Without a Past (8 page)

He tilted his head, waiting for her to finish her thought. The sun accentuated his golden-tinged waves, and Andi pushed her sunglasses tighter to her nose. It wasn't fair that he was so darned handsome, and she was so attracted to him. The timing couldn't have been worse—even without the matter of his missing past.

“It's not going to get any easier, is it? I know this must be hard for you, but will putting it off help?”

His shoulders stiffened. “I didn't say I was canceling the search for good. I just don't want to contract another case of poison oak. It itched like hell.”

His peevish tone made her smile. “Well, it won't kill you. At worst, it goes systemic and you swell up like the Elephant Man, but I've only seen that happen once.”

The look of horror on his face made her regret her teasing. She brushed the backs of her fingers across his arm. “I'm kidding. You're safe up here on the road. It will only become an issue if we spot something down in one of these ravines. But I don't expect you to do any climbing, and I've developed an immunity.”

Andi had hiked this area many times in high school as a member of the sheriff's volunteer Search and Rescue team. By the look of it, the rugged terrain hadn't improved over the past ten years. Two of her recoveries had included searching for cars that had gone off the road. Cars were
difficult enough to spot, given the density of foliage. The chance of seeing a motorcycle—which could be in fragments by the time it hit the bottom of some ravine—wasn't promising.

“What do you say we try for the next ridge?” she asked, nodding toward a plateau about half a mile away.

He looked undecided.

She reached out and took his hand, holding it upright between them. “This area is like a W,” she said, forming the letter using his first three fingers.

“We're here,” she said, poking the base between his index and middle finger. When had his hands gotten so strong and work-worn? She'd always been attracted to men with powerful-looking hands, but the nicks and scars, blood blisters and calluses on this hand seemed almost a sacrilege. Didn't Sam provide gloves for his crew, she thought, momentarily distracted.

She swallowed loudly. “We'll stop here,” she said, drawing her finger up the soft inside flesh to the tip then bending it at the knuckle to make the distance half as long. When she looked into his eyes, the tiny bit of saliva remaining in her throat and mouth disappeared.

“What if this is just a big waste of time?” he asked. His cream-colored hat shaded his face. The front rim was creased in an awkward fold not found in more expensive hats.

Andi found the wrinkle oddly endearing. She'd learned a long time ago that clothes did not make the man. Neither did expensive cars or substantial bank accounts. It was heart and head, grit and soul that determined worth. So far, she liked Harley's heart, grit and soul. It was the missing stuff inside his head that worried her.

“It's my time,” she said, letting go of his hand. “And believe it or not, this is like playing hooky for me. In fact,
it's exactly what I did when I was a kid and skipped school.”

“You went looking for lost motorcycles?”

She started to lead the way up the hill. Normally, Andi didn't like to talk about herself. There really wasn't much of interest to tell, she figured. But Harley was a good listener.

“Actually, I'd pretend I was an explorer. Like Kit Carson or Jedediah Smith. I'd take off with a topo map—which was cheating, of course—a compass and my lunch.”

“Wouldn't your teachers report you as missing?”

“Jenny's handwriting is
just
like Ida Jane's. You have no idea how handy that was,” she added with a wink.

Before she could turn back, he reached out and took her arm, making her stop. “Why are you doing this? And don't say for exercise. Your sister told me you jog ten miles a day.”

Andi moved sideways slightly so he was forced to let go. Habit, she figured. She'd never liked men crowding her space. “Run,” she corrected. “Jogging is for sissies. I'm a marine. I run.”

His grin lit up his face. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Easy mistake. But my sister is wrong. I haven't run for days. Partly because I stubbed my toe on the leg of an oak nesting table, and partly because I've been busy meeting with contractors. So this is the first decent exercise I've had in a week.”

He didn't look entirely satisfied with her explanation, but she turned away and resumed walking.

“You still haven't answered my question,” he said close behind her. “Why are you doing this? There are other forms of exercise that don't waste a whole day. You hardly know me, so it's not like you're helping an old friend or a long-lost relative.”

