A Very Maverick Christmas. Rachel Lee

if Braden was waiting for her, she was being rude. He’d helped her load her car. He must be wondering why she hadn’t followed right away. That’s what any normal woman would have done, wasn’t it?

      She put the car in gear and headed for the donut shop. There’d be other people there, limiting their topics of conversation, she assured herself. Besides, as she’d been arguing to herself this morning, being a hermit was unlikely to get her any closer to the answers she wanted.

      Stupid, she thought, to so desperately want to know about her past yet be equally frightened of finding out. Normal reaction, the psychologist had said, but how could anyone really know what was normal for someone who’d lost all memory of her past until she woke in a hospital unable to even remember her name? Her kind of retrograde amnesia was extremely rare, so rare that at first the doctors hadn’t seemed to believe her.

      Some memory loss happened. Total memory loss was in a class of its own, evidently.

      It didn’t take long to reach the donut shop. Braden’s truck was there, and she glimpsed him through the window. He waved when he saw her pulling in. The gesture warmed her a bit, and took the edge off her nerves. At least her knees didn’t feel like rubber as she climbed out and walked toward the door. She’d get through this, the way she had gotten through everything so far.

      She had certainly gotten through a lot. Her memory of the last four years, short though it was, reminded her that she was made of sterner stuff than she sometimes thought. Maybe she should congratulate herself on getting this far, instead of fearing the next twenty minutes.

      But his remark about her being able to run as soon as she wanted returned to her, and she wondered if she was giving everyone the impression that she wanted to bolt. Well, sometimes she did. Sometimes she seriously wanted to bolt from this whole situation. But where could she go? This was one of those things she would take with her wherever she went. No escape.

      To her surprise, Braden opened the door for her. She hadn’t expected that, just walking into a coffee shop. His smile was welcoming, his voice kind as he teased, “I thought I’d lost you.”

      His eyes were warm, just like his smile, and she felt some inner tension let go. “I just warmed up the car a bit. The guy I bought it from said I shouldn’t make a habit of running with a cold engine.”

      “Good advice, usually. You can see how well I pay attention to it.”

      He motioned her to the booth, and she loosened her coat.

      Braden remained on his feet until she slid into the bench facing where he’d been sitting. Only then did he sit facing her. “I’m going to have a latte,” he said. “Don’t let anybody know. I’ll be hearing from my brothers how I need to drink real coffee. The manly stuff.”

      More of her tension seeped away, and she laughed. “Grow-hair-on-your-chest coffee, huh?”

      “Something like that, although that day is long past. Did you ever wonder why they tell you coffee will stunt your growth when you’re young, and then when you get older it’ll make you manly?”

      She laughed again. “No, sorry. Wrong gender.”

      His head tipped a little, a laugh escaped him, then he leaned toward her a bit, his eyes dancing. “The things your gender has spared you. What will you have? My treat, and the sky’s the limit.”

      She looked up at the menu hanging over the counter. “I’ll have the mocha cinnamon latte,” she decided, then nearly patted her own back for finding it so easy to order. So natural. Some things didn’t feel at all natural to her anymore. So maybe her previous self had liked that kind of coffee?

      Pointless question.

      Braden called the waitress over. “Candy? When you have a sec?”

      She returned her attention to Braden as he ordered for them, adding a couple of blueberry muffins. “I hope you like them,” he said to her as the waitress walked away.

      “I do,” she admitted. Then a thought occurred to her. He’d called the waitress by name. “Do you know everyone in town?”

      “Certainly not you,” he said lightly. Then more seriously, “No, I don’t know everyone. We’ve had a lot of new people come to help with the floods and other things.”

      “And you’re very busy at the ranch?” Keep asking questions, don’t give him a chance to pry.

      “These days, yes. My brothers are busy with their personal lives. They have their own businesses and families to take care of these days. Can’t say I blame them.”

      Her smile came easily. “Me neither. Which is how you came to be wrestling with barbed wire?”

      He grinned. “Exactly. And wrestling is a good term for it. Are you ready for our winter?”

      The change of subject seemed abrupt, but at least she could answer truthfully. “I love winter.”

      “Maybe not winters here so much. We get dang cold. Where’d you come from?”

      “New England.” Which was truthful insofar as it went. “Part of what drew me out here was the idea of snow-capped mountains. Real mountains. And Lissa Roarke’s blog, of course. Though I gather she’s now Lissa Christensen.” Julie had learned from local gossip that Lissa had married her own Rust Creek cowboy, Sheriff Gage Christensen, a few months after her arrival in town last year.

      “I never had much time to read her blog,” he said, leaning back as the waitress, Candy, served them. He thanked her. “I hope she didn’t make us seem overly romantic.”

      “Depends on what you mean by romance. I just knew I wanted mountains and snow, and this place sounded friendly.”

      “Do you ski?”

      She blinked. A blank wall answered that question. “Not really,” she hedged.

      “Most people who like snow do. Just asking. I don’t have a lot of time for it, myself, but if I can arrange it, I like cross-country. I don’t need a slope and don’t have to risk permanent disability.”

      He was cute, she thought, and he made it so easy to laugh. She wanted to keep her guard up, but she was beginning to feel safe with him. For now, at least. Growing warm, she slipped the coat off her shoulders and reached for her coffee.

      “Want me to cut the muffins up?” he asked.

      “It might make it easier.”

      Again that twinkle in his eyes. “Depends on who’s eating and where.” But he unwrapped the flatware that was rolled in the napkin and cut the two muffins into bite-size pieces. Crumbs tumbled all over the plate, but he didn’t seem concerned.

      “That’s an interesting necklace you’re wearing,” he said, pushing the plate toward her in invitation. “It looks old.”

      “It is,” she admitted. She at least knew something about it for certain. “It’s an heirloom.” She reached for a piece of muffin and pulled a napkin out of the dispenser to place it on, while she tensed for the next question.

      “It’s nice to have something like that,” he said, picking a piece of muffin for himself. “I like things that pass down through the generations. They create a great sense of connection.”

      A cowboy philosopher, she thought, and wondered what he’d think if he knew that necklace was her only connection. Probably find an excuse to head back to his ranch and pretend they’d never met.

      She picked up her coffee, nearly hiding behind it, wondering why she was so ashamed of her amnesia. It wasn’t some kind of personal failing. She’d been severely injured, probably in some awful accident, and should just be grateful to be alive. Why did she feel so embarrassed by it?

      Because she wasn’t normal. She wasn’t anything approaching normal. Missing a limb was more normal than missing your entire past, and most people would probably think she was making it up, or crazy in some way.