One Snowbound Weekend...

She didn’t want to, but she knew he was right. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “For now.”

He released his hold on her, and her hand fell to her side, her palm still warm.

“Sit on the couch.”

When she did, he crouched in front of her and poured peroxide on a cotton ball.

His touch tender, he feathered her hair back from her forehead and said, “This may sting.”

“No more than this awkwardness between us.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“You made me promise that I’d never give up on us. And I won’t.”

Their gazes locked, and the spikes of pain in his eyes stole her breath. She’d seen that kind of hurt there before, when he’d told her about his mother and the way she deserted him on his ninth birthday.

The ache in his eyes had intensified when he’d confided that he’d proposed to Delilah Clark, a girl he’d gone to high school with. Delilah said she’d marry him as long as he got rid of his sister.

Angie had held him that night, promising him she’d never walk out on him, no matter what.

Now, just like then, she wanted to cradle him. But this time, she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, she hugged her arms around her middle so she wouldn’t do anything she’d regret.

He applied ointment and a bandage, his fingertips barely glancing off her skin.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You need to take off those wet clothes.” He stood and capped the brown bottle, sliding it on the coffee table. “I’ll get you a couple of aspirin first.”

He offered his hand and she hesitated. He might not want her touch, but she craved his.

Patiently he waited, his mouth a tight line, revealing nothing. In fact, if she hadn’t seen the thready pulse in his temple, she might have thought he felt nothing.

Finally, desperate for the connection, any connection, she slipped her hand against his palm. Maybe if she broke past the barrier of ice…

For a moment, his fingers closed around hers. Warmth and longing flooded her as he slowly pulled her up.

She swayed toward him. Her hopes of him softening died in that instant. He simply steadied her, then released her before turning on his booted heel. His steps away from her seemed to echo her loneliness off the hardwood floor.

Tears from Shane’s rejection stinging her eyes, she crossed to their bedroom only to gasp aloud at the sight of it.

“Angie!” he called. “Are you okay?”

She heard his boots thundering on the flooring, but she couldn’t answer. Instead, she frantically grabbed hold of the doorjamb.

There were no traces of her anywhere in this room.

Their mismatched set of furniture—bought at a yard sale—was gone, replaced by a set of solid oak pieces. A bedspread, colorful with a southwestern design splashed on the fabric, lay across the mattress. But where was her pastel-colored quilt with the wedding-ring pattern?

“Angie?” he asked again, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Where are my things?” Pulling away, she moved into the room, dropping to her knees and yanking open the bottom right-hand drawer where she usually kept her lingerie. She found his socks and briefs.

She slammed the drawer and reached for another, where she should find belts and hair accessories. Nothing. Frantically, she yanked open a third drawer and started shoving aside his sweaters hoping to find something—anything—of hers.

“Stop.” Kneeling next to her, he clamped his hand around her wrist.

She looked up at the man she’d sworn she’d love forever, the man she’d given herself to, body and heart.

And she didn’t recognize him.

“Answer me, Shane. Where are my things? Why is there no trace of me in this room? Was our fight so bad that you’d kick me out of your life like this?”

“You’ve got clothes in the closet.”

Her breath rushed out. “In the closet?”

“On the shelves.”

She didn’t remember….

He slowly released his grip, but he didn’t move away.

“But that’s not all,” she said softly, momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. “You’ve changed, Shane. You’re not the man I married.”

“I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

He still had the same good looks, the same scar beneath his chin from the childhood bike accident, the same angular jaw, the same intensely green eyes, the same thick, dark hair begging to be mussed, the same cleft in his chin where she’d rested her finger earlier.

He was still the same, yet so much…more. “You’re harder.” Broader, stronger, more rigid. More man. “Less loving. I remember the way you’d smile when you saw me, the way you’d reach for me, the way you’d carry me in here.” Her voice broke as she finished, “The way you’d make love to me…”

He cursed softly. His eyes lightened a shade. If she didn’t know otherwise, she might have thought she’d glimpsed tenderness.

