Without a Past (19 page)

He'd been planning to ask her to marry him. But when he arrived at her condo—shortly after his disastrous meeting with his father—she'd made it clear that he wasn't part of her future.

“I used to think we had a chance, Jon,” she'd told him, tucking his glittery ring back in his pocket. “But I know now that your father's right. You weren't cut out for small-town life. JJ Newhall doesn't do hearth and home.”

The words held a veracity that made him cringe. Yet, a few hours earlier, Andi had suggested he might live here in the cabin that belonged to him and write. But he was a nomad, wasn't he?

“Here's super-duper aspirin. Military issue. Lars had a bottle in his medicine cabinet,” she said, materializing at his side. He hadn't even heard her climb the ladder.

He sat up, positioning a pillow against the cabin wall. The blankets pooled at his waist.

She'd mis-buttoned her flannel shirt, making the collar lopsided. Her hair stood up in little tufts. Her skin was cosmetic-free and beautiful. He'd never seen anything more appealing.

She passed him the glass then fished two large white pills from the breast pocket of the shirt. “I'm going to run up to Margaret's and make a few calls while you're recuperating.”

Harley swallowed the bitter pills and took a large gulp of
water. “I'll go with you.”
Better to move around than lie here and think.

“No. Rest. I want you in good shape for later.”

The humor in her tone could not be missed. Nor the innuendo. Harley took another drink. They'd made love twice. Once with a mindless urgency that made the whole experience end too quickly. The second time had been a languid journey of discovery. But a feeling of remorse had arrived with his headache. Was this fair to Andi?

“What time is it?” Harley asked, reaching for his shirt.

“It's 8:00 p.m. I figure people might be getting a little jittery about our whereabouts. The rain just let up, so I can run to Margaret's and make the call. We aren't getting out of here until morning. The road over the pass is going to be a quagmire—even with four-wheel drive. I don't have to be at the Rocking M till noon for the wedding rehearsal, then Kris and I are throwing a wedding shower for Jenny at the bordello at four. I've closed the shop for the whole weekend.”

They'd already discussed using Lars's truck to drive back into town instead of waiting for the tow truck, which would be needed for Rosemarie.

“How's Sarge doing?” Harley asked.

“Not bad. I think he's been bruised. He made it outside with barely any help, but he's still limping. He snarfed down a can of dog food, though. So, that's a good sign.”

“Do you still want to drop him at the vet's when we get to town?” Harley had checked on the dog between lovemaking, and Sarge seemed to be resting comfortably. The old dog had lifted his head and licked Harley's hand as if to say thank-you for his concern.

Harley had petted him in return—with mixed emotions. He still felt uncomfortable around Sarge.

“Rich Rumbolt's office is on the way to the ranch,” she
said. “I'd feel better if he took an X ray or two. Just to be safe.” Andi started to back down the ladder. “Rest. I'll be baaack,” she said in a horrible Arnold Swarzeneggar imitation.

For the first time since opening his eyes, Harley felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, they'd figure this out. Maybe, he could make peace with his past and find a way to integrate his old persona into a new life. But he knew, without a doubt, that Andi was the key to making this happen.

“I'm going with you.” Before she could protest, he added, “There's a snake on the loose.”

“I'm not afraid of snakes.”

He chuckled. “Humor me. I wouldn't feel right hanging out here while you wrestle a boa for the phone. Maybe it's a guy thing.”

She smiled. “Oh. Okay, then. The sooner we go, the sooner we can…” The gleam in her eyes was unmistakable.

Harley felt a correlating response. They had the whole night ahead of them. Right or wrong. There was no turning back.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
there was a chill in the air. “I'm surprised we didn't get snow,” Andi said as she led the way to the barn. The crisp fresh breeze made her nostrils crinkle.

Her bare knees tingled, but at least her feet and calves were warm. She'd borrowed Lars's thermal socks. Thick gray tubes with a red band that reached to her knees. Stylish? Not a chance, but that's what happened when you went into the mountains dressed as a girl.

A gust of wind made her wish she'd borrowed one of Lars's stocking caps, too. Without electricity she hadn't been able to dry her hair. Thanks to the resourceful miner who'd built a water tower to provide gravity-fed water to the propane water heater, she and Harley had shared a shower after breakfast—and made use of the last condom in the strip.

Then, without a word of debate, they'd divvied up the chores. Harley had handled the loft, dropping a pillowcase filled with the sheets and the clothes they'd borrowed over the edge. It had landed with a plop that had made Andi jump. Once she'd finished putting away their breakfast dishes, she tamped down the fire and checked all the windows.

As they left the cabin—Harley carrying Sarge—she paused to tack the yellow police tape back in place.

“Are we going to talk about this on the way back?” Harley asked, following a few steps behind her.

She hated mornings after. “We have to hurry. I have a million things to do today. Anyway, what's to talk about? We had great sex. Let's not pretend it was more than it was.”

“That's all it was to you?” He had to juggle Sarge to free his hand to grab the hem of her jacket. The dog let out a groan.

Since Harley and Sarge blocked her way to the shed, which was on the far side of the clearing, she couldn't avoid the confrontation.

