Without a Past (6 page)

“Here you go,” she said a minute later, presenting the mixture to her guest. “I added a shot of protein mix. You still look a little shaky. I've heard migraines can be very debilitating.”

He took the glass with a smile of gratitude. “Thanks.” He put the tip of the straw in his mouth and ripped open the paper wrapping. “But what happened to me wasn't a true migraine.”

Andi leaned against the column supporting the roof of the porch and looked at him. “Really? It gave a good imitation of one.”

Puffing lightly, Harley blew the paper off the straw, catching it in his free hand. “My doctor said the headaches are a result of the increased blood to the brain. They're usually triggered by a resurgence of memory.”

“Seriously? Did our conversation about my family make you recall something from your past?” She tried to keep her tone as flat and disinterested sounding as possible, but the idea of his regaining his memory intrigued her.

She didn't want him to think she had some vested interest in having him reconnect with his past.
Although it would be nice to know whether he had a wife and six kids somewhere in the world.

“I don't know,” he answered. “The pain was blinding. None of the images in my head made sense or stayed with me. It's like waking from a nightmare. There are lingering
impressions, but nothing feels real or solid. Do you know what I mean?”

Andi wondered if he was working to keep his tone flat, too. How could anyone be so indifferent about something so vital?

Just then, a Ford Taurus pulled into the parking lot and stopped in a spot beside the newly designated handicap parking space. “Uh-oh,” Andi said under her breath.

Harley rocked forward and sat up to see over the railing. “Who is it?”

“Two older ladies from Coulterville. Sisters. They make the rounds from antique store to antique store every Sunday. They're like a tag team with the World Wrestling Federation. Just watch. They never agree on anything,” she said in a low voice to keep her words from reaching her customers. “I live in fear that this might be Kristin and me in a few years.”

The two women—probably both in their seventies—climbed the steps. “When are you going to get a ramp, Andrea?” the matron with salt-and-pepper hair asked. “We're not getting any younger, you know.”

“Speak for yourself, Joan,” her white-blond partner snapped. “A little exercise never hurt.”

“Sorry, ladies,” Andi said. “It's on my to-do list.”

Andi made eye contact with Harley as the women—in their haste to be the first one inside—barely gave him a second glance. His lips puckered around the straw, but Andi had no trouble reading the humor in his eyes. Her throat closed, and she suddenly felt a little too warm.

“I think I'll see if I can break my record and actually sell them something today.” She nodded briefly then hurried inside.

Think K.I.S.S.,
she told herself. Not
kiss.

 

“W
HY DON'T YOU TAKE
a saucer home and see if it matches your set? Consider it a loaner.”

Harley could hear every word through the open window behind his rocker. Andi's tone was still patient. Even after forty minutes of hand-holding and answering questions, Andi appeared no closer to a sale. The two old ladies, whom Harley had nicknamed the Bicker Sisters, could not make up their minds. Or, rather, their tastes were so disparate it would take an act of Congress to get them to agree on anything.

“But what if it doesn't match, Muriel? Then we have to drive all the way back to Gold Creek to return it,” Joan Bicker said.

“We're here nearly every week, anyway. What does that matter?” Muriel Bicker answered. “I say we box up Mama's china and use something new for a change.”

Blasphemy, Muriel.

“Don't be ridiculous,” her sister snapped. “Only a fool would waste money on new china when Mama's Fosteria is as good as new.”

“Except there's no sugar bowl or creamer and all the saucers are chipped,” Muriel countered.

So there, Joan.

Andi suddenly appeared at his side. “Was I right?”

“On the nose. How do you stand it?”

She shrugged. “Actually, I've learned a lot from them. Joan and Muriel both know their antiques, and if I run across something that doesn't have a price tag and I can't find it in any of Ida's catalogs, I can ask them what it's worth.”

“How can you trust them not to tell you a lower figure so they can buy it more cheaply?”

She brushed her fingers across the top of his arm and laughed lightly, “They don't come to buy. They come here
to argue, and one-up each other. My sisters and I used to be the same way. I guess it's called sibling rivalry.”

“Andi,” Joan said, appearing suddenly in the doorway with a plate in each hand. “Muriel insists we take this one home.” She waved the plate in her right hand. “But I'm positive Mama's pattern has more blue in it, so I'd like to take this one.” The left one made a circle. “If you don't mind.”

Andi smiled broadly. “No problem, ladies. Let me wrap those up for you.”

Harley was still chuckling as he finished the last of his smoothie. Somehow Andi had guessed that he was in need of sustenance after his headache. The cool, frothy fruit drink had helped on several levels, but so had Andi's concern. He realized now how much he missed a woman's comforting touch.

Harley liked working at the Rocking M, but he had to admit his connection to his fellow employees was superficial at best. Understandable since he couldn't add anything when the guys started talking about their families, their ex-wives or girlfriends. And he couldn't contribute to the general conversation. Since many of the cowboys were itinerant rodeo hounds, three-quarters of the discussions centered around which bull bucked the hardest or twisted to the left when it started right.

With no memories of interesting exploits, no broken bones to compare or ex-wife to bitch about, Harley could only listen. While the men were aware of his amnesia, Harley had the impression they thought he was holding out on them. Listening but never sharing.

And, although it made no sense, Harley had to admit he felt more comfortable in Sam's company than with Petey and the other cowboys. He didn't understand why.

Sam was older than Harley. He was a businessman—a
successful rancher with responsibilities, a fiancée and two children. Harley had eighty-three dollars in his pocket, and barely enough clothes to fill a grocery bag. He was the only employee in the bunkhouse without his own vehicle. In fact, Harley was no more than a paycheck away from being homeless.