But then it was gone, and night returned to the pine-forest depths of his eyes. Swimming in a sea of confusion, she got to her feet.

“When did we get this furniture?” she asked.

“I ordered it from the Mountain Majesty catalog you like.”

Drawing her brows together, she whispered, “When?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” She reached her hand to her forehead, and suddenly it became shockingly, frighteningly clear. “The accident. Our fight… I’ve forgotten, haven’t I? I’ve blocked it out.” Her heart raced. “I’ve lost part of my memory.”

“There’s time for all this later.” He stood but thankfully didn’t move toward her. “When you’re feeling better, when you’ve rested.”

“That’s what you talked to Dr. Johnson about, isn’t it? My memory loss.”

“Angie—” he warned.

Suddenly she was more afraid than she ever remembered being. “How much, Shane? How much time have I lost?”

“I don’t know.” He spoke slowly, soothingly, his reassuring cadence the only lifeline she had to hold on to. “The doctor said it could be posttraumatic amnesia.”

Her knees weakened. “What does that mean?” She sank onto the bed she didn’t remember sharing with him.

“He won’t know, exactly, unless he runs a complete neurological examination.”

Twisting her hands together, she softly said, “And because of the weather, you can’t get me to the hospital.”

He nodded.

“So you’re stuck with me.”

“We’re stuck with each other.”

Oh, how she’d wanted him to deny it, to tell her that being with her wasn’t a hardship.

“Your memory could come back all on its own.”

She twisted her hands together. “When?”

“Anytime.”

“What happens if it doesn’t? What if it never comes back at all?”

“Don’t,” he warned, the word a soft growl. Devouring the distance in a couple of quick strides, he took hold of her upper arms, but there was nothing intimate about his grip.

“We don’t have any information, so we can’t hazard a guess. Dr. Johnson wouldn’t.”

She struggled to take it all in, but she was shivering, as if the cold was devouring her from the inside out.

“The best thing you can do is follow the doctor’s orders. Rest, and change out of the wet clothes so you don’t end up with a cold, as well.”

“But—”

His grip tightened. “Do us both a favor. Quit arguing.”

He released her, and the temperature plummeted. The howling wind and driving snow only made it worse.

Shane crossed to the closet and returned with a pair of sweatpants and matching shirt. At least these were familiar.

She grabbed for the hem of her damp sweater, only to wince when her muscles protested.

A pulse ticking in his temple, he offered his help.

“Thanks,” she said.

He eased the sweater over her head, dropping it onto the floor and scooping up the sweatshirt. As he helped her into the soft fleece, his fingers skimmed her bare skin, raising awareness deep inside her.

She glanced at him, and he refused to meet her gaze. He wasn’t looking at her.

Tears stung again, and she tried to blink them back.

“What about your jeans?”

“I can manage.” Better that than having a man touch her who no longer wanted to…

When she stood and fumbled with the zipper’s small tab, he said, “I’ll do it.”

His motions were deft and sure, not that that was a surprise. He’d undressed her dozens of times.

Yet there was something different knowing he was angry, recognizing he didn’t want to be near her, realizing their marriage was no longer the happily-ever-after fairy tale she believed it to be.

He shimmied the damp, stiff denim past her hips and down her thighs. Kneeling, he held the jeans while she stepped out of them.

Breath froze in her lungs.

His gaze swept upward as he looked at her, pausing midway up her body.

He sucked in a shallow breath, his eyes narrowing. Her body quickened in response to his unspoken need.

He touched her, gently.

Then, swearing softly, he dropped his hand, pushed to his feet and grabbed the aspirin he’d carried into the room.

Uncapping the bottle, he shook out two tablets and placed them on the bedside table, alongside a glass of water. “Call me if you need anything.” The door closed behind him with a sharp click.

She needed so much from him—needed to be held, caressed, loved…the very things he wasn’t offering.

Her head thundered. She wanted things back the way they had been before… Before… Before the fight she couldn’t remember.

She’d demanded answers, and Shane had given a few. Maybe he’d been right in guessing she was better off not knowing. His honesty hadn’t solved anything, it had only made it worse.

