Secrets (2 page)

“C
an you hear me?”

It was hot. The heat was stifling, suffocating. And she was thirsty, her mouth as dry as dust. Her tongue felt swollen and numb. But she heard the words. They sounded far away.

“Are you hurt?”

He was speaking again. His tone was urgent, concerned. Yet she did not want to fight to swim up through the dark depths of sleep, and she wondered if she were dreaming.

“Can you hear me?”

His words were louder, insistent. Interfering. She wanted it to be a dream and she wanted him to go away so she could drift back into the total darkness again.

But it wasn't a dream. The instant he touched her she knew that. He was shaking her gently by the shoulder. She would have cried out in protest, told him to go away, but she could not quite utter the words. And then he touched her head, his fingers sliding over her scalp. Pain burst in Regina's skull. The darkness was sliced abruptly open.

Before she could protest he had swiftly unclasped her jacket and parted it. The cooler air was barely a
relief. He was unbuttoning the high-necked collar of her shirtwaist, his blunt-tipped fingers grazing the nape of her neck. And as if he hadn't trespassed far enough, his hands moved over her shoulders and arms searchingly, then grazed her breasts, causing her nipples to tighten instantaneously. He did not appear to notice, intent as he was on probing every single bone of her rib cage.

Regina was frozen, suspended in fear. She was wide awake now, aware of the pounding of her head, the terrible heat, her unyielding thirst, and that she was actually lying upon the ground. And she was acutely aware of him.
Now he was touching her legs
. He was sliding his palms up from her ankles to her thighs, only a thin layer of silk separating his flesh from hers. The fact that the sensation was somehow disturbingly pleasant managed to pierce her fear-benumbed brain.

She lay rigid, not breathing.

“You can quit playing possum. I know you're awake.”

Her breath escaped. Very slowly she opened her eyes.

He flipped her skirts down over her legs and rose to stand above her. The sun was behind him and she could barely see him. He was a dark shadow, looming over her. Confusion rose hard. Where was she? A quick glance around showed her that they were alone except for one saddled horse, alone in the middle of a valley surrounded by smooth straw-colored hills and a relentless blue sky. She levered herself up into a sitting position and for one moment, she was dizzy.

Instantly he squatted beside her and put his arm around her, preventing her from falling. His body was hot, hotter than the air. When her head stopped spinning, their glances met and held.

She saw only his eyes, dark and intense, fringed with thick lashes, and so shadowed by his hat that they appeared black. But she was unnerved. She looked away. He pushed a canteen to her mouth and she drank hard and long, careless of the water that spilled down her throat and onto the front of her shirt.

“Slow down,” he said. “You'll get sick.”

He didn't give her a choice, removing the canteen as abruptly as he'd given it to her. He rose lithely to his full height. The sun had slipped behind a wispy white cloud, and this time Regina could see him. The first thing she noticed were his legs, clad in tight, worn denims, braced apart in a rigid stance, the chiseled muscles of his thighs visible through the thin faded fabric. His fists were clenched on compact hips. He was wearing a gun in a leather holster so well-used it was smooth and shiny except for the rough strap around his thigh. Her stomach clenched up into a knot. Seeing a man with a gun was about as commonplace as waking up to find oneself alone on the range with a stranger.

Her gaze had also discovered the oversized oval silver belt buckle he wore, one that needed a good polishing, and the fact that his white cotton shirt was wet with sweat and nearly open to his navel. His skin was dark, his chest sinewed and sprinkled with coarse black hair, his belly flat. Realizing his state of deshabille and the extent of the inspection she was making, her face flamed. Quickly she lifted her glance to his face, but in the process, she assimilated many more details. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his muscular forearms. Despite the heat, he wore a heavy leather vest, which was discolored from the sun and wind and rain and also left carelessly open.

She could not help noticing his strong features. His chin was blunt, his jaw hard but not square, his nose perfectly straight. He had a day's growth of beard. His eyes were still shadowed by the dusty gray hat he wore, so she could not determine their color.

