Saviour in the Saddle. Delores Fossen

made sure all four locks on the front door were engaged, though she already knew they were. That was routine these days. The lights were green on the security panel box, meaning it was armed and ready to sound if tripped. Also routine. As were the window locks, gun and the multiple cans of pepper spray she had stashed around the house.

      The lieutenant and his partner couldn’t get in. Well, not unless they broke down the door or smashed a window, but that could happen if she spoke to them or not.

      “Do I know you?” she called out. And Willa prayed that merely asking the question wouldn’t turn out to be a deadly mistake.

      She watched through the blinds, and she saw the men whispering to each other. Both of them also fired glances all around the yard and street. Not ordinary glances, either. The kind that cops made when they were worried they might be ambushed.

      Of course, it was also the kind of glances that criminals made to make sure they weren’t being watched.

      “You know me,” the man, Brandon, assured her. He said it with complete confidence, but there was also a tinge of frustration in his voice. “Willa, open the door. I want to see you.”

      Willa didn’t budge. “How do you know me?”

      He hesitated. It wasn’t just a pause. But definitely a hesitation. She’d lost so much after everything she’d been through, but she’d gained something, too. Willa had gotten very good at reading people.

      Brandon was on edge.

      “They told me you had memory loss from a fall you took at the hospital, and that you were in a coma for a while,” Brandon finally said. “You still don’t remember me after all this time? “

      No, but she didn’t intend to tell him that.

      Truth was, she had no memories—none—before the nightmare that had happened four months earlier when she and about three dozen other pregnant women and medical staff had been held hostage at gunpoint for hours on the fourth floor at the San Antonio Maternity Hospital. Questioned. Verbally abused. And worse.

      People had died that day, and those who had survived did not come out unscathed.

      She was proof of that.

      The gunmen had even forced her to help them retrieve some computer files in the lab. Or so she’d been told because part of the hostage standoff had been captured on a hospital surveillance camera.

      Willa had no recollection of that, either.

      No memories before that fall she’d supposedly taken when one of the gunmen had pushed her down during her attempted escape. No memories before or immediately following the coma she’d supposedly been in when her brain had swollen from a deep concussion.

      And what she had remembered since was spotty in too many areas.

      The head injury had given her both amnesia and short-term memory loss. That was the last diagnosis she’d received anyway. She hadn’t seen a neurologist in nearly a month.

      She had made some progress with the short-term memory issues but none with the amnesia itself. She could have indeed met this Brandon, but she knew so few details of her life that anything was possible.

      For all practical purposes, Willa’s life had begun two months ago when her short-term memory had started to stabilize.

      She knew the basics. She was Willa Diane Marks, a computer software designer from San Antonio. Both parents were dead. No living relatives. She wasn’t rich, but she’d had more than enough money to decide at the age of thirty-three that she wanted to reduce her hours at the business she’d started and have a child. Since she hadn’t been involved in a relationship at the time, she’d used artificial insemination, which had been done at the very hospital where, three months later, she’d been held hostage.

      Willa could thank a nurse at the San Antonio Maternity Hospital for filling her in on those few details. And just so she would remember them, Willa had put them in notes in a computer file. Notes she read daily in case she forgot. Heck, there was even a note to remind herself to read the file.

      “Well?” Lieutenant Duggan prompted. “Are you going to let us in? Because I have a warrant and I can break down the door if necessary. I don’t want to do that, and I don’t think you do either. Am I right?”

      She dodged the questions. “Brandon, how do you know me?” Willa countered.

      More hesitation. More whispered conversation between the men. Finally, Brandon angled his eyes to the window. Right where she was. As if he’d known all along that she was there.

      Brandon’s gaze met hers. “Willa, I’m your ex-boyfriend.”

      Whatever she had expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

      Her heart went to her knees.

      The baby stopped kicking and went still. So did Willa. Her breath lodged somewhere between her lungs and her throat, and she forced herself to exhale so she wouldn’t get light-headed. She had enough things against her already without adding that.

      “My ex-boyfriend?” she challenged. She had been involved with this man, but there was no photo of him in her PDA? No yellow sticky note with his name on her wall? And he darn sure wasn’t in her memory. “Prove it.”

      “Open the door, and I will.” It wasn’t exactly a promise, but it was close.

      Close enough for Willa to put her PDA aside and grab the .38 handgun she kept on top of the foyer table. Before she could change her mind, she undid the locks, paused the security system and opened the front door. There was still a locked screen door between the men and her, but even through the gray mesh, she could see their faces clearly.

      Brandon’s eyes were a dark earthy brown.

      And much to Willa’s surprise, she reacted to him. Or rather her body did. There was deep pull within her.

      Attraction, she realized.

      She was physically attracted to him. Strange, because it was a new sensation for her. She was certain at one time or another she had been attracted to a man, but she didn’t remember this feeling.

      “What proof do you have?” Willa immediately asked.

      Those rich brown eyes combed over her face, but she couldn’t tell what was going through his mind. His gaze dropped to her stomach. Since she was seven months pregnant and huge, it would have been hard not to miss her baby bulge. Then, his attention landed on the .38 Smith & Wesson she had gripped in her hand at her side.

      “There’s no need for that,” Brandon said, his voice mostly calm. There was still that edge to it. “Neither of us will hurt you.”

      “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” she fired back.

      “You have reason not to trust us,” Lieutenant Duggan volunteered. “We didn’t do a good job of protecting you while you were in the hospital recovering from your head injury.”

      She nearly laughed. “No. You didn’t. A gunman got into my room just two days after the hostages were rescued, and he tried to shoot and kill me.”

      Willa didn’t exactly have memories of that incident, either. Thank God. The memory loss was good for some things, and she didn’t need that particular nightmare in her head. But she’d read the reports, over and over, and every time she would forget, she would reread them. She needed to remember that the cops hadn’t protected her then. Or now.

      The lieutenant nodded. “That gunman was caught. His name was Danny Monroe, and later that same morning when he tried to kill a police captain and another hostage, he was shot. He died in surgery. You don’t have to worry about him now.”

      “Maybe not him. But that wasn’t the only attempt made on my life,” Willa reminded the lieutenant. “Someone tried to break into the safe house where you had me staying after I got out of the hospital.”

      “You remember that?” Duggan