Читать книгу Identity: Unknown - Suzanne Brockmann - Страница 10

Becca was out front, helping Belinda and Dwayne welcome a van load of guests, when she first spotted him.

He would have been very easy to miss—the solitary figure of a man walking slowly along the road. Yet even from this distance, she could tell that he was different. He didn’t have the nonchalant swagger of the cowboys that worked the nearby ranches. He didn’t carry the bags and sacks of crafts and jewelry that many of the local Native Americans took into Santa Fe to sell. He had only one small bag, efficiently tucked under one arm.

He turned into the Lazy Eight’s long drive, as somehow Becca had known he would.

As he drew closer, she could see he wasn’t wearing the Western gear that was the standard outfit of the Southwest. He had on the blue jeans, but he wore a new-looking T-shirt instead of a long-sleeved Western-cut button-down shirt. His arms were deeply tanned, as if he spent quite a bit of time outside.

His black boots weren’t the kind a real cowboy would wear, and he wore a baseball cap instead of a Stetson on his head.

From a distance, he’d looked tall and imposing. Up close, he merely looked imposing. It was odd, really. He had to be at least an inch or so shorter than six feet, and he was slender, almost slight. Yet there was a power about him, a quiet strength that seemed to radiate from him.

It may have been in the set of his shoulders or the angle of his chin. Or it may have been something in his dark eyes that made her want to step back a bit and keep her distance. His gaze swept across the drive, over the van and the luggage and the guests, over the ranch house, over the corral where Silver was waiting impatiently for another chance to stretch his legs, over Belinda and Dwayne, over her. With one quick flick of his eyes, he seemed to take her in, to memorize, appraise, and then dismiss.

Becca tried to look away, but she couldn’t.

He was impossibly, harshly handsome—provided, of course, that a woman went for the dark and dangerous type. His face was slightly weathered, with high cheekbones that even Johnny Depp would’ve been jealous of. His lips were gracefully shaped, if perhaps a shade too thin, too grimly set. His dark hair was longer than she’d first thought, worn fastened back at the nape of his neck. His face was smooth-shaven, but he had a scar on his chin that added to his aura of danger. And those eyes…

Becca watched as he approached Belinda. He spoke softly—too softly for Becca to hear his words—as he drew a piece of paper from his pocket.

Belinda turned and pointed directly at Becca. He turned, too, and once again those eyes were on her, coolly appraising.

He started toward her.

Becca came down the ranch office steps, meeting him halfway, pushing her beatup Stetson further back on her short brown curls. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Rebecca Keyes.” His voice was soft and accentless. His words weren’t a question, but she answered him anyway.

“That’s right.” His eyes weren’t dark brown as she’d first thought. They were hazel—an almost otherworldly mix of green and brown and yellow and blue. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

“You sent me this fax?”

This time it was a question. Becca forced her gaze away from his face and looked down at the paper he held in his hands. It was indeed fax paper. She recognized the standard directions to the ranch, caught sight of the messy scribble of her handwriting at the bottom. “You must be Casey Parker.”

He repeated the name slowly. “Casey Parker.”

He didn’t look the way he’d sounded during their telephone interview. She’d pictured a larger, older, beefier man. But no matter. She needed a hired hand, and all of his references had checked out.

“Do you have any ID?” Becca asked. She smiled to soften her words and explained. “It has more to do with filling out employee tax forms than verifying that you’re who you say you are.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. My wallet was stolen night before last. I got into some kind of fight and…”

As if to prove his story, he took off his hat and she could see a long scrape above his right temple, disappearing into his wavy dark hair. He had a bruise on his cheekbone, too. She hadn’t noticed it at first—it was barely discernible underneath the suntanned darkness of his skin.

“I hope you don’t make a habit of getting into fights.”

He smiled. It was just a slight upward curve of his lips, yet it managed to soften his harsh features. “I hope not, too.”

“You’re a week early,” Becca told him, hoping her briskness would counteract the effect his quiet smile and strange words had had on her, “but that’s good, because another hand quit on me yesterday.”