Now that her gaze had finally reached his, their eyes met again. His revealed nothing. But she was aware of her accelerated heart rate. This man looked like an outlaw. And she appeared to be alone with him—totally alone. Was he an outlaw? Did he intend to hurt her?

He was astute. “Don't be afraid,” he told her. “I'm Slade Delanza.”

She felt as if he expected her to know him, but she didn't. “What—what do you want?”

His glance was piercing. “I've been looking for you all afternoon. Everyone's worried. You've got a big bump on your head, and a few abrasions.”

Despite the question he seemed to be asking, relief swamped her. She didn't know this man, but she understood that he was here to aid her, not hurt her.

“What happened?”

His question took her by surprise. She blinked.

“I heard you jumped off of the train. Your hands and knees are scun up.” His voice had become very tight.

Now she stared.

“Are you hurt?”

Regina couldn't answer. It was becoming hard to breathe. Her mind was not functioning the way it should.

He squatted beside her again. The sun had yet to escape its cloud cover, his face was close to hers, perfect in each and every detail, and she realized he was a very handsome man. That realization could not overly interest her. Not now, not when he was asking these frightening questions, not when the intensity of his gaze was unnerving her.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded again.

She stared at him blankly, tears suddenly forming and misting her vision.

He looked at her oddly.

She managed to tear her gaze away from his. She turned to look at the railroad tracks that stretched out endlessly until the hills swallowed them up. She was trembling.

With effort, he softened his tone. “You need a doctor?”

Another distressing question. He was not just upsetting her, he was backing her into a corner, trapping her, and she didn't like it. She wanted to look anywhere but
into his eyes, yet she was helplessly drawn to his gaze. She didn't want to answer his horrid questions. “I don't know.” She hesitated. “I don't think so.”

He stared at her, then fired the next question with the precision of an army marksman. “What do you mean, you don't think so?”

Regina cried out. “Please! Stop it!”

His hands closed on her shoulders, hard but not hurtful. “This isn't a pretty private school for young ladies! This isn't a London tea party! This is the goddamn real world! That train limped into town, everyone hysterical, a half a dozen people hurt, including a woman, and you weren't on it! A dozen passengers saw you jump off the train and land hard. If you don't want to tell me what happened, you can tell the sheriff or the doctor when we get to Templeton!”

“I don't know what happened!” she shouted back. And then, the moment she said the words, she was horrified, because she realized that they were true.

He stared.

She whimpered as the vast, horrible implications of what she had said sank in.

“What did you say?”

“I don't know,” she whispered, closing her eyes and gripping the hard ground. She didn't know. She didn't know anything about a train or about a robbery, she didn't know why her gloves were torn and her hands abraded, and she didn't know why she was stranded alone in the middle of the vast deserted rangeland. She didn't know anything about jumping off a train. She whimpered again.

“You don't remember what happened?”

She still didn't open her eyes. It was worse than that, but she was afraid to acknowledge, even to herself, how much worse it was, so she sat there, trying not to hear him and trying not to think.

“Dammit, Elizabeth,” he growled. “You don't remember what happened?”

She was going to cry. She knew he had crouched down beside her again, and she knew he wasn't going
to leave her alone, she knew he was going to persist in his questions until she revealed all of the horrible truth. Her eyes flew open. In that moment, she hated him. “No! Go away from me, please go away!”

He rose abruptly, towering over her again. His body cast a long, misshapen shadow as the sun again slid free of the clouds. “Maybe it's for the best. Maybe it's for the best that you don't remember what happened.”

“I don't remember anything,” she told him desperately.

“
What?
”

“You called me Elizabeth,” she cried.

His gaze was black, wide, incredulous.

“Am I Elizabeth?”

He stared, frozen.

“Am I Elizabeth?”