Which was another reason to stay away from Andi Sullivan. He had absolutely nothing to offer a woman, so why pretend otherwise? He'd leave as soon as he put in adequate “rocker” time to repay her for the fruit drink. He set his plastic cup on the porch and opened the newspaper.

The first thing to catch his eye was a full-page advertisement for an upcoming seminar on investment strategies for Gold Creek property owners. The ad itself didn't surprise him, but the fact that its tone and description matched the rhetoric in a
news
story on the front page did. The article, which lacked a byline, he noticed, criticized certain businesses, such as the Old Bordello Antique Shop, for failing to update their buildings with adequate handicapped access and a neater, more modern appearance.

Something in the piece made Harley uneasy. He couldn't claim to be a critical judge of writing, but the author's coverage seemed one-sided. Harley thumbed through the pages to the gossip column, “Glory's World” by Gloria Hughes, that Ida Jane had quoted that morning.

He read:

The implication was obvious. Gloria didn't expect Andi to stick around. Why? he wondered. Surely a great many people who left home to join the military eventually returned. Didn't they?

A small flicker of pain behind his left eye made him put the newspaper aside. This inability to make informed judgments really bothered him. While the average person could read an article and decide on the spot whether or not the opinions stated made sense, Harley had very little practical life experience upon which to draw. No family history. No faith. What sounded reasonable and rational could, in fact, be balderdash and hogwash. How would he know?

The sound of footsteps made him rock forward. He rose to his feet just as the Bicker Sisters walked through the doorway. They froze momentarily as if shocked to see him.

He tipped an imaginary hat, as he'd seen the older cowboys do. He liked the politeness of the gesture.

The ladies looked at him then glanced over their shoulders at Andi. The look they exchanged seemed to say they finally agreed on something. “Good afternoon, Andrea,” the lady on the left said. “Don't work too hard.”

Her girlish snicker earned her a frown from her sister. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Muriel, give the girl a break.”

When Harley looked at Andi, she was shaking her head, a wry smile on her lips. He'd been amazed by the patience and genuine interest with which she'd helped the women. He also realized that he liked her. A lot. And that it wasn't fair to her—or to him—to continue their friendship unless he made every attempt to put them on a level playing field.

He motioned her closer. “Can we talk a minute?”

“Sure. There doesn't appear to be a line of customers, although maybe my ghost will show up.”

He'd heard about her failed ploy to attract customers by circulating a rumor that the old bordello was haunted. According to Sam, the “Haunted Bordello” campaign drew some initial response, but interest waned when no ghost appeared.

“Well, poltergeists notwithstanding, pull up a chair. I want to run something by you.”

Andi wasn't sure she was ready for a heart-to-heart talk with Harley Forester. She didn't even know for sure how he'd come by that surname. The
Harley
was obvious. She'd seen him wearing his scuffed Harley-Davidson jacket once or twice in January. But his choice of last name was a mystery.

“Before you say anything, can I ask you a question?”

He sat back down in the rocking chair. “Okay.”

“Why Forester? Why not Smith? Or O'Leery? Or Rumpelstiltskin?”

His smile let her off the hook.

“You know Hank Willits, right? Sam's foreman?”

“Of course. I don't know him well, but his wife has been a lifesaver to Jenny. Greta's fantastic with the twins, and Ida Jane adores her.”

He nodded. “Hank's a great guy, too, and he's been extremely kind to me. He took me to the motor vehicle department to see about getting a driver's license not long after Lars dropped me off at the ranch. DMV couldn't do anything for me until I produced a birth certificate—or my old driver's license. And in order to apply for a new birth certificate, I needed a name. So, he gave me his mother's maiden name. Forester.”

“That was nice of him. It's a good name.”

Harley nodded. “Hank's mother passed away a few
months before Sam's brother, I think. I got the impression Hank was too busy helping at the ranch to get to her in time to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Andi said. Guilt could be a very compelling force.

“Hank said this would be a way of honoring her memory. Apparently, she was a generous person,” he added. “The kind of woman who was always giving things away. Never turned down someone in need.”

“Ida's mother was the same way. Ida used to tell us stories of the Great Depression when men were out of work and they'd come to the ranch looking for food. She said no one went away hungry from her mother's door.” The thought made her feel a bit cheap for contemplating charging the Garden Club ladies that morning. “If you'd have mentioned it, I'm sure Ida would have let you use the Montgomery name. She always wanted a son.”

He cleared his throat, then linked his hands in front of him and took a deep breath. “What I wanted to say was I'd like to hire you.”

A skitter of excitement raced down her spine. Although Andi was pretty certain she knew what he meant, her impulse was to deflect the serious topic with humor. Was she ready to help him track down his past? “I beg your pardon, sir, but just because the sign says bordello doesn't mean I can be bought,” she said in a pretty awful southern accent.

He looked confused—and she wanted to kick herself. She'd kidded her way out of any number of awkward situations in the military, and her flippancy had become a habit. “Sorry,” Andi said, “I was joking.”

He nodded. “Most people would have caught that right away. It takes me a little longer. And, frankly, I'm tired of being the last person to get the punch line. I want to do whatever it takes to get my memory back. Starting with
recovering my motorcycle.” He made a gesture of hopelessness. “If there
is
a motorcycle.”

Andi held her breath, acknowledging the two opposing reactions vying within her. The hint of action made her want to pump her arm in triumph. Sitting around waiting for the termites to take over the old bordello was not her idea of fun. But a heavy sense of responsibility shadowed her initial joy.

Climbing up and down the steep gullies and sheer-walled canyons along the road leading to the Blue Lupine mine wasn't exactly a walk in the park. It could very well turn out to be a time-consuming exercise in frustration.

Think with your head, not your quickly diminishing muscles,
she cautioned.