He was silent, just standing there watching her with those eyes that seemed to see everything. For a moment, she was almost convinced he could see back in time, to yesterday morning’s disastrous conversation with Justin Whitlow, and back even further to Rafe McKinnon’s quiet resignation. For a moment, she was almost convinced he could see her anger and her frustration and her defeat.

“You do still want the job…?” she asked, suddenly afraid that he didn’t like what he saw. After all, bad things always came in threes.

He turned, squinting slightly at the blinding blueness of the summer sky. His gaze swept across the valley, and Becca was certain that unlike most people, this man saw, really saw the stark New Mexico countryside. She was sure that with his intense hazel eyes, he could see the terrible, almost painful beauty of the land.

“You own this place?” he asked in his quiet voice.

“I wish.” The words came out automatically and all too heartfelt. As his eyes flicked in her direction, she felt exposed—as if, with those two little words, she’d given too much of herself away.

But he just nodded, his lips curving very slightly in the beginnings of a smile.

“Who does own it?” he asked. “I like to know the name of the man I’m working for.”

“The owner’s name is Justin Whitlow,” Becca told him. “He’s the one who pays your wages. But I’m the boss. You’ll be working for me. ”

He nodded again, turning back to gaze out at the vista, but not before she saw a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “I don’t have a problem with that,” he said quietly.

“Some men do.”

“I’m not some men.” He looked back at her again, and Becca knew without a doubt that his words were true. This quiet, slender man with the watchful hazel eyes wasn’t just “some men.”

But exactly what kind of man he was, she didn’t know for sure.

* * *

“Hey, babe, long time no see.” Lt. Lucky O’Donlon of U.S. Navy SEAL Team Ten’s Alpha Squad pulled Veronica Catalanotto into his arms and kissed her hello as he came into the kitchen of his captain’s house.

“Luke. Hi. Did Frankie let you in?” Ronnie’s smile was warm and she seemed genuinely glad to see him. And since she was one of the top ten most beautiful, nicest, smartest women he’d ever met, that welcoming smile was going to be good for quite a number of fantasy miles. But then she went and ruined it by smiling exactly the same way at Bobby and Wes, who had come in behind him.

“How was your trip, boys?” she asked in her extremely classy British accent.

Captain Joe Catalanotto’s wife always called the intensely dangerous and highly covert operations that Alpha Squad was sent out on “trips.” As if they’d been away sightseeing or visiting museums.

Wes rolled his eyes. “Oh, man, Ron, we came really close to being cluster—”

Bobby’s size extra-extra-large elbow went solidly into his swim buddy’s side.

“Fine,” Wes said quickly. “It was fine, Ronnie. As always. Thanks for asking, though.”

Veronica wasn’t fooled. Her smile had faded, making her eyes look enormous in her face. “Is everyone all right? I mean, of course I’ve already asked Joe, but I’m not sure he’d even tell me if someone had been hurt.”

Ever since a year and a half ago, when the captain had nearly been killed by terrorists on what should have been a routine training mission, Veronica looked even more fragile than she had before when the squad went out on an op. She’d never found it easy to deal with the fact that her husband regularly left—sometimes without any warning—on highly dangerous missions. And now, after seeing Joe in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, it was even more difficult for her.

“Everyone’s fine,” Lucky said quietly, taking her hand. “Really.” Hotshot Cowboy Jones had jammed his ankle coming in too hard from a HALO jump, but aside from that, they’d all made it back to California in one piece.

Veronica smiled, but it was a little too bright and a touch too brittle. “Well,” she said. “Joe’s expecting you. He’s down on the beach.”

“Thanks.” Lucky squeezed her hand before he released it.

“Should I set extra plates for dinner?” Veronica asked evenly.

Lucky exchanged a look with Bobby. The captain had called them to this meeting on their pagers, sending them an urgent code. Whatever was up was important. Despite the fact that they’d only been home a day and a half, chances were they’d be going wheels-up again within the next few hours. And knowing the way Joe Catalanotto liked to lead from the front, it was more than likely he’d be shipping out with them. It seemed, however, that he hadn’t mentioned anything about that to his wife.

“I don’t think so, Ronnie,” Bobby told her gently.

“Probably not this time. It really smells great, though. Those cooking lessons are paying off, huh?”

“I was working all day,” she told him ruefully. “Joe made the stew.”

