Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (26 page)

Joe lay back on his pillow, but he didn't release her hand. “I suspect it was real, though. We were under attack. And I'm pretty sure it was Afghanistan. This may sound weird to you, but I remember several phrases in an Afghani dialect. How else would I know that?”

She had no idea, but she said, “It makes sense that you would.”

Once he started to talk, the tension in his body eased and his breathing slowed. Yet he still didn't let go of her hand.

She felt a yawn coming on and tried to stifle it to no avail.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“About waking me up? Don't be. I'm sure that dream was troubling. And if it helps having someone to talk to, I'm happy to be here.”

“It does help. But you're tired. Go on back to bed.”

She couldn't do that. Not when she knew he hadn't wanted to be alone. She might be tired, but she'd feel pretty selfish if she left him. “Is it okay if I just lie down next to you for a while?”

He scooted to the side, making room for her. So she stretched out on the mattress, on top of the covers so that their bodies were separated by the bedding. He seemed to take comfort in having her near and in whatever emotional solace she was providing.

If truth be told, she found lying next to him to be a bit comforting, too. She liked holding his hand and breathing in his masculine scent.

She wished she could help him sort through the puzzle pieces, but she couldn't.

As he continued to drift off, his breathing low and deep, the masculine timbre lulled her, sending her off to dreamland. Only her nocturnal visions weren't the least bit frightening.

She dreamed of a handsome soldier who'd just returned from war, of joining him in bed, cuddling next to him.

And as his arm draped her waist, as he drew her close, she breathed in the scent of bath soap and musk and slept peacefully until dawn chased away the night.

* * *

A pounding on the front door jarred Joe from his sleep, although the petite blonde in his arms had already awakened everything below his waist.

If the damn knocking would stop, he could focus on sexy Chloe and the fact that she was all soft and warm and curled up beside him in bed. But he couldn't take advantage of the sleeping woman who'd only climbed in next to him last night to comfort him after his nightmare.

Besides, whoever was at the door was obviously on a mission and wasn't leaving any time soon.

He rolled to the side, slipped out of the bed and pulled on the jeans he'd worn yesterday. Then he grabbed a clean shirt from the stack of clothes Chloe had left for him. He didn't realize it until he was about to open the door that the writing on the front of the snug T read: BVHS Marching Band—Drummers Bring the Boom.

Great. Now someone would think that he was a band geek, too.

He made his way to the living room. When he pulled open the front door, he found Sheriff Hollister standing on the stoop.

Joe greeted him, then stepped aside and allowed the lawman to enter. “You want some coffee?”

“Only if you have some already made.”

Chloe was still asleep, so there was no way she'd risen early to put on a pot. But Joe didn't want to give off the appearance that he and the lady of the house had been up lolling around in bed together until—he peered at the grandfather clock in the living room—0900 hours.

Damn. He never slept that late. But then again, once Chloe had climbed into his bed, he'd crashed.

“I'm sorry,” Joe said. “I just woke up. But Chloe might have made some already. And if she didn't, I'll make a pot.”

He hoped he'd convinced the sheriff that he had no idea where his benefactor was. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin her reputation. Assuming, of course, that she had one to ruin.

Wow. Where had that crazy thought come from? Why wouldn't she have a reputation to ruin?

As the two men filed into the kitchen, Joe got started on brewing a fresh pot while Hollister took a seat at the table.

“I take it you have more news,” Joe said.

“I'm afraid so.”

Joe expected the sheriff to expound on that, but he held back when Chloe came into the kitchen wearing her standard jeans and a pink long-sleeved T-shirt. She looked far more rested and a lot less tousled than Joe felt.

Hopefully, Hollister wasn't so astute that he'd realize they'd woken up together.

“Good morning,” Chloe said. “Did you uncover any more information, Sheriff?”

Hollister leaned back in his seat. “According to my friend at NCIS, Joe and Dave served in the same squad. They were both injured in the line of duty and sent to a hospital in Germany to recover. Since Dave was in worse shape than Joe, they were medically discharged at different times.”