Finally, the pain ricocheting inside her head won. Angie gave in. Telling herself that maybe her memory would return if she rested, she pulled back the bedspread and crawled beneath the blanket.

She lay down and inhaled Shane’s scent, that of mountain air and citrus spice. Another small thing that was familiar in a world tipped upside down. She found comfort in it.

She gave a soft sigh of relief. He might be angry, but he hadn’t shut her out completely. When he’d taken off her jeans, sensuality had arced between them. That gave her a glimmer of hope.

She’d always been a fighter, and more than once Shane had said he admired that about her. Well, he’d never seen her fight like this before. She wanted Shane’s love back, and she’d do anything to get it.

The only problem was, she didn’t know where to start because the enemy was inside her own head….

She wasn’t the only one with memory problems.

Shane shoved the bottle of aspirin back on the shelf in the kitchen and slammed the cupboard door.

Pivoting, he strode into the living room, Hardhat on his heels.

What the hell was Shane thinking, allowing his gaze to caress her the way his hands once had, forgetting the way she’d callously turned and run from their vows and commitment?

Oh, it was easy to forget, when all he could do was remember the way they’d talk and laugh, the way he shared his darkest secrets with her, her responses, soft and sensual, daring and demanding…her scent, perfume and shampoo mingling with feminine temptation…the feel of her yielding to his desires….

Having her pressed against him transported him back five years to a time he’d believed in love, and more, had actually taken a leap and trusted her with his heart.

Of all people, he should have realized that integrity didn’t exist in the female species. His mother had proved that, and so had Delilah.

He’d decided never to get involved with a woman again. That resolve had lasted until he’d seen Angie at her aunt Emma’s coffee shop. Angie had served him more than a drink—she’d served him sunshine and warmth, all with a bright smile. And the concrete encasing his heart had started to chip away.

He’d thought she was different, and when she’d married him, he’d known she was different.

Two months later, he’d learned his lesson. No woman, not even Angie, had integrity.

Grabbing his coat, he shrugged into it. He’d left the pile of wood outside, and if instinct proved right, it would only be a matter of time before the storm prevented him from going outside at all.

He opened the door and icy wind lashed at him, viciously chewing on his earlobes.

Suited his mood fine.

Hardhat tucked his tail between his legs and slunk back to the hearth. The dog might be a traitor, but he wasn’t dumb.

Needing an outlet for the emotional energy churning in his gut, Shane battled his way to the woodpile, grabbed an armload of split pine and hauled it through the snow.

He opened his eyes wide in the driving wind, trying to vanquish the image of light brown hair and haunted blue eyes. It didn’t help. He couldn’t get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried.

Her arrival on his doorstep—a place not easy to find—brought dozens of questions to mind, mainly, why was she here? Was his home her destination? And if it was, why?

The Dear John letter she’d left behind stated she didn’t want him to seek her out, said she never wanted to see him again, swore she’d never loved him. Their marriage had been a mistake, their love a lie.

His gut twisted as he remembered the pain, the disbelief, the grief that paralyzed.

He still hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he’d traveled to Chicago to seek her out. There, her father had set him straight, saying that Angie had grown up, realized she’d made a mistake in marrying a poor boy and begged her father to come and get her, bailing her out of her mistake.

Shoving aside the intrusive thoughts, Shane struggled back through the front door. He was determined to find out what the hell she wanted with him, what havoc she intended to wreak, and get her back out of his life.

After stacking the first load of wood in the storage closet, he went back for a second, then third, ignoring the soft sounds drifting from the master bathroom.

She was supposed to be asleep. Then again, she’d never been great at following orders, especially his.

By the fourth trip, he’d exhausted himself battling the elements. With the door bolted against the raging fury, her soft sounds became more difficult to ignore.

Water ran. Obviously she was drinking from the same glass he’d used earlier this morning, an intimacy a wife would automatically take.

He swallowed.

She thought they were still married.

He dropped his outer clothes near the door and strode to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and stabbing the embers. Hardhat barked a protest as metal slammed against concrete.