“
You lost your memory?
”

His dark gaze was filled with disbelief. She clasped her face in her hands. The pounding at the back of her skull had increased. And with it, the feeling of confusion, and the feeling of despair. It was overwhelming. The truth was inescapable. Her mind was a blank. She didn't know what had happened; more importantly, she didn't know who she was—she didn't know her own name.

“Dammit,” cursed the man called Slade.

She looked up at his dark face. Her tormentor could now become her savior. She desperately needed salvation; in a flash of understanding, she was aware of desperately needing him. “
Please. Am I Elizabeth?
”

He didn't answer.

Torn between hope and fear, she lurched to her knees, clasping her hands tightly to her breasts. She swayed precariously close to his thighs. “
Am I Elizabeth?
”

His gaze slid over her. The vein in his temple throbbed visibly; he had removed his hat. “There was only one woman missing from that train when it arrived in Templeton—Elizabeth Sinclair.”

“Elizabeth Sinclair?” She fought for a memory, any memory. She fought to pierce the vast nothingness in
her mind. But she failed. Not even a glimmer of recognition came when she rolled the name Elizabeth Sinclair over in her mind. Panic washed over her. “I just can't remember!”

“Can't you remember anything?”

She shook her head wildly.

“What about your companion?”

“No!”

“Don't you even remember being on the train?”

“No!”

He hesitated. “And James? You don't remember him?”

“No!” Her control broke. Her nails dug deeply into the denim on his thigh. She was crying, frightened, clinging.

A heartbeat passed. He lifted her to her feet and awkwardly put his arms around her. Regina pressed against him, choking on her tears and her fear. His chest was slick and hot beneath her cheek. Through the mesmerizing panic, she was aware of behaving in a wildly improper manner.

“Elizabeth.” He spoke roughly, but there was strength and reassurance in his tone. “It's all right. We're here to take care of you. And soon you'll remember.”

His calm was what she needed. She let him push her away so they were no longer in physical contact with one another. She fought for ladylike control. When she had found a semblance of it, she looked up, slowly and even shyly.

He stared down at her uplifted face. It was an intimate moment after the embrace they had shared. But she did not look away, because he was all she had. “Thank you,” she whispered, gratitude swelling her heart. “Thank you.”

His cheeks reddened. “Don't thank me. There's no need for that.”

She almost smiled, wiping her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. “How wrong you are,” she said softly.

He turned away. “We had better get going. Rick should be waiting for us in Templeton. When the train
came in without you, Edward rode out to get him.”

“Rick? Edward?” Should she know these people? The names were as unfamiliar as all the others.

“My old man,” he said tersely. His gaze never left her. “James's father. I'm James's brother, Slade. Edward's another brother.”

She shook her head miserably. “Am I supposed to know you? Or know James?”

His face was expressionless. “You don't know me or Edward. But you know Rick. And you know James. You're his fiancée.”

His fiancée. She almost succumbed to a fresh bout of weeping. She couldn't even recall her betrothed, the man she loved. Dear God, how could this be happening? Pain filled her skull, almost blinding her. She staggered and Slade caught her. His strength was blatant and comforting.

“You're not okay,” Slade said roughly. “I want to get to Templeton. The sooner you see Doc the better.”

She was too overwhelmed with her circumstances to respond and only too happy to do as he wanted. In her state, which was compounded by exhaustion, she could not make even the smallest decision or protest. She let him lead her to his horse. She was beginning to feel numb, and because the numbness dimmed her fear and hysteria and encroached upon her despair, it was welcome.

“You're limping a little,” Slade said, his hand gripping her one arm. “You hurt your ankle?”

“It's tender,” she admitted, unable to stop herself from trying to summon up a recollection of how she had twisted her ankle. It was an exercise in futility. Her dismay must have showed, because for a brief moment she saw compassion flit across Slade's face. He stood inches from her and she realized that his eyes weren't black, or even brown. They were dark-blue, keenly alert, restlessly intent. They were the eyes of a highly intelligent man. An instant later the soft expression was gone, and Regina wondered if she had imagined it.