“So what's the bad news I'm sensing?” Joe asked.

Hollister took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Dave Cummings is dead.”

The news hit Joe hard, but he turned to Chloe, who'd paled considerably. Her hand was on her chest, the fingers splayed over her heart. And her eyes glimmered with tears that threatened to spill out at any time. “What happened? Was it a result of his war injuries?”

“Not that I know of,” Hollister said. “I'm still investigating that.”

The coffee machine pinged, signaling it had finished brewing. Joe poured them each a cup. He laced one with cream and sugar, just the way Chloe drank hers yesterday morning, then handed it to her.

She thanked him before focusing her attention back on the sheriff.

What was she thinking? How was she really taking the news? Was she grieving for Dave, the man she'd claimed was a family friend?

“Joe, would you mind pouring the sheriff a cup of coffee?” Chloe asked.

Crap. He'd been so caught up in the news and in trying to jar his fragile memory that he'd forgotten to serve anyone other than Chloe.

“Don't bother,” Hollister said. “Not unless you have a to-go cup. I have a lot going on today and need to head back to town.”

“There are some disposable cups in the cupboard over the fridge,” Chloe said.

Joe reached for one, then filled it with coffee for the lawman. “Cream or sugar?”

“Neither, thanks. Just black.”

This time, as the sheriff headed for the door, Joe followed him out. “Thanks for coming by, even if the news was bad. I appreciate your efforts to help.”

“You're welcome. It's part of the job. I just hope things work out for you. And sooner, rather than later.”

“I'd been meaning to ask,” Joe said. “Whatever happened to my rental car?”

“Last I heard, it was parked at the county impound lot. You'd paid two weeks in advance. You can pick it up whenever you want to. The rental company would probably be willing to send someone to collect it, though, if you're not up to driving yet.”

Joe nodded, still trying to take it all in. What had he planned to do in town for so long? Or did he have other places to go?

“I think a trip to Houston is in order,” Joe said. “I'd like to see what I can find out on my own. You think your buddy at NCIS would be willing to talk to me?”

“He said he's always willing to help out a fellow devil dog. But he said that he's only at liberty to divulge so much info.” Hollister reached into his pocket, pulled out a couple of business cards. When he found the one he was looking for, he handed it to Joe. “Here's his office address. I'll call ahead and let him know you're coming by.”

“Thanks.” Joe studied the card for a moment, then added, “I doubt he'll be able to tell me anything more than he's already told you, but I'd still like to find out more about Dave—and what happened to him.”

“So would I.”

Joe stiffened. “You don't think his death had anything to do with me being hit by a car, do you?”

“I don't like to leave stones unturned. However, I doubt that the two incidents are related. In the meantime, we've contacted all the local companies who do bodywork on vehicles. If the driver who hit you was one of the locals and had been drinking at the bar, he might have left the scene so he could avoid getting slapped with a DWI. We might be able to find him that way.”

“Him? It was a man?”

“The woman who placed the 9-1-1 call said she didn't see the driver or the vehicle. But there was another witness down the street who said the driver was a male in a Silverado pickup. So we're following up on that lead.”

“So you'd still rather I didn't go into Brighton Valley?”

“Not yet. But I hope to have some solid answers soon.”

Joe nodded, then thanked Hollister again and waited until he'd driven away.

Moments later, when Joe returned to the kitchen, he found Chloe seated at the table, deep in thought. He noted her stricken expression, the way she nibbled on her bottom lip.

What was wrong? Was she grieving for Dave?

“Are you okay?” Joe asked.

She glanced up and forced a smile. “Yes. I'm just feeling...sad. I hadn't even considered that Dave...” She blew out a sigh. “I'll be fine.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, wondering why he wasn't as grief stricken as she seemed to be. Probably because he still couldn't remember the guy who was supposed to be his buddy.

They said war was hell. But so was amnesia.

