Without a Past (13 page)

Jenny laughed. “Me neither. Josh and I were both cowards when it came to high places. Sam wants us to get married on the summit overlooking the ranch, and I get a little queasy just thinking about it.”

“My brother may have hated heights, but he loved a great view. He wanted me to build the ranch house on the summit, but it wasn't practical. I think he'd be pleased to see us exchange our vows up there.”

Harley spotted the tender, loving look Jenny gave her intended. Although he didn't know the whole story behind their relationship, he sensed it was founded on true respect and love. He wondered if he'd ever known that in his life. Somehow he doubted it.

“Before we get sidetracked into wedding talk,” Andi said, “Harley will need a little help retrieving the bike. It'll take a crane to haul it out. Right now, the bike doesn't look bad—it's thirty feet up in a tree, but if it falls…splat.” Her graphic hand slapping made everyone jump.

Sam's mouth dropped open. “A tree?”

“Hanging nose down. Harley's lucky to be alive given where the bike landed up.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “Downright miraculous. Why don't I give Ron Jensen a call in the morning?”

“Beulah's grandson?” Ida Jane asked.

“His salvage company is the best in the area.”

While Jenny, Ida Jane and Sam discussed the Jensen family's trials and tribulations, Harley focused on blocking the noise in his head. His ears felt hot and his scalp itched—even though he'd left his hat by the door. Watching Sam's casual examination of the wallet was triggering some kind of emotional response.

“I take it this didn't produce any miracle memories,” Sam said.

Harley stretched against the tension in his neck. “Nope. Not even a glimmer.”

Jenny took the wallet next. She quickly flipped through the pictures, studied the driver's license briefly then checked the money compartment. “Hmm. Not bad. Three big dogs and six Andrew Jacksons.”

Andi passed it back to Harley. “I think he should go on the Internet and see if his name is on any list of missing persons. Maybe his family has a Web site set up,” she said.

Jenny nodded. “Good idea. And I bet Donnie could help you—now that you have a name to run through the data banks.”

Harley and Andi exchanged a look.

“Maybe actually touching the bike will trigger something,” Sam said. “When do you want to go after it? Tomorrow?”

Harley was overwhelmed by the generous offer. “What about your wedding plans?”

Jenny answered. “The wedding is under control. We're keeping it simple—for obvious reasons. The ceremony will be small—family only. We've combined the reception with the annual St. Patrick's Day bash, and the Garden Club is handling that. So we can certainly make time to help a friend.”

Harley looked down. He wanted to ask how any of them knew he was worthy of their friendship, but the words wouldn't come.

As if reading his mind, Sam said, “Harley, I learned a long time ago not to judge a man by his car, his house or his bank account. His wife, his horse and his dog are a lot safer bets, but even those can be misleading. Since you started out with none of those things, I had to go with my gut. And my gut tells me you're a good man. Reliable and smart. And I consider you a friend.”

Harley was moved. “Thanks, Sam. I don't know how I got so lucky. No memory. Not much more than the clothes you see and a few bucks in a tin can, but I'm not complaining. Today I feel rich.”

Sam held out his hand. “Hell, buddy, you could be rich. I don't know too many paupers who drive a Hog.”

Harley looked at Andi. “It might be stolen.”

She slugged his arm. Hard. “Or you mighta paid cash for it. I guess we won't know till we get it out of that tree and run the serial number on it, will we?” Her tone dared him to contradict her.

“Let's drive to the site tomorrow and take a look,” Sam said. “I need to stop by the Blue Lupine, anyway, and make sure Lars knows he's expected at the reception.”

“Good,” Harley said. He'd swung past the mine last Thursday after delivering some hay, and Lars hadn't been around. Only Sarge, Lars's hound dog had been there, baying as if Harley were a robber out to sack the place. Dogs made him nervous, so Harley had headed on without even getting out of the truck.

Suddenly, Harley's headache returned. Anxious for a little privacy, he tried to get out of the chair. Andi came to his rescue—again. She braced her feet a shoulder width apart then held out her hand.

