Without a Past (15 page)

Harley swallowed sharply. “I wish I could be sure of either of those points, but I can't. All I know is I didn't kill Lars.”

The man's crow's-feet became more pronounced when he squinted. “What are you trying to say?”

“Ever since the crash, I've had nightmares. Violent. Ugly images. Gutted buildings. Slain bodies,” he added harshly.

His lawyer didn't bat an eyelash. “Perfectly understandable given your career. You were in Bosnia, the Middle East and Central America. One of your last pieces was on serial killers. I'm no shrink, but I'd say that kind of stuff gets repressed then jumps out when you least expect it.”

Harley shook his head. “Although I've read those articles, I don't remember writing them. A part of me—I guess that part that's Harley—can't conceive of
wanting
to write those kinds of stories. I turn off the news whenever I get the chance. I hate fighting. I can't wait to get back to the ranch. It's peaceful there. Why would anybody live anywhere else?”

His lawyer smiled slightly. “I guess it's all in your perspective.” He glanced at his Rolex. “Your father will be
here later this afternoon, maybe he can help fill in some of the gaps.”

Sam joined them. “Jenny needs Andi back at the bordello right away—something to do with the wedding.”

“Did you try her cell phone?” Harley asked.

“Can't reach her. Maybe she rappelled down into the ravine again,” he suggested with a casual shrug.

Harley's stomach flip-flopped. “If you're headed that way, Sam, I'd like to ride along.” He looked at his attorney. “Are we through here?”

They made an appointment to meet on Monday or Tuesday of the following week to discuss strategy. After shaking hands with Sam, Rohr headed to his Lexus. “Nice car,” Harley said idly, to fill the silence. He and his boss hadn't been alone since this started. He didn't know where to begin.

“You have a Mercedes in storage in Missouri,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jim showed me a list of inventory from a climate-controlled storage unit you rented before heading west.” He gave Harley an odd look that ended with a smile. “You've got money. Property. A farm that belonged to your grandparents.”

“A farm?”

“It's rented out. My point is, you're not my employee anymore, Harley.”

“I'm fired?”

Sam chuckled softly. “You're a man of means. You don't need to work at the Rocking M.” He gripped Harley's shoulder and squeezed. “But it's your home for as long as you want.”

Harley was too choked up to speak.

“Should we go?” Sam asked then turned away without waiting for a reply. Harley followed.

The trip to the accident site was much quicker in Sam's four-wheel drive truck than in Rosemarie. Neither man spoke much. Harley appreciated his boss's restraint. But one question needed an answer, “Who do you think killed Lars?”

Sam shook his head. “Donnie hasn't given up looking. Our esteemed D.A. was hoping for a quick conviction to help with his reelection bid, but Donnie's one smart cookie. He doesn't take the easy way out or succumb to political pressure.”

“That's comforting.”

“It should be. I trust him and so can you.”

As he turned on the gravel road that led to the recovery site, Sam cleared his throat in an ominous manner. “There is one thing I need from you, Harley.”

“Anything.”

Sam looked at him. “Without sounding too melodramatic, Jenny and I'd like some assurance that Andi doesn't come out the loser in this…situation.”

A sunburst of pain exploded behind Harley's eyes. He grimaced, rubbing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“Bluntly? Andi cares about you, Harley. You'd have to be blind not to see it. But the moment you get your memory back, you'll be Jonathan. A stranger. And Jenny's worried what that will do to her sister.”

Me, too.
None of what he'd read about his former life suggested that he was the kind of man who would be good for Andi.

Harley didn't know much about love—either the concept or the feeling—but he could tell by the cynical tone of JJ Newhall's articles that Jonathan was no fan of the emotion.
Any way you looked at it, the decent thing would be to nip this
relationship
in the bud. For Andi's sake. But could he? His memories of being with her were the only ones that held any true significance.

Maybe he could go back to his old life, but did he want to?

 

A
NDI SPOTTED
the extended cab pickup the minute it pulled up to the barricade, but neither Harley nor Sam made any effort to get out. Even from a distance, they looked grim. Andi's stomach tightened as she headed that way.

Sam apparently saw her and said something to Harley. Her future brother-in-law opened the door and hopped to the ground. As he walked toward her, he said, “Hey, beautiful, you're needed at the bordello.” He held out the keys. “Your cell isn't working, so I told Jen I'd track you down.”

Something about his demeanor put her on edge, more than she already was. “They're just about done here. Shouldn't I drive Rosemarie?”