Damn. The captain’s wife may have been beautiful, smart and sexy as hell, but the woman was a menace in the kitchen.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” she added. “There’s plenty and it’s quite good. There’s no way Joe and Frankie and I can possibly eat all of it.”

“Something’s come up. I think the captain’s planning to take us kids out on another field trip,” Wes told her before either Bobby or Lucky could muzzle him. Mr. Insensitive and Completely Oblivious. “So, yeah, we’re sure we can’t stay.”

“Well,” Veronica said tightly. “Off for another month, are you? Thanks for letting me know, although that’s something that would’ve been nice to hear from Joe.”

Double damn. Lucky cringed. “Ron, honest, I don’t know what’s up. If he didn’t mention anything to you, well, maybe we’re not going anywhere.”

Veronica visibly composed herself. And sighed as she looked up into their somewhat panicked faces. “Don’t look at me like that,” she chided them. “I’m stronger than you think. I knew what I was getting before I married him. I don’t have to like it when Joe leaves—isn’t that what you SEALs always say? I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it. Just take care of him for me, all right?”

She was pretending to hang tough, but her lower lip trembled an infinitesimal amount, giving her away. “Go,” she said. “He’s waiting. And you can tell him he doesn’t have to worry about breaking the terrible news to me anymore.”

Lucky followed Bobby and Wes out the kitchen door but hesitated on the deck, looking in through the window to watch her set only two places at the kitchen table—for herself and Frankie, her toddler son—still trying not to cry.

Lucky knew by the time Joe came back to the house, she’d be perfectly composed and probably even smiling.

Veronica’s acceptance of Joe’s career was a rare thing. SEALs had a divorce rate that was off the scale, in part because many of their wives simply couldn’t take the strain of being left behind again and again and again, waiting and worrying.

“I’m never getting married,” Lucky murmured to Wes as they went down the steps that led to the beach.

“You and me, Luck,” Wes agreed. “Unless Ronnie decides to leave the captain. Or am I already too late? Have you already started marking your territory in a big circle around her? No offense, Lieutenant, sir, but that kiss was just a little too friendly.”

Lucky was stung. “I was just saying hello. I’d never—”

“You’d never what, O’Donlon?” All six feet and four dangerous inches of Joe Cat materialized from the mist that was blowing in off the Pacific. One second they were alone and the next he was breathing down their necks. How the hell could a man built like a professional football player do that?

“I’d never hit on your wife,” Lucky told his captain bluntly. There was no point in trying to hide the truth from Joe Cat. Somehow he’d find out—if he didn’t already know. That’s why he was the captain. “I’d never, ever, ever hit on Ronnie.” Lucky shot Wes a disbelieving look. “I can’t believe you think I’d do something that low, Skelly. My feelings are seriously hurt—”

“What’s happening, Captain?” Bobby interrupted.

Joe Cat motioned towards the ocean. “We need to walk,” he told them. “We really should be talking in a secured room, but getting one would raise too many eyebrows, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

Whatever this was, it was bigger than Lucky had imagined. He stopped giving Wes dirty looks and focused on what the captain was saying.

But Joe was silent until they were next to the breaking surf. The beach was deserted and misty, the setting sun hidden behind clouds.

“I’ve been doing some work for Admiral Robinson,” Joe Cat finally told them, his voice low. “Acting as a liaison for one of his longhairs who’s out on a black op for the admiral’s Gray Group.”

Longhair was the name given to any SEAL who might need to blend in with a dangerous and motley crowd of terrorists and mercenaries at any given moment. He had to go on top-secret, extremely covert “black” operations, where a man with a military haircut would stick out like a sore thumb. And once that man stuck out, he would be one very dead sore thumb.

So these covert op SEALs got tattoos. They pierced their ears. They didn’t shave for weeks on end. They dressed in what would have been known as “grunge” in the early nineties. And they grew their hair very, very long.

Of course, when it came to longhairs, the captain should talk. He wore his own hair in a thick, dark braid down his back. When he shook his hair out, he looked like a pirate or maybe a really wild rock star—and absolutely nothing like a highly decorated, extremely well-respected captain in Uncle Sam’s Navy.