He had no choice but to accept. “Sam, do you want Harley to take your truck so you can ride home with Jenny?” Andi asked. Harley had had the same thought, but wouldn't have dreamed of suggesting it.

“Good idea,” Sam said. “The keys are in it.”

Harley tipped an imaginary hat to Ida Jane. “Miss Ida, take care.”

She smiled and nodded, but Harley thought she had a preoccupied look about her. As if she might be trying to place him. His heart ached for Ida Jane and her family.

“I'll walk you out,” Andi said. “Your other stuff is still in the car.”

She wasn't about to let Harley slink off without a pep talk. She'd seen how powerfully he'd reacted to Sam's suggestion that they proceed with the recovery operation. Things were moving fast, and he needed to know that everyone was in his corner.

She slipped her arm through his and escorted him back the way they'd come. The hallway was narrow and they had to squeeze together to walk abreast. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

He sighed. “I feel like I've got one hand on the lip of Pandora's box and the other on an unbroken stallion trying to pull me in the opposite direction.”

“Spoken like a true cowboy.”

His wry chuckle was pure Harley. Andi guessed that in the weeks to come this new identity would slowly become more real to him. What that meant was anybody's guess, but there was no turning back now.

“Do you believe in destiny, Harley? I thought I could change mine by leaving Gold Creek, but it didn't work. I'm back where I started, running my great-aunt's antique shop.”

They stopped—as if by mutual consent—in the shadow
of an artificial palm. “You might not know this, but Ida went to college somewhere back East. She had a good job in Oakland, but when her parents needed her, she came back to Gold Creek. She opened the store and years later made a home for my mother after my grandmother became ill. Then we came along. That's why I'm here. It's my turn, and I'll stay as long as she needs me.”

He was close enough that she could smell the beer on his breath. “And when Ida's gone?” he asked.

“Haven't a clue.” Which, at the moment, was true. She'd had a plan once, but that was when she'd been young and cocky. Now she understood that even the best-laid plans were subject to change.

When he pulled her to him, Andi didn't hesitate. Yes, it was a dumb idea, but it felt right. Her arms went around his neck; her body leaned into his. His kiss was tender and inquisitive. She might have been tempted to ask him upstairs if a sudden knock on the door hadn't interrupted them.

Andi jerked back. Harley dropped his arms to his sides. She looked into his eyes. Instead of chagrin or embarrassment, she saw desire.

The knock came again. Louder. A man's voice called, “Andi, open up. It's me. Donnie.”

Through the etched glass oval in the door, she could see the fuzzy silhouette of a man in a tan-and-black uniform. She recognized the voice. “Hi, Donnie,” Andi said, throwing open the door. “What's going on?”

Donnie had retained his quarterback physique. His broad shoulders and powerful build combined in a handsome, very masculine way that had driven the girls in Gold Creek High—including Kristin—crazy. When he removed his hat, Andi spotted a few silver threads in his closely cropped hair. For some reason a snippet of Gloria's most recent column came back to her—something about Donnie's ex-wife's
European sojourn and Donnie's struggles with being a single parent.

“I was on my way out to the Rocking M when I spotted Sam's truck.”

Donnie had a deep, resonant voice. Not as sexy as Harley's but pleasant nonetheless. He'd served as Andi's Search-and-Rescue unit commander until he graduated—a year ahead of her and her sisters. They'd been good friends—until that disastrous party they all wanted to forget.

“Is something wrong? Sam and Jen are in the parlor.”

He stepped inside but went no farther. “Actually, I haven't come to see Sam.” Suddenly all business, Donnie stated in a very cop-like voice, “Harley Forester, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Lars Gunderson.”

H
ARLEY STARED
at the painted block wall across from him. The pockmarked texture reminded him of a moonscape, except for the color—a cross between beige and institutional green. It might have been the color of the moon if it were really made of cheese, he thought.