Squatting, Shane reached for a log and tossed it on the grate. It promised to be a long day, even longer evening with his ex-wife tucked between his sheets.

Three

She was the same woman, yet totally different.

Toward evening, he stood in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the jamb, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept…on his side of the bed.

Firelight from the living room flickered on her light brown hair. The strands sifted across the pillow, inviting his touch. “Angie?”

She didn’t respond.

He entered the room, his bare feet silent on the oak floor.

The comforter snuggled her body, tucked around her shoulders, and only her face peeked from beneath the warmth of down. Shane reached to shake her awake, but stopped, captivated by the light playing on her face.

The cut looked obscene against the paleness of her skin, and he’d do anything to take that ache away from her. No one deserved to be hurt like that.

Without thinking, he succumbed to temptation, feathering his fingers into her hair, letting the rumpled strands wind around his knuckles like he used to.

Before he could pull his hand back, her eyes flickered open. A slow smile slipped across her lips, and they parted in silent greeting. “Shane…” Reaching up, she stroked his hand, as if they were lovers. “Are you coming to bed?”

Instinct warned of danger. “No.” He loosened his grip on the silky lock of hair. No matter how tempting she was, no matter how he suddenly wanted to forget her desertion, he wouldn’t get tangled in her web. He’d done that once and it had cost him his heart. “I made you some soup.”

“Soup?”

“Chicken noodle. Figured it’s always good when you’re not feeling well.”

She blinked, as if remembering the last few hours. The welcome in her eyes and on her mouth faded. “Oh. I’d forgotten.” Her hand dropped away from his.

He shouldn’t want her touch, not when he intended to get her back out of his life. “I’ll bring it to you.” He returned to the kitchen, hoping he’d find sanity there.

Slamming drawers and cupboards, he ladled the warmed soup into a bowl, then piled everything on a tray, grabbing a box of Saltine crackers from the counter on the way back to his room.

She wiggled into a sitting position, the comforter peeling back to reveal that she was wearing one of his T-shirts. Old and faded, the white cotton conformed to her, and her breasts pushed against the fabric.

While he’d brought in the firewood, she’d been doing more than drinking a glass of water. She’d been undressing.

An image of their past flashed in his mind. When she’d slept in anything at all, it had been one of his T-shirts and nothing else.

And she would still think it was okay.

That meant that beneath the covers, her long, shapely legs were bare. It felt like a hammer to the gut when he remembered the feel of those legs, wrapped around his naked waist as they sweetly made love.

“I hope you don’t mind me changing,” she said, as if reading his mind. “I was too hot in sweats.”

“Sure,” he lied. Forcing himself to refocus, he slid the tray onto the nightstand and saw her discarded clothes on the floor, the silk and lace of her bra on top of the pile.

His mouth dried.

“Thank you,” she said softly, the words huskily drawn across a sleep-rubbed voice. “You’re too good to me.”

Shane offered her a cup of tea, two sugars stirred in, the way she always drank it.

She wrapped her hands around the mug, sipped from it, then wrinkled her nose. “I drink it black.” She blinked. “Don’t I?”

“You tell me.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

Angie frowned, her brows pinched as if in pain. Her hand shook as she slid the tea back onto the tray.

She wrapped her hands across her shoulders again, in the same protective way she had earlier. She hadn’t done that when he’d known her before. Just how much, he wondered, didn’t he know about her?

He’d thought he knew every part of her, how she cried out his name when she teetered on the brink of fulfillment, the way she wiggled next to him, stealing the sheets and seeking his heat after they made love, the way her eyes darkened, like a storm on an alpine lake, when she shyly initiated intimacy.

But he hadn’t known a thing about her, not really. He hadn’t suspected she could run away from him, leaving behind her clothes, a scrawled letter and a diamond ring that winked damningly in the dull autumn light. He hadn’t known that her courage and declarations of love had all been a lie.

“Your soup’s getting cold.” He turned to leave.

“Shane.”

He paused, but he didn’t look back.

