Trying not to moan out loud whenever she hit a bump, he speculated about what she'd do if she found out he was suffering from some kind of temporary amnesia. Probably call the local gendarmes. Being grilled by the cops when he had no answers for them was the last thing he needed to deal with at this point. He was exhausted and scared, and his gut told him they wouldn't be able to help.
Not that he needed anyone meddling in his businessâor poking around in his head. He was used to handling things on his own. He might not know much, but somehow he knew that.
He thought back over how he'd acted since she first rescued him and what he'd told her. Damn little. Did she suspect anything? Probably not or she wouldn't be taking him home with her like a stray cat she'd found. It didn't sound as though she had three strong brothers or a husband to protect her, either, or she wouldn't be so worried about getting her stock fed.
He glanced at her sharply. She was taking a chance with him. He puzzled over that, wondering about her. Not everyone would have stopped to help, especially a woman all by herself. Did that make her a fool or a saint? And was he a good guy or a bad guy? He had no idea. How could you tell if you were a decent person?
He glanced at his sore knuckles. He'd hit someone. He couldn't remember who, or why, but he could recall the feeling of his hand smashing into flesh and bone. He struggled to picture a face, any face, and failed.
Fear bubbled up inside him. What if he was in some kind of serious trouble? He might still be in danger and he'd never know it He could be putting this woman at risk, as well. Perhaps he'd had a falling-out with someone, had fought with them and been left here. Nervously, he looked around. Then another thought chilled him. What if he was on the run, a fugitive from the law? Rejecting the idea as quickly as it took shape, he tried hard to penetrate the darkness surrounding his mind like a thick fog, but it expanded around him, threatening to suck him in. Pain speared his head and he was forced to give up, at least for now.
Until he remembered something, who he was and what had happened to him, he needed to keep a very low profile. The problem would be getting Leah Randall to cooperate.
His stomach lurched, sending bile into his throat and making him dizzy. He reached out a hand to the dash to steady himself and stared at his bloody knuckles. Was he a violent man?
“You okay?” Leah asked. “You feel sick? Try to hang on. We're nearly there.”
He nodded tersely. “I'm fine.” Well, it seemed he could lie if he needed. Somehow he'd have to persuade her not to tell anyone he was here until he figured out what was going on. So far she hadn't asked many questions, but he doubted her restraint would last. She must be wondering, and he'd better come up with a plausible story or she
would
get suspicious.
He'd figure out something, just as soon as his head stopped pounding.
They were approaching some buildings illuminated by the light from an overhead pole. For just an instant, he panicked and thought about taking her truck and leaving. He'd have to tie her up so she couldn't get to the phone.
What the hell had gotten into him? The whole idea was absurd. She'd stopped to help him. The idea of hurting this woman made his stomach roll more alarmingly than before, and he had to swallow hard to keep from disgracing himself.
His reaction gave him hope that he wasn't a hardened criminal, but it didn't rule out the possibility that he might have been involved in some kind of trouble. People got sucked into things they couldn't control. Again that feeling of helpless frustration washed over him. His hands shook. Quickly he clenched them at his sides, the right one aching sharply when he did and pain shooting through his head. He sensed that on the other side of the black void lay something he didn't want to face, but damned if he could get any kind of fix on what it was.
As the woman braked the truck, a black-and-tan dog ran into the driveway, barking noisily. The man started to open his door. The dog, a big fella with shepherd blood, caught his scent and bared its teeth.
“Duke!” she scolded. “Be a good boy.”
Instantly, the dog circled around to her door, bushy tail wagging. A memory shimmered through John's head and was gone again before he could grasp it. Did he have a dog? Was that why he knew this one was part shepherd?
“Can you get out by yourself?” she asked him. “Duke won't hurt you.”
“I'm okay.” His head was throbbing badly now, nearly more than he could stand. If she saw his pain she'd insist on calling the doctor. Carefully, he eased himself out of the truck. Perhaps, if he could convince her he felt okay, she'd just let him bed down in the barn until morning. Surely his memory would return by then. He'd figure out what to do next and then he'd be out of here, thumbing if she couldn't give him a lift to town.
“Come inside,” she urged. “I want to look at that wound under better light. Have you eaten? Do you want some coffee?”
Of course he couldn't remember when he'd eaten last, just knew he wasn't hungry. “No, thanks,” he managed to reply through the pain that was rapidly turning into a red haze. “I'd take a glass of water and some aspirin, though.”
She smiled, just a gentle curving of her lips. Her eyes were a light clear blue with no hint of gray. Despite his pounding head, he revised his opinion about her attractiveness.
“We'll take care of you.” She led the way up the steps of the small farmhouse and opened the front door. John noticed it hadn't been locked and wondered why that surprised him. Did it mean he wasn't used to local customs? That he really wasn't from around here, just as he'd told her?
When she switched on a light in the small living room, another wave of dizziness nearly toppled him and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“Sit down here,” she said, taking his arm and steering him toward a couch covered with a striped blanket. “I'll get you that water.”
When Leah came back into the room with a brimming glass and the aspirin bottle, the couch was empty. She glanced around and saw John standing by the window near the telephone. He was pale, but at least the wound on his forehead hadn't started bleeding again.
“Did you want to use the phone?” she asked. He probably had family or someone who would worry when he didn't show up.
“No, thanks,” he said through gritted teeth. His hands were braced on the small table and she noticed that he wasn't wearing a ring. “Look, if you'd just clean the wound and slap a bandage on it, I'd be grateful.” His voice was low and strained. He sounded like a man nearing the end of his rope.