“Like I said, we had great sex.”
Make that an epiphany of love and redemption.
She planned to keep that little truth to herself.
I'm not a complete fool. Say the L-word and he'll run for sure.

“I don't believe that's all it was to you,” he repeated.

His comment irked her. “Okay, then, I'll tell you the truth. The sex was unlike any I'd ever experienced. And I feel an emotional connection to you in a way I've never felt for another man.” Andi swallowed. “But I'm trying my hardest to avoid the huge—
humongous
—letdown that is bound to hit when you decide to leave.”

He opened his mouth, but she quickly added, “And I don't blame you for not wanting to stay. Small towns aren't always easy to take even if you're born there. They're filled with nosy, well-meaning people who think nothing of giving you advice you don't want. Gossip spreads faster than the flu. And business is so bad…don't get me started. Suffice it to say it sucks.”

Since Harley didn't say anything to refute her premise, she stepped off the path—instantly soaking her socks—and stomped toward the shed. “So now you know. Can we please just get going?”

He followed. Once they reached the garage, he carefully
eased Sarge on to a soft bed of packing blankets then faced her, hands on his hips in a belligerent manner.

“It isn't fair to assume the worst just because you think you know what I feel.”

Andi felt between the grillwork of the truck until she found the latch then lifted the heavy hood, which was a patchwork of rust and primer paint. “You told me last night your father wants you to return home to Florida.”

“Florida is not my home. It never has been. He wants me to go back with him to see an amnesia specialist. I haven't agreed to go.”

She wanted that to mean he was staying here, but that wasn't what he was saying. “If you stay in Gold Creek, what will you do? Work at the Rocking M?” She answered her own questions. “Of course not. You're a world-famous journalist. What could a little town in the Sierras hold for you?”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You.” His breath was warm on her ear and neck. She wanted to melt against him and never leave their tiny hunk of paradise.

“Oh, Harley,” she said on a sigh.

He stiffened slightly.

She turned to face him, her right hand holding the oil dipstick, her left a rag. “What's wrong?”

“The name is an issue.”

“Do you want to be called Jonathan?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. At first, it sounded foreign, but now
Harley
sounds odd to my ear.”

“Well, at the risk of sounding flip, let me know when you've made up your mind. In the meantime, we really need to hit the road. Jenny sounded pretty calm on the phone last night, but at the rehearsal she'll have two squirming babies and a mother-in-law. She'll need my help.”

Harley/Jonathan pitched in to help her get the old truck started, then offered to drive. Whether his motive was altruistic or a means to avoid holding Sarge on his lap, she couldn't decide. Being a passenger would give her time to think.

Why is Sarge overjoyed every time Harley gives him any attention, but Harley, no, Jonathan—definitely, Jonathan—looks pained whenever he has to touch the dog?

Andi petted Sarge's big, knobby head as they topped the summit. The snow tires only lost traction once. The sensation made Andi's stomach rise to her throat, but Harley kept the truck under control.

Although the engine noise made it difficult to be heard, Andi was surprised when he chose to put on the radio. “I thought you wanted to talk,” she said.

“Um, okay,” he said, raising his voice. “Tell me about the wedding plans.”

Andi made a face. “Planning large social engagements gives me a headache. That's Jenny's thing. All I do is show up.”

“What kind of wedding do you want?”

“Theoretically? The simpler the better. A justice of the peace in Tahoe is more my style. But, at least, Jenny isn't going overboard this time. When she and Josh got married, they invited practically the whole town, plus all their friends from college. It was crazy.”

He glanced her way and smiled. “I thought the whole town was invited to this wedding, too.”

God, she liked his smile. His Harley smile.

“It's different,” she said. “Jenny and Sam are holding a small, private ceremony, first. Then the reception will coincide with the annual St. Patrick's Day barbecue. That's always very well attended because it's so much fun. And
the local civic groups—the Garden Club, the Volunteer Fire Department, and the Moose—reap the benefits.”

They traveled a bit farther before Harley spoke. “So how's business these days? Is the coffee parlor doing as well as you'd hoped?”

Andi sighed. She could lie, but why bother? He knew every other aspect of her life. “It's holding its own, but my main problem is a glut of slow-moving merchandise. Ida Jane used to be an astute businesswoman, but before I took over she bought a couple of lots of antiques at auction that weren't worth what she paid for them. Now I'm having trouble unloading them.”

“Maybe you need a new approach. I'm no expert, but it seems to me that the Old Bordello Antique Shop is mired in obsolescence.”

“We sell antiques,” Andi said, aware of the defensive tone in her voice. “Old is what we do.”

“But obviously you're aware of better marketing strategies. Sam told me about your ghost tours. And the addition of the coffee shop is brilliant.” He smiled at her and continued, “I was wondering about the Internet. Maybe you could list certain items on an auction site, like eBay. Do you have a Web site?”

Andi sat up a little straighter. “I looked into the idea when I first moved home, but Ida Jane flatly refused to discuss it. And when I found out how much it would cost to upgrade our wiring, I sorta put the idea on hold till I'd managed to improve the cash flow.”