“Apparently,” Chloe said, “that dream you had last night was real—and probably a flashback of some kind.”

“I think you're right.”

Her expression softened. “Maybe your memory will slowly return through your dreams.”

“As much as I want to kick the brain fog, I'm not sure I want to be plagued with another nightmare.”

She smiled, a rosy hue coloring her cheeks and brightening her eyes.

Was she thinking about how his arms had felt around her while they'd slept? If so, then another nightmare might be his undoing.

Especially if she spent another night in his bed.

Chapter Seven

C
hloe studied the coffee mug in her hand, trying to gather her thoughts after the unexpected turn of events.

Just fifteen minutes earlier, when the morning sun filtering through the blinds had lit the guest room, she'd stretched and yawned. Then she'd rolled to the side and glanced across the mattress, only to find the spot where Joe slept empty, the sheets and blanket tousled.

She'd caught the scent of coffee in the air and assumed he was in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. So she'd climbed out of bed and padded down the hall to her own bedroom. Since she'd showered last night, before turning in, she'd dressed quickly and run a brush through her hair.

Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, Joe had slipped his arms around her and drawn her close. Well, as close as the blanket between them would allow. That intimacy—as well as the memory of the heated kiss they'd shared earlier—urged her to find him, to talk to him.

Would he feel better about sharing the details of that nightmare with her in the light of day? Had the dream triggered any of his memories?

She'd entered the kitchen with a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. And when she'd spotted Sheriff Hollister seated at the table, talking quietly to Joe, her mood had soared. Her hopes, too, as she'd waited to hear the news he'd brought.

But as he told them why he'd come, what he'd learned, a dark cloud of emotion hovered over her. Grief, doubt, worry and even a splash of guilt, all weighed her down.

Dave was
dead
.

She could hardly believe it. She grieved for him, of course—for the loss of his life. But learning that he was never coming home troubled her for more reasons than one.

What was she going to do about the ranch? The bills had been mounting, and last year's taxes had yet to be paid. She'd written to Dave, sharing her fears and hoping he'd offer some direction, telling her just what he wanted her to do in his absence.

But instead of an answer, her unopened letter had made its way back to the ranch. And now she knew why. The military must have assumed that Dave had gone home after his discharge. But somewhere along the way he'd died.

A nagging suspicion, a suffocating sense of remorse, threatened to drag her down even more. What if Dave had committed suicide? And what if Chloe's rejection had contributed to the despondence that had led him to end it all?

His letter to her, the one Joe had delivered, had been cryptic, his parting words so...final.

But if you're not interested in what we could have together, then I won't bother you again. Goodbye. Dave.

Had he hoped that she'd go looking for him? That she'd tell him she'd changed her mind rather than risk losing him?

Chloe wouldn't have done that. She hadn't wanted to hurt Dave, but she would never marry a man she didn't love. Yet that didn't stop the grief—or the worry.

Maybe she should search the house to find a solution to the problems at hand. Had Teresa hidden money to use for a rainy day? If so, this would certainly be that day.

Teresa had also had a will. She'd told Chloe about it and had mentioned that her attorney, who had an office in Wexler, kept a copy of it in his files.

After her friend's funeral, Chloe had contacted the man, and he'd guided her and Dave through the process of transferring ownership of the ranch to Dave. He'd also drawn up the paperwork that had given Chloe power of attorney so she could keep the ranch going until Dave returned from deployment.

Did Dave have a will, too? If so, that would give Chloe some idea who should be notified, who would be able to look after the ranch now.

But unless she could find someone to hand the reins to, she couldn't very well leave. What would happen to Tomas and the other ranch hands? And what about the cattle and horses?

No, she needed to stay until the legalities were sorted out and settled. And while she really didn't have a place to go, she did have plans and dreams.

And sadly, as long as she stayed on the Rocking C she'd never be able to pursue her degree in nursing or to get on with her life. She may have wanted to settle down in one place, but she didn't want to be
stuck
there. And that's how she was beginning to feel.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked Joe without waiting for a reply.