The view hadn't changed in the fourteen hours since his arrest. He'd been apprised of his rights and had met with a court-appointed attorney who'd advised him to plead not guilty.

Not guilty of what?
Harley had longed to yell. He only knew the basics. Lars was dead. A witness had placed Harley at the scene at the time of death.

Dead.
While he understood the concept, Harley couldn't name a single person of his acquaintance who was dead. He didn't doubt for a minute that his alter ego, Jonathan, could name a few, but
Harley
hadn't even handled a dead animal in his tenure on the ranch.

How did Lars die?
He'd wanted to ask, but his attorney—a man of twenty-six with a blond goatee and thick glasses—had only a smeared copy of the arrest warrant to go by.

“Death from trauma,” he said after reading for a few minutes.

“Could you be more specific?” Harley had asked sarcastically. “All deaths are traumatic.”

His comment had earned him a lecture. “Homicide is
serious business. We don't get many in this county and everyone is playing it close to the vest and by the book.”

Harley would have commented on the mixed metaphors but he had a feeling it would have gone over the young man's head. “Is this your first murder?” he'd asked.

“Alleged murder,” the man corrected.

“No,” Harley had returned. “I may be the
alleged
murderer, but the murder happened. Period. A man is dead. A good man. A friend of mine. And someone else killed him.”

A noise at the door of his cell drew his gaze from the acne-scarred wall. Donnie Grimaldo, the man who'd arrested him last night, opened the door and stepped in. “'Morning. How'ya holding up?”

Harley sensed a basic goodness in the man, who had treated him kindly and with solemn respect the night before. While the booking process had been long, detailed and de-meaning, Donnie had gone out of his way to facilitate the procedure. Harley had been too numb, too sad to question the special treatment.

But it was at the top of his list of questions this morning. “Can I ask you something? Why are you being so nice? You barely know me.”

Donnie chuckled and looked around. “This is a cell not a hotel room, in case you didn't notice. Those black smudges on your fingers are from ink. I wouldn't call this a deluxe booking.

“I just wanted to lay things out for you. Sam woke me up at five this morning to say he was replacing your public defender with a top-notch criminal attorney. He'll get you out on bail. Sam's prepared to personally guarantee you're not a flight risk,” Donnie said. Harley could smell his after-shave and suddenly craved a shower and clean clothes.

“I have to say, though, your amnesia could work against you with the judge. You have no real roots in Gold Creek.
He's a decent man, but he crucifies anyone who goes fugitive on him.”

“Where would I go? It's not like I have a lot of resources,” Harley said. “I don't even have a car, and my bike is up a tree.”

“That's true. On the positive side, though, I talked to Andi, and she's agreed to take me to your motorcycle.”

Harley's eyebrow shot up. For some reason that sounded slightly treasonous.

As if reading his mind, Donnie said, “That Andi is one sharp cookie. She was a member of the Sheriff's Search and Rescue team for years, so she knows the system. She figured if we regarded the bike as a potential source of clues to you and your past, we'd undertake the recovery operation at our cost. Probably save you a bundle.”

A grin formed on Harley's lips. “She
told
you that?”

“No. I just know how her mind works. I used to date Kristin. Those Sullivan girls are something else.”

Harley would have asked for more details, but a voice in the corridor interrupted. Donnie turned to leave. “I've got a mountain of forms to fill out before we can go after the bike. Your arraignment is this afternoon. Andi said to tell you she'd be by this morning with clean clothes. Orange jumpsuits aren't terribly convincing when you're trying to look innocent.”

“Do you think I'm guilty?” Harley asked.

Donnie looked at him for a full minute. “Andi insists you couldn't have done it. Guess we'll find out soon enough.”

Soon enough.
What did that mean? A month? Six months? A year from now? Yesterday he'd found the first tangible link with his past, but what good would it do if he was going to be spending his future in jail.

 

A
NDI'S MORNING
had started with a predawn chat with Ida Jane. Luckily, Ida seemed more like her old self. She lis
tened to Andi's explanation about the roof, especially the part about preventing future damage to the ceilings. With a resigned sigh, she'd agreed to let Bart begin the work.

