Reclaiming His Past. Karen Kirst

to the kitchen, her attempts to push him out of her thoughts failed spectacularly.

      * * *

      He woke with aching muscles and a head full of cotton.

      Contemplating the yellow-hazed dusk blanketing the mountain view, he took a full minute to remember where he was. The soft click of metal alerted him to the fact he wasn’t alone. Adjusting the pillow beneath his cheek, he studied his self-appointed sentinel in the glow of lantern light, admiring the way her hair shimmered like liquid fire rippling over her shoulder.

      The light smattering of freckles added an air of playfulness to her otherwise elegant features. False advertisement, in his opinion. He’d yet to glimpse any upbeat emotion in her. He wondered how she’d look without the sour attitude, found it tough to imagine her laughing, her eyes brimming with warmth and good humor.

      What had stolen her joy?

      A furrow pulled her fine eyebrows together, and her mouth was again pressed into a frown. Her focus was centered on the half-finished project in her lap. Various-colored yarns filled the basket at her feet.

      “What are you working on?”

      She lifted her molten gaze, her expression frustratingly blank. “A new rug for the rear entrance.”

      “You shoot, bake and create works of art out of yarn and burlap. You’re a woman of many talents.”

      “No more than any other woman in these mountains.”

      “I’ve been out awhile, haven’t I? Did you put something in my tea?”

      Abandoning her task, she folded her hands together in a show of exaggerated patience. One flame-hued brow arched. “Yes. I doctored it so that you’d sleep the remainder of your recovery away. Guess I didn’t put enough in there.”

      Grant laughed, then winced when his stitches pulled and pain radiated toward his hip.

      “You were asleep when I came in to wash your hair,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

      He noticed the quilt had been adjusted, pulled up to chest level and tucked around him. Weak and trembling from his ill-advised journey through the cabin, he hadn’t bothered with it when he’d lain down earlier. She must’ve thought he was chilled. While the thought of Jessica watching him sleep was unnerving, being the recipient of her nurturing instinct filled him with strange fluttery sensations. Especially considering her antipathy toward him.

      “Instead of waking you, I went exploring in the general area around the smokehouse. I found something.”

      He carefully maneuvered into a sitting position, his stomach going sideways. “What is it?”

      Putting her things in the basket, she rose and, crossing to the corner, retrieved an alligator-skin travel bag.

      His heart threatened to burst from his chest as she placed it on his lap. He ran his fingertips across the bumpy surface. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

      “I almost missed it. It was half-hidden beneath a shrub, some of the contents strewn over the ground.”

      His fingers fumbled on the clasp. One by one, he lifted out items that proved ambiguous. Two changes of clothes, sturdy trousers with well-worn hems and solid-color shirts, didn’t spark recognition. Socks. A black handkerchief that looked new. A razor and shaving soap. Basic traveling necessities that could belong to anyone.

      Then he saw the Bible lying in the bottom. His gaze shot to Jessica’s. Her expression was unreadable as she stood, hands folded behind her back.

      He balanced the heavy tome in his hands. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. There, on the filmy, delicate first page, a name had been scrawled in blocky letters. “I can’t make out the first name,” he murmured. “Parker is the surname.”

      “Does it trigger any memories?”

      “No.” Defeat marred his tone. He rubbed the coffee-colored stain obscuring much of the first name. “This looks like an uppercase G.”

      “Your name could be Gabriel.” Something flickered in her eyes. He sensed she wanted to trust this wasn’t an act.

      “Or Gilbert.”

      Leaning over, she studied the entry. “I can’t decipher it.”

      “Why can’t I remember my own name?” Frustration built inside him. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can’t know for sure if this is truly mine.”

      He would not give in to the panic. Keep it together. She already thinks you’re suspect. Falling to pieces won’t help your case.

      She unfolded a shirt and held it out in front of her. “Looks like it would fit you.”

      Regulating his breathing, he forced his gaze to hers. “I know you have theories about me. I’d like to hear them.”

      Jessica lowered the shirt, her surprise evident. “I doubt that.”

      “I can’t say for certain, but I have a feeling I’m a practical kind of guy. No use avoiding the unpleasantness of life. Just delays the inevitable.”

      “All right.” Sinking into the chair once more, she finger-combed her mane with long, meditative strokes. “Most obvious theory? You’re an outlaw on the run from authorities or rival criminals.”

      “Am I a notorious outlaw or a basic, run-of-the-mill criminal?”

      “You’re a man who’s conflicted about your misdeeds.”

      “That’s good to know,” he said wryly. “Next theory.”

      “You stole another man’s wife.”

      He shook his head, such a thing unfathomable. “I stole another man’s horse.”

      She tapped her chin. “You swindled someone in a business deal.”

      This game of pretend wasn’t helping his dark mood. “Let’s move on to the theories where I’m the good guy, shall we?”

      A slim gold ring with a ruby setting flashed on her right hand. “Okay. You were traveling through the area, minding your own business, when you were ambushed by ruffians.”

      “Sounds plausible.” And much more palatable than anything else she’d thrown at him. “There’s no money in this bag or on my person. I wouldn’t have traveled without funds.”

      She nodded. “You could’ve stored the money in your saddlebags, which they took along with your horse.”

      He rested a hand atop the Bible. “Could I be a circuit-riding preacher?”

      She looked dubious. “We don’t really have those in these parts. Are there notes on the pages? A preacher would probably have written down thoughts and ideas, underlined important verses.”

      While the pages appeared well-worn, and a couple of passages in Psalms had been underlined, he didn’t see any handwriting. “I could’ve recorded my thoughts and sermons in a separate journal.”

      “The Bible could mean one of two things—either you treasure it so much you couldn’t bear to travel without it, or you treasure the person who gave it to you. A parent or grandparent would be the most likely candidate.”

      “I uttered a prayer earlier. It wasn’t something I actively thought about.”

      “That’s good.” Clasping her hands together, she said, “Jane is better at this than I am. She’s more inventive.”

      He seized on the rare revelation of personal information. He was done discussing himself. “Does she live nearby?”

      “A couple of miles away. She’s married to a wonderful man, Tom Leighton. They’re raising his young niece, Clara, together.”

      The wistfulness in her voice wasn’t lost on him. Did she long for