The Bride Wore A Forty-Four (7 page)

She closed her eyes, fought to make sense of
things, but her head had begun pounding as if it would split, and
she pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose against the pain.
"I have to know."

"You will. You'll know everything. It's
coming back, Kira, be patient." He drove, and kept looking
worriedly at her as he did. "You're in pain."

"It's just a headache."

"Information overload. The doctors said this
would happen. Relax, hon. We're almost there. The place is stocked.
I'll find you some pain reliever and a stiff drink as soon as we
get there."

"And some weapons, I hope." She was leaning
back against the headrest now, her eyes still closed. "I feel
fucking naked without my Smith & Wesson."

She popped her eyes open, almost wondering
who the hell had just spoken, but she knew it was her. Not the Kira
she'd come to know over the past six months, the frightened,
uncertain, confused one. But the Kira she had been before. The one
she was coming to think of as the kick-ass bitch from hell.

The place was a small log cabin, situated on
the shore of a looking glass lake. They pulled up as the sun was
going down and painting the water in liquid gold. Pine trees backed
the place, and the shapes of those same pines were cut out of the
green shutters that flanked each window. A porch spanned the front
of the place, a knotty wood porch swing dangling from its roof on
black chains.

Kira got out of the car as soon as he'd
brought it to a stop and stood there looking around, filling her
lungs with the fresh tangy scent of the pine forest. "God, this is
gorgeous."

He had been coming around the car toward her,
but he stopped when she said that, and when she looked at him, she
found him staring at her a little oddly. "Did I say something
wrong?"

He shook his head. "You never liked it here.
Said it was too far from civilization, too boring."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes skimming
the lake now, noting the way the sentinel pines on the far shore
were perfectly reflected in the water. "How could I ever be bored
here?"

"I asked you that a thousand times."

Something floated into her memory with her
next
breath, gently painting the blank canvas with a stroke
of

vivid color. "My father used to take me to a place like
this,
when I was a little girl."

Marshall—Michael, she reminded herself—put a
hand on her shoulder. "His hunting cabin in Seven Hills."

"You've been there?" She looked at him,
surprised.

"No, but he told me about it."

She nodded slowly. "I didn't though."

"No."

Kira narrowed her eyes and searched her mind,
but found no answers. "So I loved it then, and I love it now. What
happened to make me stop in between?"

His hand slid to the center of her back, and
he rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades. "Don't push.
It'll come to you."

She nodded, but she was impatient She wanted
her memory. She wanted all of it. Now. But she tried to at least
give the impression that she wouldn't push too hard. "Is there a
fireplace?"

"Yeah. You want a fire tonight?"

She nodded. "Will we be here long?"

"I don't know. I need to call in, update
our...people."

"And check on Anita—Kelly, I mean," she said
quickly, recalling the image of the housekeeper being skewered by a
bullet. "I hope she's all right." She blinked then. "She wasn't
really a housekeeper, was she?"

He lowered his head, digging a hand into his
pocket.

"She worked with you...with us," Kira
said.

Michael pulled out a key and handed it to
her. "Why don't you go on in, take a look around while I get an
armful of firewood?"

She knew he was trying to obey the dictates
of her doctors, trying not to fill her in on things she would be
better off remembering on her own. And she could tell it wasn't
easy for him. So she stopped pushing and took the key, opened the
door, and stepped into the house.

The entire place smelted of pine and cedar,
and she inhaled deeply and let that scent tickle memories to life.
She saw herself, pacing this very floor, back and forth over the
wood, and the old-fashioned braided oval rug that covered most of
it; back and forth in front of the huge fieldstone fireplace;
pausing at the large picture window on the far side, to stare down
toward the lake where Michael was relaxing on the dock with a beer
in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. She heard herself
mutter, "How can he be so content to just
sit there!"
Then
as she watched, he turned back toward the house, almost as if he
could feel her there, watching him, and he blew her a kiss. Her
heart went soft, she smiled a goofy smile, grabbed her jacket, and
headed out to join him, thinking she could even bear this
godforsaken wilderness, if he were with her.

