Wyoming Strong. Diana Palmer

He’d thought she’d finally gotten what she deserved—that she was dead. Now she was back, still alive, still haunting him. He would never know peace for the rest of his life.

      “Wolf,” the blonde woman whispered urgently. She wrapped her hand around his clenched fist. “Wolf!”

      Sara realized, belatedly, that something was going on beside her. She turned her head in time to see an expression of such anguish on the tall man’s hard face that concern replaced her usual resentment.

      His fist was clenched on his chair arm. The blonde woman was trying to calm him. He looked like a drawn cord.

      “Mr. Patterson,” Sara said, her voice very soft so that it didn’t carry. “Are you all right?”

      He looked down at her, coming out of the past with the pain still in his eyes. They narrowed, and he looked at her as if he hated her. “What the hell do you care?” he gritted.

      She bit her lower lip almost through. He looked coiled, ready to strike, dangerous. She forced her attention back to the stage, a deathly pallor in her cheeks. More fool me, for caring, she thought.

      He was trying to cope with memories that were killing him. Sara reminded him too much of things he only wanted to forget. He cursed under his breath in Farsi, got to his feet and walked out of the theater. The blonde woman looked at Sara with a grimace, as if she wanted to explain, to apologize. Then she just smiled sadly and followed him out.

      * * *

      THAT TORMENTED LOOK on Wolf Patterson’s face haunted Sara for the rest of the week. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. He’d stared at her as if he hated her in those few seconds. She began to realize that it wasn’t necessarily her whom he hated. Perhaps it was someone she reminded him of. She smiled sadly to herself. Just her luck, to feel the stirrings of attraction to a man for the first time in her life, and have him turn out to be someone who hated her because she reminded him of another woman. An old flame, perhaps, someone he’d loved and lost.

      Well, it was hopeless to look in that direction anyway, she consoled herself. She’d only really been alone with him once, and look how she’d embarrassed herself when he came too close. She still flushed, remembering how she’d run from him after her flat tire. He wouldn’t understand why she’d reacted that way. And she couldn’t tell him.

      * * *

      SHE CLIMBED INTO her pajamas late that night and pulled up her game on the computer, setting the laptop on a board across her lap as she propped up in bed.

      Her friend was on. Hi, she whispered.

      Hi, he whispered back.

      He was usually more wordy than that. In the middle of something? she queried.

      No. Bad memories, he said after a minute.

      I know all about that, she wrote sadly.

      There was a brief pause. Want to talk about it? he asked.

      She smiled to herself. Talking doesn’t help. How about a battleground?

      He wrote lol on the screen, invited her to a group and queued them for a battleground.

      Why does life have to be so hard? she wrote while they waited.

      I don’t know.

      I can’t get away from the past, she wrote. She couldn’t tell him everything, but she could talk a little. He was the only real friend she had. Lisette was kind and sweet, but she had so little free time just to talk.

      Neither can I, he wrote after a minute. Do you have nightmares? he asked suddenly.

      She grimaced and wrote, All the time.

      Me, too. There was a hesitation. Damaged people, he wrote.

      Yes.

      Holding each other together, he added, with another lol.

      She returned the laugh, and smiled to herself. BRB, she wrote, gamer’s slang for “be right back.” I need coffee.

      Good idea. I’ll make some and email you a cup, he wrote.

      She chuckled to herself. He was good company. She wondered who he was in real life, if he was a man or a woman or even a child. Whatever, it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if they only talked in single syllables.

      He was back before the queue popped. We should get one of those chat programs like Ventriloquist, he commented, so that we can talk instead of type.

      Her heart almost stopped. No.

      Why?

      She bit her lower lip. How could she tell him that it would interfere with the fantasy if she brought real life into it? That she didn’t want to know if he was young or old or female.

      You’re frightened, he wrote.

      She hesitated, her hands over the keyboard. Yes.

      I see.

      No, you don’t, she replied. I have a hard time with people. With most people. I don’t... I don’t like letting people get close to me.

      Join the club.

      So in a game, it’s sort of different, she tried to explain.

      Yes. There was a hesitation. Are you female?

      Yes.

      Young?

      Yes. She paused. Are you male?

      There was no hesitation at all. Definitely.

      She hesitated again. Married?

      No. And never likely to be. Another pause. You?

      No. And never likely to be, she replied, adding a smile.

      Do you work?

      And now, time for the lies. I cut hair, she lied. What do you do?

      There was a hesitation. Dangerous things.

      Her heart skipped. Law enforcement? she typed.

      There was a howl of laughter. How did you get there?

      I don’t know. You seem very honest. You never try to ninja the loot when we do dungeons. You’ll stop to help other players if they get in trouble. You’re forever using in-game skills to make things for lower level players. Stuff like that.

      There was a long hesitation. You’re describing yourself, as well.

      She smiled to herself. Thanks.

      Damaged people, he mused. Holding each other together.

      She nodded. She typed, It feels...sort of nice.

      Doesn’t it?

      There was a new warmth in the screen. Of course, they could both be lying. She didn’t work, she didn’t have to, and he might not be in law enforcement. But it didn’t matter, since they were never likely to meet in person. She wouldn’t dare try. She’d had too many false starts in her young life, trying to escape the past. She would never be able to do it. This was all she could hope for—a relationship online with a man who might not even like her in the real world. But it was strangely almost enough.

      Time to go, he said, as the Join Battle tag came up.

      After you, she typed back. Which was a joke; since they were a group, they entered together.

      * * *

      SHE WAS SITTING in the park, feeding the pigeons. It was a stupid thing to do, the birds were a nuisance. But she had bread left over from a solitary lunch, and the birds were comfortable, cooing around her feet as she scattered crumbs.

      She was wearing a green V-necked pullover sweater with jeans and ankle boots. She looked very young with her long hair in a braid down her back and her face clean of makeup except for the lightest touch of lipstick.

      Wolf Patterson stared at her with more conflicting emotions than he’d ever felt in his