Then she took her coffee mug and headed to the den to see what she could find.

* * *

Joe watched Chloe leave the kitchen in somber silence. She probably needed to grieve and wanted to do so alone. He couldn't blame her for that.

So he poured himself another cup of coffee and set about fixing breakfast—scrambled eggs and ham.

When it was ready and the table had been set, he went in search of her. He'd expected to find her holed up in her room, crying. But when he heard the sound of rustling papers in the den, he proceeded toward the open door.

He found her seated at the desk, where paperwork littered the polished oak surface. She had her back to him and was leaning to the side, digging through a drawer of files.

She didn't appear to be grieving, as he'd expected. Instead, she seemed to be looking for something.

“What's up?” he asked.

She stiffened, as though he'd caught her in the act of...well, hell, he didn't know what.

“Oh!” She lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide, lips parted and cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I didn't hear you come in.”

She'd been too intent in her search, he supposed.

“I fixed breakfast,” he said. “It's ready whenever you are.”

She glanced at the paperwork on the desk, then turned her gaze back on him. “I'll be there in a minute.”

“Looking for something?”

She bit down on her bottom lip. Was she wondering if she could trust him with the answer? Or was she feeling guilty for sifting through the ranch files?

“Just some paperwork,” she said.

“Need some help?”

“No, I've got it.”

He nodded as though it made perfect sense. And in a way, he supposed it did. She'd been holding down the home front while Dave was away. And so she worked in here. Still, she'd looked a little sheepish when he'd found her.

Unable to quell his curiosity, he asked, “Does this have anything to do with the letter he wrote?”

“No. It's just ranch business.”

He waited a moment, hoping she'd say something about the letter, about the contents. He wanted to know what was so important that he'd made a possible deathbed promise to deliver it.

When she didn't respond, his curiosity morphed into suspicion, although he couldn't exactly say why.

He nodded toward the doorway. “Well, since you're busy, I'll head back into the kitchen and leave you to your work.”

“Thanks. I'm about done here.”

As Joe turned to go, he couldn't quite shake his uneasiness. But then again, what did it matter? His amnesia had left him unsettled about a lot of things.

* * *

Joe had barely returned to the kitchen when Tomas arrived, bringing corn husks and the masa his wife had made. Joe thanked the foreman and paid him the cost of the needed items. Then he placed the dough in the refrigerator so he could make the tamales later in the day. Next, he fixed breakfast for two.

He'd just scooped out a heaping spoonful of scrambled eggs onto his plate when Chloe returned to the kitchen.

“That sure smells good,” she said. “I still think you may have gone to culinary school.”

Unfortunately, Joe had no clue about whether he had or hadn't. He took a slice of ham from the skillet, then carried his meal to the table. Chloe joined him and they ate in relative silence.

As she picked up their empty plates, Joe asked, “Do you mind if I borrow the ranch truck for the day?”

Her motions slowed to a stall. “The sheriff suggested that you stay on the ranch. And as far as I know, he didn't say anything about that changing. Where did you want to go?”

“To Houston. I'd like to do a little recon work on my identity.”

“Did he provide you with any more to go on while the two of you were outside?”

“No. But I want to follow through on the military lead.”

“That makes sense. And with Houston being nearly two hours from here, it's not likely anyone from Brighton Valley will see you. So sure. Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

He turned to leave the room, but she reached for his arm and stopped him. “Would you like me to ride with you?”

He probably ought to tell her he'd rather be alone. But that wasn't true. For some reason, it seemed as though he'd spent the bulk of his life alone. And he wanted that—no, he needed that—to change.

So he offered her a smile. “Sure, why not?”

When she returned his smile and gave his arm a gentle squeeze, he realized that he was actually glad to have her come along.

Twenty minutes later, she'd changed into a pair of black slacks that rode low on her hips, a white blouse and a pale green sweater. She'd woven her long hair into a twist that was held by a silver clip and had applied lipstick.