For just a moment the emotion she had felt
then came alive in her heart. For just an instant, she was filled
to bursting with an overwhelming love so powerful it rocked her.
She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to slow her suddenly rapid
heartbeat, and turned slowly when she heard him come inside.

He met her eyes. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

He didn't look as if he believed her.
Crossing the room, he set the armload of wood into a metal rack
made to hold it, which stood beside the fireplace. Then he
straightened and brushed off his jacket before taking it off.

"We were...close," she said softly. Her heart
was still racing, her stomach in knots. "Our marriage, it was a
good one."

He moved toward her, touched her shoulders.
"The best."

She closed the space between them, sliding
her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.
"This must have been so hard on you."

"Nothing compared to what it's been for you,
Kira." He returned her embrace, gently rubbing her back with one
hand, stroking her hair with the other. "Just take, it easy. Just
let the memories come."

"I would if they, weren't being so damn
stubborn." She
sighed and closed her eyes.

He held her a little tighter, then drew a
deep breath. "I have to make that phone call. And I don't know
about you, but I'm starved."

"Me, too." She loosened her grip, stepped
away, but not without a twinge of regret. It felt right, being in
his arms. "I'll go see what I can find in the kitchen while you
make your call."

"All right."

Kira headed through the large room and into
the kitchen off to one side. There had been a room off the other
side, too, she realized as she stepped into the kitchen. And she
thought it was a bedroom, with a bath attached, but she wasn't sure
if that was a guess or a memory. An instant later, she knew it was
a memory, because the images flooded her mind. Images of her and
Michael, wrapped in each other's arms, a tangle of naked limbs on a
bed whose four posts were knotty pine logs. She stood still in the
middle of the kitchen, assaulted by a hunger that had nothing to do
with food. It was a hunger for the man in the next room—a man who
was a stranger to her.

He hadn't been kidding when he told her the
place was stocked. The kitchen held a freezer, packed full of meats
and vegetables, and the cupboards held enough canned goods to last
a year. There was no bread, margarine, milk, eggs, or fresh veggies
to go with anything, so she chose a couple of frozen pot pies and
popped them into the microwave. Inspecting the drawers she located
one that held paper, pens, tape, and batteries, and took out a
notepad and a pen, then sat down at the little hardwood table and
started making notes.

What did she know? She knew that she and
Michael had worked together for the DEA. She guessed Kelly had been
working with them as well. She knew that she and Michael had both
been in Africa, that they'd been secretly married there. And she
knew that Peter had been there, too.

And Dad.

She closed her eyes. Yes. Her father had been
there, too. He'd died there. But why?

She wrote these things down, then tapped the
pen on the pad, making little dots of ink. "Peter's a bad guy," she
muttered, and jotted it down. Apparently, she and Michael had been
investigating him for some crime. She knew that much just from the
things Peter had said when he'd been holding them captive.

But why was it that after the explosion,
after the coma, Kira's own mother had introduced Peter to her as
her fiancé? It made no sense.

And why were she and Michael keeping their
marriage secret?

And where was her wedding ring?

She set the pen down, frowning as she got to
her feet and returned to the big front room, where Michael was just
folding a cell phone. He hadn't had one earlier. "Where did that
come from?" she asked him.

He nodded toward an open door on the far side
of the room, and she went toward it, reached inside to flick on a
light switch, then caught her breath. The room was lined in
weapons. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, and holsters hung from racks
that covered three walls. A counter stood low on one wall, and it
held several sets of walkie-talkies, a half dozen cell phones,
spotlights, ammunition, and stacks of batteries.

"I guess this place
is
fully stocked,"
she muttered.

"And then some." He reached past her to flick
the light off again, then closed the door, which vanished when
shut, appearing to be just another part of the log cabin's
wall.