“The admiral’s off doing diplo-duty in a place where it’s impossible to get a secured telephone line,” Joe Cat told them curtly. “I can’t even report to him that as of twenty-four hours ago, his SEAL missed his weekly check-in. And frankly, I’m concerned. Apparently this guy’s better than a clock when it comes to check-ins. So I’ve got to go out to New Mexico to try and track him down, and I need a team to watch my six.”

New Mexico? What the…?

The captain looked at Bob, then Wes, then Lucky. “I’m looking for volunteers here. This will be a black op as well—completely off the record, no paperwork, no acknowledgement of the situation by any of the top brass. If you choose to come along, you’ll be paid, but not in the usual way. In fact, you’ll have to take leave so your whereabouts can’t be traced.”

It sounded like some serious fun. “Count me in, Skipper,” Lucky said, and Bobby and Wes were only nanoseconds behind him.

Their captain nodded. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Who’s the little lost SEAL we’re tracking down?” Wes asked. “Anyone we know?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “You worked with him six months ago. Lt. Mitchell Shaw.”

“Oh, man,” Bobby said in his basso profundo, voicing exactly what Lucky was thinking. “He’s gonna be hard to find if he doesn’t want to be found, Cat. He’s a chameleon—good with disguises. The admiral once told me that he nearly pulled the hair off a little old lady, thinking she was Mitch under cover.”

“What’s a Gray Group operative doing in New Mexico?” Lucky asked.

“This is top-secret information I’m about to give you,” Joe told them seriously. “It goes no further than the four of us, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe sighed, turning to squint out at the ocean for a moment. “Remember that break-in at Arches?”

Last year, the security at Arches Military Testing Lab in Colorado had been breached and six canisters of Triple X had been stolen. Lucky, Bobby, Wes and Mitch Shaw had all been part of the team that located and destroyed the deadly nerve gas. Yeah, they remembered that break-in all too clearly.

“The Trip X nerve agent wasn’t the only thing taken,” Joe Cat continued grimly.

Wes ran his hand down his face. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

“Plutonium,” Joe said. “Enough was taken to make a small nuclear weapon.”

A small nuke. Great.

“Shaw was working to track it down,” Joe Cat continued. “He was following a lead both he and Admiral Robinson thought was probably empty. That’s why he was out there alone. The bulk of the Gray Group’s manpower is working from the other end—finding the potential buyer seemed easier than finding the plutonium in the haystack. But now that Shaw’s gone missing, I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“New Mexico’s a big state,” Bobby commented.

He was right. And if Mitch was working a black op, he wouldn’t have broadcast his whereabouts to anyone. “How the hell are we gonna find him?”

“Shaw was carrying ten counterfeit hundred-dollar bills,” Joe answered Lucky. “Admiral Robinson implemented a technique used by the spooks at the Agency—apparently his wife’s a former agent. See, how it works is if some bad voodoo goes down and the agent—or SEAL in this case—is eliminated by the opposition, that funny money tends to go into circulation. It makes sense, right? An agent is hit and his or her body disappears. But if you’re the guy who did the hit, you check pockets for weapons or cash. No point in sinking that in the quarry with your victim’s earthly remains, right? So the money changes hands, so to speak. In the past, this method has occasionally been effective enough to track all the way to the killers. Once they start spending the money—as soon as it’s ID’d as fake—it’s like a big red flag gets dropped.”

“Are you saying you think Lieutenant Shaw is dead, sir?” Wes swore sharply. “I liked the guy.”

“I don’t know what’s up with Shaw,” Joe told them.

“But one—and only one—of his counterfeit hundred-dollar bills showed up in Wyatt City, New Mexico. In the donation box of the First Church Homeless Shelter, of all places.”

“When do we leave?” Bobby asked.

“We’ve got a flight out to Las Cruces in three hours,” Joe said. He smiled crookedly. “I, um, need a little time. I haven’t exactly told Ronnie yet that I’m leaving.”

“Well, sir, we, uh…” Wes braced himself. “ I kind of took care of that for you, Cat.”

Joe closed his eyes and swore.

“I’m really sorry, Captain,” Wes said.