While brewing the coffee for the customers who would be knocking on her door as soon as the rolls and biscotti were delivered, she made phone calls, including one to Donnie Grimaldo.

Now she had ten minutes to organize her thoughts. Jenny had agreed to open the store. Then Linda McCloskey—Bart's mother and Ida's friend from Garden Club—would take over. Jenny couldn't stay all day because she had the twins and a lot of wedding details to take care of. Linda, who'd recently retired, enjoyed a little part-time work. And as a former nurse, she was especially attuned to Ida Jane's problems.

Andi's main goal this morning was to see Harley. Donnie had said Harley was handling the arrest well but seemed a little depressed. Big surprise there, she muttered as she prepared to unlock the door.

Just as she reached for the knob, a figure appeared on the landing. A shadow from the overhang combined with the frosted design in the oval glass kept her from identifying the person, but she figured it was Jenny. “You're early,” she said, yanking open the door.

“Not too early for coffee I hope,” a deep voice said.

Andi stared. A stranger stood before her. In his sixties, his clothing—shirt and slacks, no tie—told her he wasn't a tourist. “May I help you?”

“James Rohr. Attorney. Sam O'Neal asked me to meet him here.” He held out his hand. “May I come in?”

Andi kept the handshake quick. “Certainly. I'm expecting Sam any minute. Is this about Harley's case?”

“Yes.”

She ushered him inside, but before she could ask a single question, Sam's truck pulled into the parking lot. Both Sam and Jenny got out. They hurried up the steps of the bordello. “Jim. Good to see you,” Sam said, addressing the attorney. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”

He made short order of the introductions, then hustled them to the corner table of the empty coffee parlor. “I really hated to pull you out of retirement, Jim. But this case called for big guns.”

The man looked genuinely pleased to see Sam. “Trust me, Sam, retirement is not all it's cracked up to be. I'm glad to help.”

Jenny delivered three coffees to the table, freshened Andi's cup then took the chair beside her husband-to-be. “Did you call Kristin?” she asked Andi.

Andi, who'd been eavesdropping on Sam and the attorney's small talk, answered without really thinking. “Yes. She was sorry to hear about Lars, and she suggested taking Ida Jane back to Oregon with her after the wedding.”

Jenny looked surprised. “Really? That's a first.”

Kristin had never invited anyone to visit her. Ida Jane believed that Kris was embarrassed about her standard of living. Andi figured it had more to with her lifestyle—maybe a live-in boyfriend she wanted to keep secret. Regardless of the reason, Kristin's decision to renew her familial ties couldn't have come at a better time in Andi's opinion.

“Does Ida want to go?” Jenny asked.

“Yes. She wanted to start packing, but I told her to wait until you got here.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Andi spotted the serious look on Sam's face and turned her attention to the two men. “Sam, when you mentioned
calling a lawyer last night, I thought you meant Dave Dunningham.”

Sam shook his head. “Dave doesn't do criminal law. Jim is an old friend from way back, and I knew he'd come if he wasn't out on his yacht.”

The attorney made a negating wave. “That sounds so pretentious. It's a glorified fishing boat. Now, tell me about Harley Forester.”

Sam started with the facts, which included a copy of the arrest sheet, although he declined to share how it came to be in his possession.

“Lars found Harley walking down the road in the middle of a storm. Lars said he was too drunk to risk another D.U.I. so he took Harley home with him.”

“So Lars was a drinker,” the lawyer observed.

Sam looked uncomfortable. “From the little he told me about his past, I'd say he was a Vietnam veteran with some long-term problems, both physical and psychological. He was stoned most of the time and he got drunk whenever he came to town.”

Jenny added, “Ida Jane dog-sat for Lars the winter before last when he was in the VA hospital up near Yountsville. I don't know what the trouble was, but he was gone three weeks.”

The lawyer scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. “Andi, tell me everything you know about Harley.”