He kept walking. “I want to talk to Donnie a minute. Are the keys in it? I'll take the old girl.”

“The big pink keybob is on the seat.” She looked toward the pickup. Harley was watching her. Her heartbeat sped up. For some reason, she felt nervous.

She took two steps then paused. “Sam, is there anything I should know?”

His sympathetic smile made her knees buckle, but he shook his head. “Go home, Andi. Tell Harley I'll pick him up there on my way to the ranch.”

Andi wiped her damp palms on her jeans. She fluffed out her hair, loosening the moist curls at the nape of her neck and her forehead. Although the sun had felt blistering for a few minutes, she actually hadn't started to sweat until now.

What am I supposed to say?
She went for casual. “Hi.
How's it going? Sam said to tell you he'd pick you up at the bordello,” she said, hopping into the driver's seat.

She started the engine, and easily backed up the truck.

“I asked him to give us a few minutes alone,” Harley said.

Even though she knew it was her imagination, Andi's first thought was he's changed.
His voice is different.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I heard the judge set bail.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod. Dang, he looked good in a suit. The charcoal-blue made his eyes even more intense—or maybe that was the emotion behind them. She swallowed loudly.

“My lawyer thinks the charges will be dropped. Lack of evidence. Especially if we get a change of venue.”

“Good,” Andi said, the word getting strangled by the tension in her throat. “That's great.”

For a man who'd just been given a get-out-of-jail-free card, he didn't look terribly happy. “Is something else wrong?” she asked. “As if an impending murder trial wasn't bad enough?”

“Can we stop someplace and talk?”

She didn't like the sound of that. “Sam said Jenny needs me at home. It might be something to do with Ida Jane or the twins.”

“Wedding issues. Not life-threatening.”

Why did she get the impression what he wanted to say was going to hurt? “Okay. There's a fire station right up the road.”

Neither spoke until she pulled to a stop beneath a sprawling buckeye tree. She turned off the engine. “What's up?”

He didn't answer right away. The sun made the air inside the cab warm and intoxicating—filled with Harley's scent. She knew it wasn't cologne, and she doubted that the Gold
Creek county jail provided exotic soap or shaving lotion, so it had to be him.

“Harley, cut to the chase.”

“I'm not Harley.”

She nodded impatiently. “Okay. Jonathan.”

“No,” he said, his tone bleak. “It's not okay.”

Andi sat back. “I don't understand.”

He made a gesture she'd never seen him use before—he scratched the nail of his index finger under his jaw. His forehead was creased. “I appreciate everything you've done to help me, but—”

Pain of unbelievable magnitude pressed down on her chest.
This is the brush-off.
She wouldn't have believed it possible to feel this empty. She couldn't even cry. Besides, she was a marine. Marines didn't cry.

“So, that's it? We're history. Short but sweet?”

His erect posture gave way, and he slumped, his chin facing the window. “I don't know. Sam said it wouldn't be fair to you if I couldn't declare my intentions. But, how can I do that when I don't know what they are? All I know for certain is I don't want to hurt you.”

By his rough intake of breath, she knew he wasn't happy, either. “My father is arriving today.”

The words seemed ominous. “Donnie told me. What then?”

“I don't know. On the phone, he suggested I needed to see the best psychiatrist in the country.” He laughed ruefully. “I don't think he meant that to sound like a slam, but it's hard to know, because I can't remember our relationship. I can't remember how I feel about him. You provided the facts, but I'm still missing the emotional connection.”

Andi heard the aching loneliness in his voice. It wasn't difficult for her to imagine what she'd feel like if she became estranged from her family.
Like Kristin.

He went on. “Logic seems to dictate that—at some point—I'll leave. We both know—hell, you knew before I did—that I'm not a cowboy. I've been told I have commitments. An agent.”

He made it sound like a disease.

This was the downside she and Jenny had discussed that morning. “You knew he wasn't a simple cowboy, Andi. You ran the risk of losing him the minute you set out to find his bike, but you had no choice. It was the right thing to do.”

Somewhere in her head, she heard a voice say, “And the truth will set you free.” She didn't believe it for a minute.

I wish…
But Ida Jane always said wishes were for the weak. The strong went out and made things happen.

“This isn't about how I feel, Andi. It's what I
need
to do. For your sake.”

She started to turn the key, but Harley stopped her. His hand covered hers. His touch made her toes curl inside her hiking boots. She tried to jerk back, but he closed his fingers, trapping her in a shell of warmth.