“Skipper, you know…Me and Ren and Stimpy here can handle this. You don’t have to come along—it’d be overkill anyway,” Lucky earnestly told the captain. “We’ve worked with Mitch, we know what he looks like—at least when he’s not in disguise. And like you said, the rest of the Gray Group’s covering the other end. Give yourself—and Veronica—a break.” He paused. “And give me a chance to practice those leadership skills they worked so hard to teach me at the academy, sir. Let me take care of this.”

Joe looked up at the hillside above the beach, at the warm lights of his home cutting through the thickening fog.

He made up his mind. “Go,” he said. “The paperwork giving you leave is already at the base. But I want sit-reps over a secured line every twelve hours.”

“Thanks, Captain.” Lucky held out his hand.

Joe clasped it and shook. “Find him. Fast.”

* * *

“Are you Casey?”

Casey. Casey Parker. If that was his name, why couldn’t he remember it? “Yeah, that’s me.”

A ten-year-old kid had come into the barn. He stood in front of Mish now, his eyes magnified by a crooked pair of wire-framed glasses. “I’m supposed to tell you to saddle up a pair of horses for me and Ashley. Ashley’s my sister. She’s a pain in the butt.”

Saddle up some horses…

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

“My real name’s Reagan. Reagan Thomas Alden. But people call me Chip.”

Mish turned back to the stall he was shoveling out. “Rumor has it, Chip, guests under age eighteen aren’t allowed to ride out on their own.”

“Yes, but…I’m not signed up for a ride until after four o’clock. What am I supposed to do until then?”

“Read a book?” Mish suggested, getting back into the easy rhythm of his work.

“Hey!” Chip brightened. “ You could ride out with me and Ash. There’s this place, about a half a mile east of here where there’s these big, creepy-looking rocks, kind of like some giant’s fingers sticking out of the ground. I could show ’em to you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, Casey. You’re not doing anything important right now.”

Mish kept right on shoveling. “The way I figure it, I’ve got one of the most important jobs here—making sure the horses you ride have a clean place to sleep at night.”

“Yes, but…wouldn’t you rather be riding?”

Mish answered honestly. “No.” The truth was, he could remember nothing about horses. If he’d at one time known how to ride, that knowledge had slipped away with his memories of his name and his past. But somehow he doubted that. Somehow, he got the sense that horseback riding was a subject he’d never bothered to learn much about.

It was troublesome. If he was Casey Parker, then he’d lied to get this job. And if he wasn’t Casey Parker, then who in heaven’s name was he?

Casey Parker or not, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t going to like finding out who he really was.

The handgun in his boot. The wad of money. The bullet wound. It all added up to the same grim conclusion: he was not on the side of the angels.

If his dream had held just one ounce of truth, he was a killer. He was someone who shot and killed other people for a living. And, if that was the case, he didn’t want to remember who he was.

He—and the world—would be better off if he simply stayed here for the rest of his days, shoveling manure and—

Mish lifted his head, listening intently to a low rumble. Was it thunder? Or an approaching truck?

“That sounds like Travis Brown,” Chip told him. “Doing what Becca calls his first-rate imitation of a damn fool.”

It was the sound of pounding hoofbeats—faint, but growing louder until it became a clatter of noise directly outside of the barn. It was accompanied by a high-pitched whinny of fear and pain from the horse. That sound was echoed almost identically—except this second scream came from a human throat. Mish dropped his shovel.

“That’s Ashley!” Chip bolted for the door, but Mish swung himself over the wall of the stall and beat him there.

A riderless horse stood on its hind legs, pawing the air as a man dressed in fringed leggings and a leather vest lay sprawled behind him. A young girl crouched in the dust in front of the enraged horse, covering her head with her arms.

Mish didn’t stop. He started toward the girl at a sprint.

He could see Rebecca Keyes running just as quickly toward them from the direction of the ranch office. Her hat fell into the dust, and she reached the horse’s bridle just as Mish grabbed the girl and pulled her out of harm’s way.

The horse’s slashing hooves came within inches of Rebecca’s face, but she didn’t flinch.

Mish shoved the girl into Chip’s arms and stood ready to come to Becca’s aid. But she simply and slowly backed away, letting the animal have some space.