She made a derisive sound. “Like that happened. But the bottom line is the old bordello is Ida's store—not mine, and she wants it kept just the way it is.” She rubbed her eyebrow with a knuckle. “Besides, my first priority is a new roof.”

“That's too bad,” he said. “If you can't find your footing
in the new economy, you'll be vulnerable. Particularly if someone decided to go after the land the old bordello is sitting on.”

Andi would have swung around to face him squarely if not for the dog on her lap. “What are you talking about?”

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “Big money is moving into Gold Creek.” His forehead crinkled; the corner of his lips turned down. “My father pointed out a story in the
Sacramento Bee
that your local newspaper didn't bother to cover.

“Someone with ties to big business is buying up parcels around town. Didn't you say Ida Jane had been approached about selling the bordello?”

She swallowed. “A form letter from some company I'd never heard of. I threw it in the trash.”

“Some of your neighbors are taking the offers.”

He rattled off a couple of names. Longtime residents. Friends. A sizzle of fear raced through her. She felt as though she'd been on patrol and just learned that the enemy had struck behind her line. “Do you know this for sure?”

The dubious tone in her voice must have ticked him off because he answered, “No, but my dad was a newspaper publisher. I think you can trust his instincts, if you don't trust mine.”

She winced. “I'm sorry. Maybe I just don't want to believe this stuff. I have heard rumors at the Chamber of Commerce meetings, but small towns are a hotbed of gossip and speculation.”

The hard line of his lips softened. After a minute, he said, “Andi, about what we were discussing earlier—you were right to assume the worst about me based on what you read in my bio. But something changed last night.”

He took a deep breath. “I can't make any promises until
we find out who murdered Lars, but once that's settled I plan to stick around. I'm not going to Florida.”

He cares about me.

Suddenly, the future seemed steeped in possibilities. She couldn't wait to get to the ranch to discuss this turn of events with her sisters. They'd tell her if she was crazy to bet her heart in such a risky gamble.

 

W
HEN HE TURNED OFF
the muddy access road that linked to the highway, Harley made a decision. He would ask people to call him Jonathan. This interlude in the mountains had shown him one thing—he could run, but he couldn't hide.

He was Jonathan Jackson Newhall. He had a life. And while he didn't remember every aspect of it, he knew the only way to find relief from his recurring headaches was to make peace with his past.

He couldn't simply ignore the real world. His bail bond was real. The murder charges were real. His feelings for Andi were real, too.

He just wasn't sure what to do about them. He'd told her he wasn't leaving. But that had been Harley speaking. A man like JJ Newhall who'd been on the go that much couldn't possibly have felt bound to any one place. The new Jonathan preferred the sense of connection he'd felt as Harley; he wanted to put down roots. But could he make that happen?

When she'd visited him at the jail, Dr. Franklin told him he might never completely recover the “factual” memory of his life prior to the accident.

“In my opinion,” she'd told him, “you'll never be exactly the same person you used to be.”

She'd offered the assessment apologetically. And for a moment, he'd felt a shaft of fear. But now he was ready to accept the doctor's prognosis. He was a hybrid—Harley and
Jonathan—but since the record of his life on the planet was under the name Jonathan Newhall, that's the name he would use.

“The vet's office is just ahead on the right side of the road,” Andi yelled over the engine noise.

He nodded and put on the blinker.

“I wonder how much this is going to cost.”

He detected a certain apprehension in her voice. “I'll pay for it. He's my uncle's dog.”

It felt odd to say the words, but good.

“Are you sure?”

He recalled an earlier conversation with the man his father had said was Jonathan's accountant. The voice had meant nothing to him, but the cheerful fellow had offered a glowing report about Jonathan's financial situation. “Yes. I'll pay the bill. But what are we going to do with him once he's released? They don't allow pets at the motel. Can he stay with you?”

“I suppose so. But he won't like town life. He's used to chasing his dinner and baying at the moon. My neighbors—and their cats—won't care for that.”

Jonathan had to wait for oncoming traffic to pass before he could turn.

“Maybe Sam would keep him,” Andi suggested.

Jonathan couldn't picture the hound on the Rocking M. A mob of small, all-business Queensland heelers ruled that roost. Sarge wouldn't fit in there either.

The small, spotlessly clean clinic had a rural-neighborhood look about it. Jonathan carried Sarge to an examination room where a friendly, young assistant took over. While Andi filled out the necessary papers in the ante-room of the clinic, Jonathan thought about the man who was his uncle.

After Jonathan's accident, Lars had nursed him through
blinding headaches and bouts of nausea with amazing patience. In the evenings—after a couple of joints and a few slugs of whiskey—Lars would rant in detail about the government's secret experiments on GIs. But beneath the paranoia and free-floating anxiety was a lonely human being.

Andi took a seat beside him on the vinyl-upholstered bench. There were no other people waiting, and the clerk at the desk was working at her computer.

“Did Lars ever mention his sister?”

Andi's question seemed to come out of the blue, but it paralleled his line of thought. “Are you a mind reader?” Jonathan asked. “I was just thinking about him.”

“You had a forlorn look on your face—like Sarge.”