The Quiet Seduction. Dixie Browning

injury. Don’t you remember?”

      “Lady, I don’t remember shi—anything.” Evidently he did remember how to talk to a lady.

      “We’ll have to call you something. What comes to mind?”

      “Bathroom. And no, I don’t want to be called John, but if you’ll point me in the right direction, I’d be much obliged.”

      Seeing the smile that trembled on her lips, he’d have given anything to have met her under better circumstances.

      She indicated a door across the hall and mentally he measured the distance. If he could grab a chair he could probably use it to lurch across the room.

      “You really need to keep your left leg elevated as much as possible,” she told him.

      “I can handle it.” He could handle the pain better than he could handle asking her to help with his more intimate needs.

      “There was a crutch—I think I put it in the attic. If you’ll wait right here a minute, I’ll run see.”

      “Take your time,” he said through a clenched jaw.

      Evidently she recognized his most pressing problem at the moment. She was gone and back before he could decide whether to risk falling on his face or an even worse indignity.

      “Here, I don’t know if it’s the right height. It was in the attic when we moved in. Thank goodness I never got around to clearing things out.”

      She eased into position under his arm to help him up, and even in his battered condition, he recognized the smell of a woman fresh from her bath. At any other time he had a feeling he’d have responded to it.

      She handed him the crutch and helped him position it before he embarrassed himself. It was short, but at least it allowed him some mobility. He thanked her and hobbled off to tend to nature’s call. And incidentally, to look in the mirror to see who the hell he was.

      The face that stared back at him moments later would have looked right at home on any Wanted poster. A jaw that redefined the word stubborn. A largish nose that canted slightly to the southwest. High forehead, distorted at the moment by the large, discolored lump above his left temple. Nothing rang any bells, including the stubble, the mud-stiffened brown hair and the suspicious dark eyes. After staring for long moments at the mirror image, he felt like crying. Howling like a lovesick coyote.

      If he’d ever before come face-to-face with the man in the mirror, he didn’t remember it.

      He managed to wash up, even doused his head in the basin a few times to remove some of the mud. The rest he left behind on one of her pretty pink towels.

      She was still there when he made it back to the room. Ms. Wagner. Mrs. Wagner. She had a son.

      Think, man! Get it together!

      How the devil could he get it together when his head felt like a filing cabinet that had been bludgeoned with a sledgehammer? The image of a silver-gray metal filing cabinet flickered in and out so fast he didn’t have time to latch on to any details.

      “Are you hungry? We had supper hours ago, but I could heat you some soup. What about chicken noodle?”

      “Coffee. Strong, black and sweet. I don’t usually take sugar, but I need the…” His voice trailed off as it occurred to him that things were starting to come back. Any minute now he’d remember who he was, and where he was supposed to be. According to the boy, he’d been in a hell of a hurry, but then, with a tornado bearing down on them, that was understandable.

      Was anyone looking for him? A family? A wife? Chances were that whatever transportation had brought him this far was no longer available. Picturing the scene when he’d first looked around that ditch, he didn’t recall seeing anything resembling wheels. Not even the kid’s bike.

      “What shall I call you?” She was waiting quietly. Patience was a quality he’d always admired, especially in a woman. Without knowing how he knew, he knew.

      “Uh, might as well call me Storm.”

      She had a way of tilting her head that spoke louder than words. You’re kidding, right?

      “Look, I seem to have temporarily mislaid a few things. Like my long-term memory. Can we just make it easy until I get it back?”

      “I’ll bring you the coffee, but you’d probably better eat something, too. The minute the lines are up I’ll call my doctor.”

      “My cell phone—” He broke off, confused, frustrated—feeling helpless and somehow knowing it was not something he was accustomed to feeling.

      “If you had one, it wasn’t on you when I found you.”

      It was then he noticed for the first time that his shirt was striped cotton, and so were his drawstring pants. They were also too wide and too short.

      “I never wear pajamas,” he said, oddly offended.

      “You do now. No matter how sick you are, you’re not getting into my bed in those muddy rags you were wearing. I threw away your tie—it was hopeless. I washed your shirt and underwear. As for your pants, well, I sponged them, but I doubt if even a dry cleaner will be able to do much with them. I’m sorry. Pete went back and found your other shoe. I did the best I could, but I’m afraid they’ll never be the same. Cordovan leather doesn’t take kindly to being scrubbed inside and out, even with saddle soap.”

      He took a moment to absorb the implications. There were several. There might be something in one of his pockets that would give him a clue as to his identity—even a monogram would help. Half joking, he said, “I don’t suppose you found a name, address and serial number among my effects, did you?”

      “Serial number?”

      Serial number? “I mean phone number. Hell, I don’t know, I’m just reaching here. Help me out, will you?”

      “Sorry. You were wearing a nice wristwatch, but I’m afraid it didn’t survive. The crystal was broken and it was full of muddy water. You might be right about your name, though. There was a handkerchief in your hip pocket that had what looked like an H with an S in the middle—sort of a design, you know? Storm…hits? Storm Help? Harry Storm?”

      “Nice try. Don’t worry, it’ll come. And tell your husband thanks for the use of his pajamas.”

      “I’m a widow,” she said quietly. “I kept Jake’s things after he died because…well, just because, I guess.” Leaning her hips against the dresser, arms crossed over her breasts, she shrugged. “I’d better go heat some soup—I hope canned is okay. I’ll bring the coffee as soon as it’s made.”

      “I see the power’s on.”

      “Ours wasn’t off more than a few hours, but just up the road—you can see some of it from here—things are pretty torn up. A few miles south of here, two farms and a trailer park were completely wiped out. I’m not sure about the rest, I haven’t had time to watch much news.”

      “Casualties?”

      “None reported so far.”

      “Do you have a radio I can borrow?”

      “I can bring one in, but right now you probably need sleep more than you need news. If you can make it as far as the living room in the morning, you can eat breakfast while you watch the storm coverage on TV. Maybe something will ring a bell.”

      She left then, and he sat for a moment longer and considered what he knew and what he didn’t.

      What he knew was easy. He was alive. He’d been rescued by a widow with a kid named Pete, although he was usually called Hon. Her husband, Jake, had been shorter and broader. As for the widow herself, she had a surprisingly womanly body under the baggy clothes she’d been wearing when she’d found him in that ditch and the bathrobe she’d worn later.

      Oh, yeah, he knew all that, all right. It was what he didn’t