The horse’s sides were torn, as if slashed with too-sharp spurs. His mouth was frothing and flecked with blood. His dark body was slick with sweat and trembling.

The man who’d been thrown scrambled out of range of the beast’s powerful back hooves. “Did you see that?” he said as he pulled himself to his feet. “That damned horse nearly killed me!”

“Quiet!” Becca didn’t even look in the man’s direction. All of her attention was focused on the horse. Although she didn’t speak loudly, there was stern authority in her voice.

The rider wisely shut up.

As Mish watched, the horse returned to all fours. He twitched nervously, though, sidling and still trembling. Becca moved closer again, crooning softly to the frightened animal, her hands and body language nonthreatening.

She could have been a lion tamer. Mish felt his own tension start to drain from his shoulders and neck just from the sound of her soothing, hypnotic voice. As she gazed at the horse steadily, Mish could see none of the anger that he knew she must be feeling toward the abusive rider.

He knew that her eyes were an unremarkable shade of brown, but as she looked at the horse, they reflected a serenity that was almost angelic. And for a moment, as he gazed at her, Mish couldn’t breathe.

Rebecca Keyes wasn’t what most folks would consider to be beautiful. Oh, her face was pretty enough—cute, actually. It was maybe a touch too round, though, making her look younger than she really was. Or maybe she was just plain young, he didn’t know for sure. Her nose was small and couldn’t be described as anything other than childlike. It was dotted with freckles that added to that effect. Her mouth was generously wide, her lips gracefully shaped. The only makeup she wore was a light coat of gloss on those lips—and Mish suspected she wore it as protection from the harsh sun rather than for cosmetic effect.

But as she reached for that shuddering horse, soothing, peaceful comfort seemed to radiate from her every movement, her every word, her every glance, and Mish could not breathe.

He wanted her to turn to him, to look at him that way, to lay her gentle hands on him, to bring to him the peace he so desperately needed.

Instead, he watched as she touched the horse.

The animal snorted, nervously sidestepping, but Becca moved with him. “It’s okay, baby,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay…Shhh…” She ran her hands down the horse’s neck. “Yeah, everything’s all right now. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She looped the reins over the animal’s head, leading him gently toward the barn. “Casey here will take care of you,” she added, still talking in that sweet, soothing voice, “while I take care of the idiot who hurt you.”

She looked up at Mish, reaching out to hand him the reins, and just like that, the warm calm in her eyes flickered and changed—replaced by sheer, cold, nearly murderous anger. She was going to “take care” of the rider, indeed.

But first she turned toward the young girl who’d nearly been run down in the driveway. “Are you all right, Ash?”

Ashley and Chip were standing alongside the barn, arms still around each other. The girl nodded, but she was clearly shaken.

“Chip, run to the office,” Becca crisply ordered the little boy. “Have Hazel crank up the cellular phone and locate your parents.” She turned back to Mish. “Get that horse inside the barn.”

Mish gently tugged on the reins, leading the huge animal into the quiet coolness of the barn. He looked up into the beast’s big brown eyes, and could see mistrust. He tried to gaze back confidently, but knew he was failing. Truth was, he didn’t have a clue what to do.

He wrapped the reins around one of the bars on the nearest stall, keeping one ear tuned to what was going on outside of the barn.

“Mr. Brown, you have exactly fifteen minutes to pack your bags and get down here to the ranch office,” he could hear Becca tell the man who’d been riding the horse, her tone leaving no room for any dissent.

There was a buckle that seemed to hold the saddle on and Mish tried to unfasten it, but the animal shifted away, snorting. He was no Dr. Doolittle, but he couldn’t miss the horse’s message. Don’t touch me.

Outside, Brown sputtered. “ I’m the one who was thrown—”

“You’ve had your warnings,” Becca cut him off, her voice tight with anger. “You’ve been told again and again that you may not wear spurs with any of our horses. You’ve been told again and again not to yank the reins, to treat the horse the way you’d want to be treated if you had a bit in your mouth.”

Mish put his hand on the horse’s neck. He just rested it there, steady and firm, trying to push all of his uncertainty far away, knowing the animal could sense it. He could do this. He’d seen enough Westerns. He had to get the saddle off, and the blanket underneath, then somehow cool the horse down.

