Whirlwind Cowboy. Debra Cowan

pushed his plate away, his gaze piercing as though he was trying to probe her brain. “How long are you going to carry on with this?”

      “I’m not carrying on. I need to know.” She wanted to smack the disbelieving look off his handsome face. “When did it happen? When did you ask me?”

      “A little over three weeks ago.” His voice hardened and his eyes went flat. “The day before you took off.”

      Her head pounded. She had hoped something about her or him would spark a memory, but nothing had. She couldn’t even remember something as important as a marriage proposal. “Why did I turn you down?”

      A muscle flexed in his jaw as his gaze leveled on hers. Blade-sharp, frigid. “You wanted to take a job as a schoolteacher. I wanted you to stay with me, and you said you’d think about it. Instead, you left the next day.”

      No wonder he had been so angry when he’d found her in the cabin. Her voice cracked. “I don’t remember any of it.”

      “So you say.”

      Why wouldn’t he believe her? “I’m sorry. I

      really don’t.”

      Plainly skeptical, Bram pushed his chair away from the table and rose.

      Surprised at a quick flare of panic that he might leave, she asked tentatively, “Where are you going?”

      “I’ve been up since before dawn and I need some shut-eye. You can do whatever you like as long as it’s quiet.”

      She bit her lip. She was tired to the marrow of her bones, but there was only one bed.

      He saw her glance toward the bedroom and barked out a sharp laugh. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m getting my bedroll. I won’t even darken your door. You made your choice real clear.”

      She swallowed hard. She might not remember him, but she could appreciate what was right in front of her. Stranger or not, jilted beau or not, he affected her. When he looked at her, every nerve tingled and his deep voice sent a tremor to the pit of her stomach.

      She didn’t like it. “What will we do tomorrow?”

      “Depends on the storm. Once it’s over, I’m taking you home.”

      His tone said he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. The idea that she had a place to go, that she belonged somewhere, should’ve reassured her, but it didn’t.

      Though she had learned a few things about her family and Bram, they didn’t really mean anything.

      She had hoped his answers would help her remember, give her some kind of anchor, but they hadn’t. Thanks to that big strapping mountain of a man, she felt even more off balance.

      She was getting to him just as she always had, and it made Bram madder than hell.

      He couldn’t get the image of her face out of his head. Undone, disoriented. She had appeared desperate for information and when he had given it to her, a light had gone out of her. Hope.

      The way her face had crumpled when he told her about her rejection of his marriage proposal had him wondering if she was telling the truth about losing her memory. Dammit, he didn’t want to wonder. He didn’t want to care either, but judging by the rush of anger and protectiveness he’d felt upon spying her bruised jaw and the cut on her temple, he did.

      Bram swept up the latest layer of dust that had filtered in through the sides of the window and deposited it in an old water pail. After shaking out his bedroll, he spread it and sat down with his back against the wall adjacent to the bedroom. He wanted to focus on Cosgrove, but as usual, Deborah’s presence had run everything else out of his mind.

      Frustrated, he dragged a hand across his nape. The sooner he got shed of Deborah Blue, the sooner he could continue his search for the murdering rustler who had nearly ruined his family.

      It had been almost an hour since she had gone into the bedroom and shut the door. Her look of bafflement had seemed earnest. So had the lack of recognition when she saw him. She had seemed genuinely lost. But he’d trusted those eyes for months, believing she told the truth about her feelings being as strong as his, and look how that had turned out. She claimed not to remember anything. Bram remembered just fine.

      He fingered his scar. The wound was still somewhat tender, just like his reaction to her queries about the two of them.

      There was no them. She’d made sure of that.

      He stared at the bedroom door.

      Her questions reminded him of what they’d had, how she’d lit out just like his ma. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, but he did.

      Bram couldn’t abide more of her professed memory loss. He wanted her to take responsibility for what she’d done. There had to be some way to get her to admit she was lying about losing her memory. Or at least some way to get her to point him in Cosgrove’s direction.

      She had the cretin’s horse. Maybe she had something else of his.

      Bram’s gaze went to the saddlebags in the corner. He’d brought his in from the barn along with two that were probably Cosgrove’s. Bram rose, picked up the lamp and walked over, going to one knee beside them.

      Inside the first pouch was a comb, shaving cup and soap, a straight-edge and hair pomade. His lip curled. Pomade. He reached for the other leather bag, which was considerably heavier.

      He flipped up the flap and opened the pouch wide. His pulse thudded hard.

      Sweet mercy. He’d been looking for something to tie Deborah to Cosgrove and here it was. His heart sank.

      Inside the saddlebag was money. A lot of money. Some loose bills, some in a flour sack. Unless Cosgrove had spent some, it was the forty thousand dollars he’d taken from the Monaco Bank.

      In the next instant Bram was overwhelmed by a numbing fury. He surged to his feet, grabbed the saddlebag and stalked to the bedroom.

      He threw the door open, lamplight flickering.

      Standing in the middle of the room, Deborah jumped, one hand at her throat. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

      “You keep sayin’ you don’t know Cosgrove, but this right here proves you do.” Speaking to be heard above the storm, he tossed the saddlebag toward her. It landed heavily at her feet.

      She eyed it the way she would a snake. “What is that?”

      “Money. Stolen money.”

      Shaking her head, she glanced down, then back at him. Questions were plain on her pretty face.

      “You said you were leaving me for a teaching job,” Bram snapped, taking a step toward her. “Looks like your real job was being an accomplice to a bank robbery.”

      Chapter Three

      Twin spots of color stained her cheeks. “Accomplice to a robbery? I wouldn’t do that.”

      “How do you know?” he asked archly.

      She bit her lip, stooping to look inside the saddlebags. Those innocent blue eyes widened.

      Folding his arms, Bram took in the flush on her face, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the wild trip of her pulse in her neck. He was uncomfortably reminded of how long it had taken him to get the image of her in that chemise out of his mind.

      “This is the work of your beau.”

      She closed the pouch and stood. “How do you know? And how do you know the money is stolen?”

      “Because my cousin Georgia and my uncle Ike were in Monaco’s bank when the robbery happened. They both saw Cosgrove’s face. Because of that, he shot them.”

      “Oh, no!” In the