“
My
sake? This is some kind of charity breakup?” She yanked harder. “Hey, don't do me any favors, all right?”

He released her hand, but instead of backing away, he leaned across the console between the seats, crowding her. “This isn't easy for me, Andi. I like you. A lot. I like my life here, and I thought I had a chance…” His voice faded.

“A chance to start over? What's stopping you, Harley?”

His handsome face contorted in pain and frustration. “Didn't you read those articles you gave me? Couldn't you sense the kind of person I was—
am.
” He swore. “I don't even know which it is anymore. But that person sounds like a cold, arrogant ass. You wouldn't like him.”

Andi started the engine. “If he's anything like you're
being right now, then, guess what? You're right. I don't like him.”

Once they were on the road and she had her breathing back under control, she said, “I'm not some loopy romantic, Harley. I know from experience that the primrose path is mined, but I was willing to risk it because I like you.”

“You don't know me.”

“You're right. I don't. So we'll just leave it at that.”

“Okay.”

Not another word was spoken until the car pulled into the parking lot at the bordello. Andi quickly scanned the area. Two obvious rental cars, possible shoppers, but the bulk of the vehicles belonged to the construction workers who were very nearly done with her new roof. And it looked great. Thank goodness one thing in her life was going right.

She turned off the engine and pocketed the key. As she started to open the door, her passenger suddenly sat up straight. She braced herself for more bad news. “What?”

Harley pointed to the two figures standing on the porch. One was her sister, the other a stranger. “Who is it?”

He looked at her, his blue eyes glittering with unfamiliar sharpness. “I'm not sure, but I have a feeling that's my father.”

“T
HEY CALL THIS
a newspaper?” Andrew Newhall barked. A rude snort and a rustling sound of paper being scrunched in a ball followed his rhetorical question.

In the six hours that Harley had spent in his father's company, bits and pieces of memory had begun to filter through the screen of his amnesia. He'd caught a glimpse of an iron-willed workaholic who'd never seemed to have time for his son, but there was also an image of the same man—an older version this time—playing hide-and-seek with his young daughters.

“The
Ledger's
the only game in town,” Harley said. Newspapers seemed like a neutral topic. Safer than any other subject.

“The editor is an opinionated ass,” his father complained. “Who the hell is this Glory woman and why does anyone care what she thinks?”

Harley turned from his sentry position at the window. His father had insisted on getting a room at the motel after they'd driven to the Rocking M to pick up Harley's things. It hadn't seemed to matter what Harley's wishes were. Andrew Newhall reminded him of Andi in some ways. He moved forward with purpose, come hell or high water.

“Jonathan, listen to this crap,” Andrew demanded. His voice took on a girlish tone that didn't jibe with his dignified persona. At sixty-one, with a full head of silver hair and tanned from the Florida sun, Andrew Newhall still emanated
power. “‘Murder and mayhem has come to our dear town in the shape of a drifter named Harley Forester, or rather, that's the alias he's been using while worming his way into our good graces. And, Glory, for one, is worried about his relationship with Gold Creek's native daughter, Andi Sullivan, who went so far as to buy him a suit to wear to his murder trial.'”

Harley winced.

“The damn-fool woman doesn't know the difference between an arraignment and a trial? What kind of crock is this? I'm calling the editor and getting
Glory
fired.”

“I think she's his wife. Or sister,” Harley warned.

“Then I'll buy the damn rag and fire them both.”

Harley almost smiled. That sounded like the kind of imperial temper Andrew's son—Harley's alter ego—was renowned for. On the drive to and from the ranch, Andrew had expounded on Jonathan's exploits and accomplishments—his brash temper, his dogged focus when following a story and the awards he'd received for investigative journalism.

When asked about Jonathan's—
his
—social life, Andrew had been less effusive. “You'd just broken off an engagement, which I never saw the point of to begin with. It seemed a cold, bloodless relationship. I spotted more sparks between you and that Sullivan woman than I ever saw between you and…Miranda. I almost forgot her name.”

Because Harley didn't want to discuss Andi with his father, he returned to the topic of the
Ledger.
“Gloria's a combination town crier, father confessor and Dear Abby in twenty column inches. You gotta give her credit for trying.”

Andrew made a scoffing sound. “She's a small-town gossip on an ego trip. I've seen plenty like her, and so have you—even if you can't remember them.”

Curious about the chasm he sensed between himself and
Andrew, Harley turned his back to the window and rested his bottom on the sill. He crossed his ankles and took a deep breath. The room smelled of coffee and newsprint, which brought back a memory from his childhood.