He's serious, funny, gentle and a great kisser.
“Aside from the logistical facts that Sam has given you, there's not much I can add. But I can show you what we recovered from the accident site yesterday.”

She looked at Sam and added, “I did what you suggested and called Donnie. They're going after the bike as evidence.”

Sam and the lawyer exchanged a satisfied look.

While the others talked, Andi dashed upstairs to her room to retrieve the bag of Harley's possessions. Before dropping into bed last night, she'd reexamined every item, hoping something meaningful would pop out at her.

Against her better judgment, she'd tried on the ring. A perfect fit. She hated it. Or loved it, she wasn't sure which.

Forty-five minutes later—as the morning rush hit, Sam and the attorney left. Andi helped get Jenny organized then she drove to Beatty's Menswear to look for a suit for Harley.

Her task became more difficult the moment Gloria Hughes walked into the store.

“Andrea Sullivan,” the sixty-something woman exclaimed. She rushed across the small, cluttered shop like a starving dog in a meat market. “I just heard the most distressing news. That amnesia man was arrested last night.”

Gloria Harrison Hughes had a way of asking questions without making them sound like questions. Andi knew there was no escaping the columnist's tractor beam once she had you in range. She made an impulsive decision. Setting aside the suit she was examining, she bravely faced the queen of local gossip.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hughes,” she said, feeling twelve again. “Isn't it something? That poor man just can't catch a break, but the good news is we found his bike and his name isn't Harley Forester.”

The woman's eyes rounded behind her small, stylish glasses. Her blushing-pink lips—a color of lipstick Andi had tried and shunned when she was a teen—formed an O. “Really? How do you know?”

Andi ignored the question. She didn't want her role in this operation discussed. “His real name is Jonathan Jackson Newhall.” She spelled it to make sure the columnist got it right.

“Oh, my word,” the excited woman muttered. “I wonder why he did it.”

A powerful urge to grab the old shrew by her scrawny neck and shake some sense into her left as quickly as it arrived. Instead, Andi faked a
Jenny
smile and said, “I don't believe Jonathan—” she emphasized the name “—is capable of such a malicious act. He's such a sweet man. Ida just adores him.”

Gloria's eyes narrowed like a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting rodent. “Why, Andi, I do believe you're smitten.”

Smitten. A derivative of smite? I wonder.

There'd been numerous times lately that Andi had felt as though someone or something had whacked her upside the head.

Andi knew from experience that the best lie was one close to the truth. “I have to admit I like him. As a friend. That's why I'm shopping for a suit for him to wear to court.” No doubt Gloria would have surmised this on her own and attached her own interpretation. “A person needs all the friends he can get at a stressful time like this. Sam and Jenny are standing by Jonathan, too. And Sam was Lars's closest friend.”

That seemed to give the woman pause. Andi returned to her shopping. She found several nice suits, but the price tags were out of her range. On the sales rack she finally located one that might fit. Five minutes later she had a shirt, underwear, socks, belt and shoes to complete the outfit. She put the belt back—it probably wouldn't be allowed in jail—then paid for the whole ensemble with her credit card.

As she was leaving, she looked around for Gloria, but apparently, the columnist had accomplished
her
shopping; she was nowhere in sight.

Andi hoped the lawyer's strategy was right.

“The first thing we need to do is create a different image for Jonathan,” he'd told them. “Instead of drifter on a motorcycle, we must portray him as a professional on vacation who'd suffered an accident. Wrong place, wrong time. A very unfair coincidence.”

Before leaving the old bordello, James Rohr had contacted a private detective to begin tracking down leads pertaining to Jonathan Newhall. From the little Andi had gleaned last night on the Internet, Jonathan was an investigative reporter who wrote under the name of JJ Newhall. He didn't have a personal Web page, but she'd managed to find three of his articles—bitingly cynical pieces published in major newspapers. How that image jibed with the gentle, back-to-nature kind of guy she knew—and possibly loved—was still to be determined.