Looked like the cowgirl had morphed into a stylish lady who'd blend in nicely with the city folk.

No, someone as pretty as Chloe would stand out in a crowd, no matter what she did to her appearance.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said. “You ready to go?”

“Yep.”

As she headed for the back door, he followed her and watched as she snagged the key ring off the hook on the mudroom wall. Once they were both outside, she led the way to the ranch pickup and opened the driver's door.

He could have asked her to let him drive, but he sat back and let her take the wheel. Being the passenger would give him a chance to check out the scenery and to see if something along the way would jog his memory.

He didn't like the idea of taking the old ranch truck such a long distance in case it broke down. He considered suggesting that they stop by the county impound lot to pick up his rental car, but on the outside chance that someone was actually looking for him, they'd be watching for a nondescript four-door sedan.

So it was Ol' Greenie that chugged along the county road, which would lead them to the interstate.

Wait. How had he known the pickup's nickname?

The answer came to him as quickly and as naturally as Ol' Greenie had. He'd remembered a distinct voice—
Dave's
voice?—referring to the beat-up ranch truck that way.

Joe stole a glance across the seat at Chloe, wondering if she could verify what had surely been a memory.

“Does this truck have a nickname?” he asked.

She shot a glance across the seat. “Why do you ask?”

“I think it does, and I want to check my memory.”

“Dave used to call it Ol' Greenie.”

Joe nodded. “That's what I thought.”

As they continued on their way, they approached a park near Wexler. The playground was empty, yet Joe imagined—remembered?—a handful of barefoot kids wearing shorts and playing in those same fountains. He also envisioned a piñata hanging from the gazebo rafters. A birthday celebration, it seemed. But whose?

For some reason, he thought it might have been his.

He nearly mentioned that to Chloe, but why? One—or possibly two—little memory fragments certainly didn't mean much. He'd better wait until he had more to go on. But if he actually had played in that park as a kid, then he'd probably lived close by.

Had he and Dave been childhood friends? It would stand to reason. And if that was the case, then that would explain why Tomas, who'd come to work at the Rocking C four or five years ago, hadn't remembered ever seeing him. Maybe Joe and his family had moved away by that time.

Damn. He hated having to piece together bits and pieces of memory when he had no way of knowing how much—or if any of it—was right or wrong.

Chloe merged onto the interstate that would take them to Houston. They'd both kept pretty quiet since they'd driven off, instead letting Garth Brooks and Alan Jackson do the talking—or rather, the singing—for them.

When they finally pulled off the freeway, Joe checked the address on the business card Sheriff Hollister had given him.

“I know where that street is,” Chloe said. Then she headed toward the NCIS office.

They parked and went inside the building. When they stopped by the reception desk, they asked for Agent Mike Danielson, the man who held more answers about Joe's identity than Joe did himself.

Moments later, Danielson greeted them in the lobby. The gray-haired agent had to be pushing sixty years old, but his appearance gave credence to that old adage, “Not as lean, not as mean, but still a marine.”

“Nice to meet you,” Danielson said before shaking hands with them both. “Shane called me and told me you were heading over here, so I got together as much information for you as I could. I even made some copies of the non-classified stuff in case you need that later on.”

He escorted them to a cubicle office and pulled an extra chair over for Chloe. Then he handed a file to Joe. “Here's your discharge paperwork and some write-ups you had for your more recent medals.”

Joe scanned the list of commendations he'd received during his years in the service, but he was more interested in his personal information than he was in his service record.

He'd joined the military six months after his eighteenth birthday, which was July 7, the same date that was listed on his California driver's license.

Danielson confirmed that Joe had never reported being married or otherwise having any dependents. “Of course, you could have gone AWOL and gotten married,” the older man said. “But it seems like a soldier with your proven track record would have followed the rules and reported any changes to the appropriate channels. Besides, your emergency contact is listed as Stanley J. Conway in El Paso. His information is there if you want to take it, but I already tried to call him for you and his voice mailbox was full so we couldn't leave a message.”