proved ambiguous. Two changes of clothes, sturdy trousers with well-worn hems and solid-color shirts, didn't spark recognition. Socks. A black handkerchief that looked new. A razor and shaving soap. Basic traveling necessities that could belong to anyone.

Then he saw the Bible lying in the bottom. His gaze shot to Jessica's. Her expression was unreadable as she stood, hands folded behind her back.

He balanced the heavy tome in his hands. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. There, on the filmy, delicate first page, a name had been scrawled in blocky letters. “I can't make out the first name,” he murmured. “Parker is the surname.”

“Does it trigger any memories?”

“No.” Defeat marred his tone. He rubbed the coffee-colored stain obscuring much of the first name. “This looks like an uppercase
G
.”

“Your name could be Gabriel.” Something flickered in her eyes. He sensed she wanted to trust this wasn't an act.

“Or Gilbert.”

Leaning over, she studied the entry. “I can't decipher it.”

“Why can't I remember my own name?” Frustration built inside him. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can't know for sure if this is truly mine.”

He would not give in to the panic.
Keep it together. She already thinks you're suspect. Falling to pieces won't help your case.

She unfolded a shirt and held it out in front of her. “Looks like it would fit you.”

Regulating his breathing, he forced his gaze to hers. “I know you have theories about me. I'd like to hear them.”

Jessica lowered the shirt, her surprise evident. “I doubt that.”

“I can't say for certain, but I have a feeling I'm a practical kind of guy. No use avoiding the unpleasantness of life. Just delays the inevitable.”

“All right.” Sinking into the chair once more, she finger-combed her mane with long, meditative strokes. “Most obvious theory? You're an outlaw on the run from authorities or rival criminals.”

“Am I a notorious outlaw or a basic, run-of-the-mill criminal?”

“You're a man who's conflicted about your misdeeds.”

“That's good to know,” he said wryly. “Next theory.”

“You stole another man's wife.”

He shook his head, such a thing unfathomable. “I stole another man's horse.”

She tapped her chin. “You swindled someone in a business deal.”

This game of pretend wasn't helping his dark mood. “Let's move on to the theories where I'm the good guy, shall we?”

A slim gold ring with a ruby setting flashed on her right hand. “Okay. You were traveling through the area, minding your own business, when you were ambushed by ruffians.”

“Sounds plausible.” And much more palatable than anything else she'd thrown at him. “There's no money in this bag or on my person. I wouldn't have traveled without funds.”

She nodded. “You could've stored the money in your saddlebags, which they took along with your horse.”

He rested a hand atop the Bible. “Could I be a circuit-riding preacher?”

She looked dubious. “We don't really have those in these parts. Are there notes on the pages? A preacher would probably have written down thoughts and ideas, underlined important verses.”