“We could be related,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Cousins, maybe. What if your mother was my grandfather, Bill's, sister? Ida said she never knew anything about Bill's family. He came from back East. You might have been sent by the family to find us.”

When she looked at him, he shook his head slowly, as if to deny the thought. Before she could say anything else, the sound of a car engine—roaring as it climbed the steep grade—filled the air.

“Traffic,” she said, drawing Harley closer to the edge of the road. She braced for a dust cloud but luck—and the breeze—was with them.

A Subaru Outback with a thick layer of grime obscuring its forest-green color pulled alongside them and stopped. The passenger window slid down. “Hey, there, need a ride?” the driver called.

Andi ducked down and looked inside. “Hi, Mr. Campbell. Jonas.”

Ron Campbell was the high-school music teacher. On Sundays, he acted as music director at the Methodist church. His other children were married and living in the valley. Jonas, who was Andi's age, was mentally disabled and still lived at home.

“Well, Andi Sullivan, bless my soul, we haven't seen you in ages, have we, Jonas? You remember Andi, don't you? She's the girl who rescued Pooh Bear Kitty from the tree after that big windstorm.”

Andi glanced at Harley, who gave a questioning look. Dropping her backpack in the dust, she squatted beside the door. “How'ya doin', Jonas? Still making wooden toys? I'd be interested in selling some at the Old Bordello if you ever have any extra.”

“Okay,” Jonas said with a wide smile. His round face
and slightly slanted eyes were unlined, innocent. “Okay, Dad?”

Ron made a broad gesture. “We've been donating them to Valley Children's Hospital, but it couldn't hurt to sell a few. Maybe we'd make enough money to buy more material.” He leaned around his son to get a better look at Harley. “Say, aren't you the fella from the Rocking M? The one Lars Gunderson rescued.”

Harley reached inside the car to shake hands with both men. “That's me. Harley Forester,” he said, introducing himself.

Andi blushed at her social gaffe.

“What kind of wood do you use, Jonas?” Harley asked. “We have a bunch of leftover pieces at the ranch. Mostly cedar, but there's some pretty redwood and a little bit of hickory, too.”

Andi felt an odd flutter in her chest.
Kind and generous. Two primary requirements on my Daddy List.
The thought distracted her until she heard the roar of male laughter. “What'd I miss?” she asked.

Harley accidentally brushed against her shoulder when he lowered himself to one knee beside her. “Mr. Campbell said you and your sisters used to play in the band. Somehow I can't picture you with a tuba.”

The merriment in his tone made her skin tingle.
A sense of humor had been on the list, too.
“We drew straws. I lost.”

“She was a valiant tuba player, I'll give her that,” Ron said. “Never missed a practice unless she was out helping with Search and Rescue. When Andi Sullivan says she's going to do something, she does it,” he stated emphatically.

Andi felt herself blush again. She stood up and dusted off her knees. “Well, nice talkin' to you, Mr. C. Tell Mrs. C. I said hello.”

After a little more chitchat, the station wagon pulled away. Andi and Harley huddled, backs to the dust until it was safe to turn around.

“Mrs. Campbell had a stroke a couple of years ago. She doesn't go out a lot anymore,” Andi said, suddenly feeling an odd tug on her heartstrings. “She used to make the most heavenly fudge. Whenever the band traveled, she'd send each band member little individual packages.”

He studied her as if trying to read her mind. “It's hard watching someone you care about suffer,” he said.

Andi pushed away the image of Ida Jane looking confused and fretful this morning over whether today was Monday.

“Hank told me his mother suffered a severe stroke when she was fifty-five and needed full care for nearly eighteen years,” Harley said. “He and his brother ended up having to sell the family farm to pay the bills.” He frowned. “You're worried about Ida Jane, aren't you?”

Andi didn't try to deny it. “She was the best mother any kid could have hoped for. People thought she was crazy taking on three tiny babies at her age, but Ida told me she never thought twice about it. Our mother was like a daughter to her. Our grandparents were dead. There was no one else.”