"That's ingenious."

"Thanks. I thought of it myself." He was
smiling, a teasing light in his eyes.

"How did your phone call go?"

His smile faded. "They haven't located Peter
yet. We're to stay put until he's picked up."

"Is that really necessary?"

Michael nodded. "Peter doesn't like being
fooled, Kira. You made him fall in love with you, when you were
married to me. He's furious, and out for blood. Our blood."

Lowering her head, she nodded. "It was all
part of a case, wasn't it? You and I were investigating him for...
something."

Michael nodded slowly, but said nothing. He
wanted to, she could see that he wanted to, but he held it
back.

"Won't my mother be worried?"

"It's been taken care of. And she's been
temporarily relocated, just in case our boy gets the notion of
using her to get to us."

"Oh."

"We'll be okay, Kira. No one knows about this
place, not even within the agency. We're safe here."

"I never thought otherwise."

"But...you still have questions. I know it's
frustrating, but—"

"Just one question. For now. And I think it's
one that you can answer without making my head explode."

One comer of his mouth turned up in a half
smile. "Okay, shoot"

"Where is my wedding ring?"

His half-smile faded. A look of longing
replaced it as his eyes searched her face. He lifted a hand to his
throat and tugged a silver chain from underneath his shirt. A gold
band dangled from the end of it spinning slowly and catching the
light of the fire she hadn't even noticed he'd started in the
hearth.

"I've had it stashed here for a while. Do you
want it back?" he asked.

Michael was holding his breath awaiting her
answer, she could see it, even though she had no idea what to say.
If she said she wanted it back, would he take that to mean she
wanted more? How could she come up with an answer that wouldn't
mislead him or hurt him? She opened her mouth, thinking she had to
say something. Anything.

He held up a hand. "No. I shouldn't be asking
you shit like that it's not fair. I'm sorry, Kira. You've got
enough to deal with. Here." He took the chain from around his neck
and draped it carefully around hers. "You can wear it under your
blouse, or tuck it into a drawer. I'll never know the difference.
No pressure, okay?"

She couldn't take her eyes off his face. The
conflicting emotions in his eyes, which he kept so carefully from
showing anywhere else. "Were you always this considerate of
me?"

"When you let me be."

"Sounds like I didn't always."

He shrugged. "Not recently, no. You developed
an aversion to letting anyone help you with anything. Said it was a
sign of weakness."

"Guess getting my brain scrambled in Africa
was an instant cure. I've been awfully dependent since I came out
of the coma."

"Not on me," he said. And it sounded a little
sad.

She lifted her brows. "I don't see anyone
else around here."

The smile returned to his face. "I hadn't
thought of that. Does that mean you're going to let me wait on you
hand and foot while we're here?"

She shook her head. "No. But I'll let you
show me how to use some of those weapons in that nifty little
closet over there."

He tipped his head to one side. "You didn't
have any trouble back at the uh...wedding."

"If you asked me how I did what I did back
there, I couldn't tell you. And I'd rather not rely on my faulty
memory or gut instinct if it comes down to life or death."

"Your gut instinct is flawless, Kira. Always
has been. But yeah, I'll show you."

"Good." She smiled. "Pick out something
simple. I'll go check on our pot pies."

He lowered his head, laughing softly.

"What?" she asked, frowning. "Did I say
something funny?"

He met her eyes, his shining. "Pot pies. You
always loved those things."

"I did?"

He reached out a hand to cup her nape,
fingers brushing over her hair. "It's coming back to you, Kira.
Little by little, it's all coming back."

"I hope so," she said, and her voice came out
soft. "I want to remember you, Michael."

He started to lean closer to her, then
stopped himself. Kira slid her hands over his shoulders and pulled
him toward her, until his lips brushed hers. It was a light touch,
but it lit a fire inside her. She linked her hands around his neck
and pressed her mouth to his, felt him tremble, as he pulled her
tighter to him.