He pictured himself sitting in the knee well of his father's desk at the Bainbridge, Missouri,
Herald-Times
—his childhood playground. He was waiting for his father to return so he could jump out, crying, “Surprise.” Sometimes his father wouldn't come back for hours, so Jonathan would take paper from the desk and write stories. Tales of magical places and wonderful heroes who always saved the day.

“If this Glory person was a responsible journalist, she'd alert readers to what's really going on in this town. Let me show you what I mean.” His father chucked the offending newspaper atop the pile then marched into the adjoining bedroom.

While waiting, Harley glanced around the parlor of the honeymoon suite of the Mountain Comfort Inn. The blue and gray plaid sofa contained a Hide-A-Bed. He doubted it would be a vast improvement over his jail bunk.

He didn't really care. His main concern at the moment was Andi. They'd parted abruptly—his father pulling him in one direction, Jenny's problem—something to do with the florist—pulling Andi in the other. Why had she looked at him as if he'd broken her heart? They barely knew each other.

But he knew that was a lame argument. Time was irrelevant where love was concerned. Andi's bright smile and frank attitude were imprinted on his soul. Correction. Harley's soul. At the moment, he wasn't sure how much of Harley would be left after Jonathan's memories took over.

“Look at this,” Andrew said, breaking into Harley's reverie. He handed his son a single sheet of typewritten copy.
“I have an old friend who works for the
Sacramento Bee.
He stumbled across this a few weeks ago.

“Somebody's on the move. Someone big. And they've got their sights set on Gold Creek. They just haven't bothered to inform the locals. And the
Ledger
is too busy with local gossip to investigate the
real
story.”

As Harley scanned the page—a list of recent property sales—another memory surfaced. Nothing as clear as his olfactory regression to the
Herald-Times,
but something that made his senses tingle. He pictured another time when someone handed him information, and he'd grabbed his jacket yelling, “Look out, Mr. Pulitzer, I've got a hot one.”

Harley shook his head, not particularly charmed by the arrogance he heard in that voice.
Jonathan's
voice.

“Sure, these look harmless enough—a ten-acre parcel here, a convenience store there,” his father was saying, “but a little digging revealed all the purchases were linked to one holding company—Meridian, Inc.”

“Who owns Meridian?”

“No idea.”

“Maybe it's the newspaper publisher. He's been pushing development hot and heavy the past month or so.”

His father snorted skeptically. “Anyone who prints that kind of drivel doesn't have the brains or balls for a move of this scope. He's probably on Meridian's payroll, though.”

Harley's head started to throb with the worst headache he'd had in days. He tried to focus on meditating through the pain, but a rush of images and sensations swirled and coalesced in his mind. Names, contacts, possible sources who could help him root out the mystery behind this puzzle.

He rushed to the bathroom and closed the door. In the grocery sack that held his clothes was a new bottle of as
pirin. He pried off the lid and shook four into his hand. He washed them down with water scooped from the faucet.

Resting his forehead against the cool mirror, he analyzed the attack. He knew what had provoked it. Jonathan's memories. A response to the kind of stimuli Jonathan welcomed. The kind of game playing Harley wanted nothing to do with. He was out of that rat race for good. He wasn't the same man he'd been before the accident. He might not be a cowboy, but he wasn't an investigative journalist, either. He no longer had the stomach—or head—for it.

When he returned to the sitting area of the suite, his father was hunched forward, a concerned look on his face. “Are you okay?”

Harley nodded as slowly as possible. “Headaches.”

Andrew webbed his fingers together. “Perhaps this isn't the right time, son, but I wanted to talk to you about that last meeting we had.”

Harley shook his head. “I don't remember it.”

His father frowned. “You don't recall tossing a check for a quarter of a million dollars in my face?”

Harley sat in the recliner across from his father. That memory had surfaced once, but it had seemed too staged to be real. Harley couldn't empathize with the fury he'd seen on
Jonathan's
face because he'd had no clue to the motivation behind the argument. “Why was I so angry?”

“I'd just explained about the sale. Instead of giving you the family business, I'd sold it. For a pretty fine profit, if you ask me. The check was your share, but you didn't want it.”

Harley closed his eyes, resting his head against the cushion. He could hear raised voices. “As my daughter would say, ‘Puh-leeze.' You never wanted the business, Jon. You left town the day after—no, the night you graduated from high school and never looked back.”