Leah handed him the glass and he drained half the water. “It could need stitches, or you might have a concussion,” she argued, reaching past him for the phone. “Don't you want to report whatever happened to the sheriff?”
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and she froze, realizing as Duke began to bark that she'd left him outside. Her gaze locked with John's. His eyes, she noticed irrelevantly, were hazel. Right now they were boring into hers.
“All I need is rest,” he insisted.
Sudden fear trickled along her spine, but she refused to give in to it. Instead, she pulled away from him. “Let me go!”
He released her instantly and stepped back. “I'm sorry.” He ducked his head. “Look, I'm not up to dealing with questions and paperwork, not tonight. Waiting until morning won't make that much difference.”
Automatically, Leah handed him the aspirin. She wanted to argue further, but Duke had started to raise a ruckus outside, barking in earnest and scratching at the closed door. When she let him in, the dog plastered himself to her side. A low growl rose in his throat and the hair along his spine lifted as he stared at John. Murmuring softly, Leah petted his broad head.
Duke had been dumped at the end of her road two years ago, starving and beaten. She had nursed him back to health and now he was utterly devoted to her. “It's okay,” she soothed, watching John as he gulped down several aspirin.
“I'm sorry,” he repeated when he'd washed down the pills with the rest of the water. “I didn't mean toâ” Cheeks stained a dusky red, he spread his hands helplessly. “I hope I didn't scare you.”
As if she would admit it. “You didn't. Besides, Duke will tear you apart if you try anything.” Good thing John couldn't know the dog was all teeth but no bite. Someone in his past had abused him. Even the barn cats terrified him. They stole his food from under his nose while he shook with fear. Leah could feel him trembling now, but the man didn't need to know that.
Her father's gun was in the drawer by her bed and the rifle was by the back door. She could probably get to one of them if she needed to, but she didn't think this man was really a threatânot the way he'd flushed with embarrassment after grabbing her wrist. Not the way he sank back down on the couch now, as pale as skim milk.
“I guess I can understand how you feel about calling the sheriff, but whoever hurt you is getting away. While I'm looking at your head, you'd better tell me exactly what happened,” she said. “Can you make it to the bathroom? The light's better in there.”
John followed her meekly and sat on the closed toilet lid. The tiny room was crowded with the two of them and Duke all squeezed into it. The dog's presence lent her moral support, at least.
Gingerly, Leah cleaned the wound on John's temple with a wet cloth while he sat unmoving. As she washed away most of the blood, she was relieved to see the injury wasn't as bad as she'd first thought. Maybe he was right about the doctor. The area was swollen, but the damage appeared fairly minor. “It might leave a scar,” she cautioned.
John made one of those macho snorts that indicated he was too tough to be concerned with such things. “Got any antiseptic?” he asked. “That and a bandage is all I need. And a decent night's rest. By morning I'll be fine.”
“You still haven't told me what happened out there,” Leah persisted. “Were you hitchhiking?”
She'd rested one hand on his wide shoulder as she cleaned his forehead. Before she moved it, she felt the muscles go rigid under her palm.
“Yeah, I was hitchhiking,” he replied. As she rinsed out the cloth, he lapsed into silence.
“And then what happened?” she prompted, dabbing the wound with a cotton ball. Honestly, prying information out of him was like getting Duke to talk.
“Happened?” John echoed as she surveyed her handiwork.
“Yeah,” she urged. “What happened next? How did you get from hitching a ride to lying in my driveway with a bump on your head?”
“Oh, that.” He frowned. “We argued. He didn't want to take me any farther. When I got out of his truck I must have tripped, hit my head on a rock.”
Leah gaped at him, the roll of tape in her hand nearly forgotten. “And he drove away?”
John shrugged. “Guess so.”
Indignation flooded through her. “Well, you have to call and report him,” she insisted as she taped a gauze pad on the cut.
“For what?” John demanded. “He gave me a ride. He let me out. What laws did he break?” His gaze was steady on hers and his eyes appeared to be evenly dilated. Did that mean he didn't have a concussion? She wasn't sure.
Before she could argue, he got to his feet and brushed past her. “Thanks for fixing me up,” he said.
Leah trailed after him back into the living room. Suddenly Duke whined. He was standing in the kitchen with his front paws on the counter below the cupboard where she kept his canned food. Remembering the chores that still awaited her, Leah glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner.
John must have noticed. “Look, if you'd just let me bed down in your barn tonight, I'd be much obliged. Before I leave in the morning, I'll help you out around here. You must have some work I could do to repay you, especially if you live alone.”
The poor man must be exhausted, she realized guiltily. No doubt what he needed most was rest, and she'd been playing twenty questions.
“I appreciate the offer,” she replied, “but I really don't think you're going to feel like cleaning stalls tomorrow.”
He shrugged. “Whatever needs doing, I can do,” he insisted. “Maybe I could stick around for a few days, help you out.”
“Isn't there somewhere you need to be?” Leah asked. And how was he going to get anywhere without a car? She supposed she could give him a ride to the bus station in town, but the idea of another pair of hands pitching in was sorely tempting. Maybe she could take him the day after, on her way to work, instead.
“I'm in no hurry,” John replied, puzzling her. Perhaps he was just a rootless drifter, after all.
Duke whined again. Leah realized how late it was getting and how tired she was. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be no different. She searched John's face, wanting desperately to go along with what he'd suggested, but not sure she should. Perhaps she'd give Sheriff Brody a call when she got the chance, just to be on the safe side. It wouldn't hurt to rule out escaped convicts or missing mental patients. Not that John acted like either, but how did she know for sure?