Reclaiming His Past. Karen Kirst

my home.”

      “No, I mean what part of the country?”

      “Tennessee. The eastern section. Gatlinburg, to be exact. About a day and a half’s ride from Knoxville.”

      A worried crease pulled his eyebrows together. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

      An air of uncertainty shrouded him. Was there a legitimate reason her earlier questions had gone unanswered?

      “Have you hit your head?”

      He sank his fingers into the short blond locks. He grimaced as he tentatively probed a place behind his ear. “Something did. There’s a knot here.”

      “Can you tell me your name?”

      “Of course. It’s...” Uncertainty flashed in his blue, blue eyes. “It’s, ah...” He blanched. “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything.”

      Jessica studied him. Either he was a seasoned con man, or the blow had scattered his memories.

      * * *

      Hands fisting in the mattress ticking, he fought the panic rippling through him.

      His head felt as if it had been crushed beneath a loaded wagon wheel. The flesh where he’d been gutted like a fish burned hot, and the redhead’s shifting weight as she stemmed the blood flow only served to inflame it further. The ache in his busted ankle was bearable by comparison.

      Shoving all that aside, he tried to sort out the facts of his life. He’d woken facedown in the woods not far from this cabin, with no idea how he’d gotten there. A blank, black void prevented him from remembering. Faces scrolled through his mind, vaguely familiar and yet not. One clear memory replayed itself—a young boy calling to him, beckoning him to come and climb a tree.

      “What’s the last thing you remember?”

      The ginger candy dissolved on his tongue. His stomach had calmed as she’d said it would.

      “Waking up on your property.” Hurt. Disoriented. “Before that, I recall patches of information. People whose identities and how they relate to me I can’t grasp.”

      Disbelief shimmered in eyes the color of forest moss. She had expressive eyes, almond-shaped and rimmed with cinnamon-hued lashes and topped with bold, slashing eyebrows. High cheekbones were offset by a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her expressive mouth twisted in open irritation.

      “I don’t blame you for not trusting me,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe me, either.”

      Her gaze dropped to his wound for a second before skittering to the window draped with lacy white curtains. Beyond the glass, the cloudless sky was a brilliant blue. He realized he didn’t even know what month it was. Or the year.

      The panic pounced, constricting his lungs until he thought he’d suffocate.

      Focus on the here and now. Maintain control.

      “Your name is Jessica, right?”

      Seated close, her chocolate-hued skirts spread over the ticking, she had to lean across him to reach his injury. Her long hair, restrained by a shiny brown ribbon, spilled over her ivory blouse like deep red silk. “Is it just you and your ma living here?”

      “Why do you ask?” She visibly bristled.

      “No reason.” He gestured to indicate the space decorated in bold hues of red, white and blue. The handmade quilt folded over the footboard had repeating diamond shapes, and a flag design dominated the hooked rug beside the bed. Maps of various sizes had been pinned to the wall. A stack of books joined a dusty jewelry box atop the dresser. “I hope I haven’t taken over your room.”

      “This used to be my sister’s. She’s married now.”

      Her reticence wasn’t surprising. Why wouldn’t she be concerned for her safety? She couldn’t know his intentions, whether or not he meant her harm.

      Unease niggled at the base of his skull. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

      “Yes.”

      “Suppose that means I’m not a local, seeing as you don’t recognize me.”

      “Your accent isn’t Southern.”

      “It’s not exactly Northern, either. I could’ve moved here at some point.”

      “Perhaps.” She shifted again, her hand digging into his flank. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Look, I’m not going to hand you an opportunity to take advantage of us, so you might as well cease with the questions. As soon as Doc gets here, he’s going to stitch you up and take you away. I’m certain the sheriff will be interested in discussing your situation.”

      His unease grew. What sort of man was he? The law-abiding, church-going sort? Or someone who lived according to his own code of ethics? Not knowing was tougher to handle than any physical discomfort.

      “Meeting with the sheriff is a good idea,” he said, exploring the knot beneath his hair again. “I apologize for making you uncomfortable. And for invading your home like this.”

      She said nothing, contemplating him with that cool, assessing gaze. “Pretty words. You play a convincing victim. I’m reserving judgment until we see whether or not your likeness matches one of the town’s wanted posters.”

      Victim? That label didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t about to argue with her, though.

      “You’re right to be wary of me.” Weariness that went far beyond his physical condition settled over him like the blackest night. He lifted his hand so that it hovered above his leaking wound. “I’ll take over now.”

      His unenthusiastic hostess removed herself from the bed and backed toward the door, leaving the faint scent of roses in her wake. A rose with thorns, he thought, soaking in her innocent, vibrant beauty that seemed to be at odds with the prickly, glaring distrust in her eyes.

      “You must be thirsty. I’ll bring water.”

      “Could I trouble you for a mirror first?”

      Inclining her head, she disappeared into the room across the way again, returning with a carved handheld mirror.

      “Appreciate it.”

      She hovered a moment before quitting the room and giving him the privacy he craved. Heart thundering, he slowly brought the mirror to face level and peered at his reflection. No spark of recognition. No jarred memory. Nothing.

      He was staring at the face of a stranger.

       Chapter Two

      “I’ve completed my examination.”

      Gatlinburg’s only doctor—middle-aged, distinguished and a stranger to frivolity—entered the kitchen after being closeted with their visitor for more than an hour.

      Jessica gave the vegetable soup a final stir, the aroma of potatoes, carrots and pungent greens causing her stomach to rumble.

      “How is he?” Alice poured hot, black coffee into a blue enamel mug and carried it to him.

      Depositing his scuffed medical bag on the table they used as a work space, he accepted her offering and sipped the steaming brew. “He’s a fortunate young man. If the cut had been any deeper, I would’ve had to perform surgery. Now, if we can stave off infection, he should heal without complications.”

      “Poor man.” Alice twisted the plain wedding band on her fourth finger. Jessica’s pa had been gone for many years, but her mother liked the reminder of him. “We heard his suffering clear out here, didn’t we?”

      Jessica clamped her lips together. His pitiful moans still echoed through her mind.

      “He