Then Jonathan's voice. “It was my right—my
obligation
—to carry on the family tradition. I'm the last Newhall male. And I'm a journalist.”

“You're my son and you're an excellent reporter, but you've never been a Newhall.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Harley's gut twisted. Now he understood what he'd been feeling that day. Anger, yes. But more than that. Betrayal. Frustration. Hurt. His father had sold his heritage—the Newhall family's string of small but prestigious papers. Andrew planned to retire in Florida with his wife of seven years and their two daughters. Jonathan received a check.

“Jonathan,” his father said, his voice low and serious, “You left Newhall Enterprises years ago. You've traveled around the world, interviewed kings, survived mortar fire. Does that sound like the kind of person who could sit at a desk for ten hours a day and not succumb to boredom?”

Harley answered without thinking. “I would have brought a different vision to the company. New energy.”

“But why would you want to? Listen to me, Jon. I was trying to save you from a life you would have hated.
My
life.”

Harley opened his eyes. He saw something Jonathan Newhall had probably never taken the time to see. A man who'd made mistakes and didn't want to repeat them.

“We fought a lot, didn't we?”

Andrew shook his head. “Disagreements.”

“Something about Harvard?”

Andrew looked sheepish. “How come you can remember that but not your little sisters' names?”

Harley almost smiled. “Have I met them?”

“Of course. They adore you. They think you're famous.”

Neither said anything for a minute then Andrew spoke. “Jon, I regret a lot things. You should have gone to Har
vard. Lord knows you had the grades for it. I just didn't want to see you move so far from home.” He laughed ruefully. “I tried to keep you close and only drove you farther away.”

Andrew shook his head and continued. “Do you know the true irony of this? As Gwen told me before I got on the plane, for a publisher and writer of some repute, I've never been able to communicate with the one person in my life who mattered the most—my son.”

Harley felt sorry for him. But he didn't know what to say. “Gwen is your new wife, right? My stepmother.”

Andrew's face lit up, but he said with mock seriousness, “Don't call her that. She hates the word. She's only seven years older than you. But she's wise beyond her years. She's been so good for me.”

Harley could tell that just from the look of serenity on his father's face when he spoke of his wife. He asked Andrew how they'd met, and soon heard the whole story. Oddly, his name—Jonathan's name—didn't come up much in his father's narrative.

Maybe I was a lone wolf, off on my travels with no time for family.
After watching Andi's connection and commitment to her family, the idea seemed distasteful.

“I guess I'll take a shower,” he said, starting toward the bathroom.

A soft knock on the door made him change course.

“Hi,” Andi said, pushing her wind-tousled hair out of her eyes.

Her denim jacket covered a plain white T-shirt. Instead of jeans, she had on a denim skirt that stopped several inches above her knees. Her bare feet were clad in Birkenstock sandals.

“Hi,” he said, unable to keep from smiling. A mere six
hours had passed, but he'd missed her. Not a very promising start to keeping his distance. “What's going on?”

“I need your help. Will you come with me? I'm prepared to use force if necessary.”

Although her tone was light, the look in her eyes was serious. “I don't see a gun,” he said.

“I'm an ex-marine. I don't need a gun.”

Harley laughed. When was the last time he'd laughed?

Pivoting, he reached for the closest jacket—his father's umber-brown golf jacket. “Dad, I'm going out with Andi. I'll see you later, okay?”

He caught his father's look of surprise, which for some reason segued into a broad smile. “I'll be here.”

He nodded and closed the door. “Where are we going?”

“A mission of mercy.”

As he followed her to the Cadillac, Harley felt an odd sense of lightness. He wondered if it might be joy. Or lust.
Have I seen her bare legs before? Those are great gams. And very nice ankles.

He got in the car and closed the door. They didn't speak until the outskirts of town gave way to mountainous terrain, then Harley asked, “Can you tell me where we're going yet? I promise not to jump out.”

“The Blue Lupine.”

“Lars's cabin?” He almost changed his mind about jumping. “But it's a crime scene, and I'm the main suspect.”

She made a face. “We have Donnie's permission to be there. Sam got a call from Lars's neighbor lady.”

“The one who told the cops she'd seen me on the premises?”

Andi nodded. “Margaret Graham. She's a nice lady. I think she and Lars had a little romance going.”

“Maybe she killed him.”

Andi's dry chuckle made him frown. “And dragged his body to the mine shaft? I don't think so. She's in her sixties and weighs about ninety pounds soaking wet.”