“What about your father's family?”

“He emigrated from Ireland as a teenager. His parents are gone now, but he has four brothers and two sisters still living there. We met them—and a swarm of Irish cousins—when we were fifteen. Ida Jane took us to visit. Jenny and I had fun but couldn't wait to get home. Kristin begged Ida to let her stay.”

“Really? How come?”

“I don't know. Kris is different. She moved there right out of high school. Worked as a caregiver for a year or so
then returned to the United States to share a place with two of our cousins.

“But I know why Jenny and I were so anxious to get home.”

“Why?”

Andi hesitated. It was one thing to admit this to yourself, quite another to share it out loud. “In Gold Creek, we were the Sullivan
triplets,
” she stressed the word. “In Ireland, we were just three more Sullivan kids. Believe me, it was a rude awakening to find out you're not as special as you thought you were.”

He closed the gap between them, automatically taking the outside position like a gentleman of old. His bare arm brushed against hers. The innocent contact produced a not-so-innocent response in her body. “You
are
special, Andi,” he said with a rueful smile. “I knew that the first time I met you. Even without a wide frame of reference.”

Andi was very tempted to test the boundaries of this attraction, but a relationship wasn't part of her plan. “Thanks. I'll remember that.” She hadn't meant to sound so snide, but she could tell by the way he dropped back, she'd cut him down.

Amazingly he caught up with her a few steps later and asked, “Is Ida's memory getting worse?”

“We're not sure what the problem is,” Andi admitted. “A few years ago she was diagnosed with high blood pressure. We thought she was managing it with medication, but when she fell and broke her hip, the doctors discovered an imbalance in her electrolytes. They blamed the diuretic she was taking.

“Now she's on some other medications, but Ida got it into her head that the pills were to blame for her problems, so sometimes she simply doesn't take them.”

“That can't be good.”

“Even worse, she'll feel guilty later then take a double dose. One doctor said this could cause a stroke.” Andi couldn't stand the thought. “That's one of the reasons she's been staying at the ranch. So Jenny could dispense her meds.

“We also need to keep an eye on her
toddy
consumption. Ida's always been fond of a mixed drink or two in the late afternoon. But the doctor has limited her to one glass of wine a day.”

“What does she think of that?”

Andi made a face. “She's not happy about it, but at least with Jenny she's cooperative. I don't know what will happen now that she's back at the bordello. Ida gets very defensive when I try to help her. We used to be close, but now she treats me like Nurse Ratched in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
”

She remembered too late that he probably wouldn't know what she was talking about. But he ignored the movie reference, saying instead, “You really have your hands full, don't you?”

The sympathy in his tone left her slightly undone. Picking up the pace, she marched toward a turnout where a fallen bull pine rested at a sixty-degree angle.

“That looks like a good place to stop.”

She needed water, a snack, something to shake her out of this funk. A ten-mile run was a piece of cake compared to this slow-paced soul-searching that seemed guaranteed to stir up memories. And since he didn't have any, she thought grimly, the entire exercise was one-sided.

 

T
HIS TIME
when she took off, Harley made up his mind to keep up—even if it killed him. He didn't think of himself as particularly macho, but Andi was definitely in better shape than he was, and it irked him.

When they reached the fallen tree—carved with layers of initials and funny-shaped hearts, he could barely breathe. Tiny silver dots zipped across his vision. He groped for a worn limb to keep his balance.

“Dang,” he wheezed. “Tell me it's the altitude. Even if you have to lie.”

Andi dropped her backpack on to the flattened weeds at the base of the pine then hunched over, hands on her knees. Harley was gratified to see her shoulders heave. Sweat had darkened a spot on her T-shirt between her shoulder blades. After a minute, she dropped to a squat and opened the bag to retrieve a water bottle. “It is.”

She offered it to him first.

“Not yet.”

Her nod seemed to hold respect, as well as understanding. Harley's chest would have swelled with pride if he could have managed a deep breath.