“You’ve been told again and again that horses must be kept to a slow walk around the ranch buildings,” Becca’s voice continued. “This time you might’ve badly injured Ashley Alden. And this time, I’m done giving you warnings. This time, I’m telling you to pack your bags and get off this ranch.”

“I want the sheriff! I want an ambulance—I hurt my back in that fall! I’m going to sue—”

Mish reached for the buckle again, this time his movements steady and sure. The horse twitched and blew air out of his nose, hard, but Mitch got the job done. He lifted off the saddle and set it on top of a rail. And then he couldn’t resist sneaking a look out of the barn door. A crowd had gathered—guests and ranch hands silently watching.

Becca had Travis Brown backed against the split wood railings of the corral, her eyes shooting fire. When she spoke, her voice was soft but it carried in the stillness.

“Go ahead and call the sheriff, Hazel,” she said to the gray-haired woman on the ranch office steps, her eyes never leaving Brown. “It’s entirely likely that Ted and Janice Alden will want to press charges against Mr. Brown for nearly killing their daughter. Reckless endangerment—isn’t that what it’s called?”

“You can’t kick me out. I’m a shareholder.”

“You’re an idiot, ” Becca said sharply. “Get the hell off this ranch.”

He moved toward her, threateningly. “You little bitch! When Justin Whitlow finds out about this—”

“Fifteen minutes, Brown.” He towered over her, but Becca didn’t back down. She stood her ground, chin raised, as if daring the man to raise a hand to her.

The man pushed past her, exaggerating his limp as he headed toward the guest cabins.

Becca turned, looking first at Hazel. “Did you reach the Aldens?”

The plump older woman nodded. “They’re on their way.”

“Call the sheriff, too—in case they want to register a complaint.”

“Already done.”

Becca’s gaze swept across the crowd and landed on Mish. He realized suddenly that he’d come all the way out of the barn, toward her, ready to jump in if Brown had tried to strike her.

“How’s Stormchaser?” she asked, heading directly toward him. “The poor baby’s going to have to go into therapy after this.”

“He doesn’t seem to want me to touch him,” Mish admitted, following her back into the barn.

She gave him an odd look over her shoulder. “ She doesn’t know you. She’s bound to be a little spooked.”

She. The horse was female. He hadn’t even thought to look. He’d simply assumed that since the animal was so big and powerful…Thou shalt not assume. He’d broken one of the biggest rules, and he’d given himself away.

Rules. Rules of what? God Almighty, it was back there, just out of his line of sight. All of the answers, dancing at the edge of his mental peripheral vision. He wanted to close his eyes, to somehow grab hold of the truth, of his identity. But Becca Keyes was talking to him.

“Why don’t you get her cooled down,” Becca said, obviously repeating herself as she gazed at him with her seemingly average brown eyes.

She was challenging him. Her words were a test—she wanted to know if he could do it.

But he couldn’t.

Mish met her gaze levelly, honestly. “I’m afraid that’s a little out of my league. But if you tell me exactly what needs to be done, I can—”

She’d already turned away from him. “Perfect,” she was muttering. “Incredibly, amazingly, stupendously perfect. ” She spun back to face him. “You’re telling me you don’t know how to cool down a horse, aren’t you?”

“I’m a quick study,” he said quietly. “And you’re short of hands—”

“Short of brains, too, obviously.” There was a flare of that hot-burning anger in her eyes, but the heat was weakened by her frustration and disappointment. “Dammit. Dammit! ”

The disappointment was hard to take. He would have far preferred her anger. “I didn’t intend to deceive you.” He couldn’t explain. How could he?

She just laughed as she took the saddle blanket from Stormchaser’s back. “Right. Go and make sure Brown’s packing his bags. He’s in cabin number 12. Walk him back to the office, finish up the stalls, then stay out of my sight for the rest of evening. I can’t handle this right now—we’ll talk in the morning.”

Mish may not have known a thing about horses, but he knew when a situation called for silence.

He turned and left the barn. He’d awakened again this morning with no past, no name, no sense of self. Yet somehow he now felt even emptier inside.