“I can’t fix our problem if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” Her voice was a low, husky plead.

He told himself it had no effect on him. “It can’t be fixed, Angie.”

Her head roared and blood thundered against her temples, echoing Shane’s words. It can’t be fixed.

She pressed the aspen leaf against her breast, holding on to the feelings she’d had that day when she’d scooped the hair from her neck and he fastened the clasp at her nape.

Closing her eyes, she tried to fill in the blanks, only to come up empty. She remembered meeting him at Aunt Emma’s coffee shop, the way his eyes had narrowed speculatively with distrust when she smiled at him. That hadn’t stopped her, though. She’d smiled even brighter.

He’d returned the next day and asked what her name was. By the third day, he confessed he’d never drunk coffee before that week. On Thursday, their hands had accidentally touched; on Friday, he’d invited her out on a date.

Her pulse had taken flight. He was so tall, so handsome, so enigmatic, so different from any other man she’d ever met. Man and earth combined in Shane. He was everything she’d fantasized about as a young girl.

She’d said yes immediately, thrilled to know he was interested in her as a woman, not as an heiress. She’d had enough of expectations and she’d longed to live her life in her own way. Shane was part of her new life.

She recalled their fourth date. Shane had taken her to the county fair, where he’d given her the aspen leaf, a gift that meant more than all her fancy jewelry simply because he’d wanted her to have it.

She remembered his heart-stoppingly romantic proposal, their midsummer wedding beneath the sun and trees, the thrill and fear of wondering if she was pregnant, then…

Nothing.

Warm air whispered from the floor vents, but that couldn’t stop goose bumps from sliding up and down her arms. It was winter now, meaning she’d lost at least a couple of months. So what had happened that was so bad between then and now?

He said their argument couldn’t be fixed, and yet…

Was it possible her memory loss was a blessing?

She continued to hold the aspen leaf—a promise of forever—close to her heart.

Maybe, with nothing to hold back her true emotions, her honesty could find Shane’s heart.

Angie was nothing if not a strong and determined woman. And now she had a mission, getting her husband back.

After gingerly climbing from bed, she grabbed the post, waiting for the world to right itself.

She slid into her undergarments slowly, then pulled on the sweatpants and shirt, and borrowed a pair of his thick socks from a drawer before moving into the living room, toward her future.

Shane stared out the window and she moved up behind him. Hardhat, the adorable Labrador, cocked his head to one side. One ear flopped over endearingly. She smiled. At least the dog didn’t mind having her here.

Before she reached Shane, he turned, facing her with a formidable frown.

The hand she’d been reaching toward him fell to her side.

“You should be in bed.”

“Only if you’ll join me.”

The frown deepened. “Angie,” he warned.

“I want to know where I stand with you. Do you want a divorce?” Despite her best efforts, emotion ran her words together into a breathless blur. “I don’t think I could bear that.”

“It’s too late for that discussion,” he stated flatly.

“Don’t you want me?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling strands back from his face and emphasizing the fine lines grooved beside dark green eyes.

Frightened of the answer but needing to know, she asked, “Is that it? You don’t find me desirable anymore?”

His gaze swept up her, holding nothing back. He lingered at the swell of her breasts, looking at her for a long, long time, long enough for her nipples to tighten with want.

“Hell, Ang, a man would have to be blind to not want you.”

“Did you kick me out of the house?”

“No.”

“Then I left you.”

Silence roared.

“Yes.”

Terror tapped a staccato in her veins. “But I’d never do that, not after what your mother did.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

She shuddered. All of a sudden, she was no longer certain of anything. “Why? Why would I do that to you? To Sarah? To us?”

“You were playing house with a poor boy and decided you didn’t like it. Your future with a social equal was more important than your sworn promise to me.”

She shook her head. “It’s not possible. I don’t believe it, Shane, I can’t.”

“I’ve got your note, Angie.”

“Note?”

“A Dear John letter. An excuse, no apology.”

From the other room, the teakettle shrilled. She seized the opportunity to escape him, fleeing into the kitchen.