in the hours since she’d regained consciousness at the Urgent Care clinic. Any vulnerability he possessed seemed to be shielded behind a rough, aggressive exterior. Having experienced his concern and having viewed the worry in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching him, she knew better than to ever think that he was a cold or careless man. She’d felt the inferno–like heat of his embrace and the strength of his desire. And she’d felt the intensity of suppressed emotions.
Brett cared for her—as a woman, not just as a friend. She knew it in her soul, despite his apparent determination to maintain a hands–off attitude with her. Perhaps his reasoning was logical, but she’d heard a false note in some of his comments, perhaps even a lie concealed within his truths.
Too restless to sleep just yet, Leah sat up, noticed her purse on the bedside table, and reached for it. She drew it into her lap and extracted her wallet. She poked through the contents once more, desperate for a place to start in her effort to reclaim her identity and also hopeful that she might trigger even the most inconsequential of memories.
After turning up the wattage of the bedside lamp, she lingered over the photographs in the wallet. A group photo of more than a dozen people taken on the front steps of a church following a wedding service—a smiling Leah stood beside the bride—hinted that she might be part of a large, loving family that resembled a recruiting poster for Viking men and their petite, golden–haired women.
Brett, who stood at the edge of the gathering, was the only dark–haired man in the group. A second photo, this one of Leah and several children seated atop a picnic table in what appeared to be a densely wooded park, gave her pause.
All the children except one were grinning, slim–limbed sprites with golden hair and fair skin. The offspring, she decided, of some of the adults in the first photograph. The exception among the children, a serious–looking little boy of about four or five, was dark–eyed, raven–haired, and sturdily built.
Leah’s gaze lingered on his image. His darker features made him stand–out from the other children. She gripped the photo, instinct more than anything else prompting her to study his image with greater care. A pinpoint of light flickered in the recesses of her mind, a teasing flicker of recognition that died as quickly as it had surfaced. Still, she peered at the child’s face. She sensed something familiar about him, but she failed to connect him to a specific past memory as she sat there and concentrated.
She reluctantly moved on to a third photograph, a posed shot of a mature couple in their late fifties. Leah saw a reflection of herself in the delicate–featured woman whose hair had gone white and whose eyes were a pale aquamarine version of her own. She felt a moment of panic as she studied a picture of the two people who had probably given her life, raised her, and cared for her until she’d set out into the world on her own.
Panic gave way to fear. Fear that she might never remember the people who loved her. Fear that produced tears she couldn’t hold back. Sobs shook her as she sank back against the pillows. Clutching the photographs, she wept for everything and everyone she couldn’t remember. She also wept for herself, although mindful of the fact that self–pity wouldn’t solve the crisis of not knowing her identity.
Leah eventually fell asleep. The image of the small, dark–haired boy stayed with her as her breathing slowed and then deepened. She took him into her dreams, and she found comfort in his presence. When she wakened several hours later, she still held the three photographs.
** ** **
After a few hours of much–needed rest, Brett used his satellite phone to call Micah Holbrook from the privacy of his bedroom.
"It’s about damn time!" Micah barked.
"Been a little busy." Brett kept his tone mild.
"Tell me… is she alright?"
"Leah’s
Brett cared for her—as a woman, not just as a friend. She knew it in her soul, despite his apparent determination to maintain a hands–off attitude with her. Perhaps his reasoning was logical, but she’d heard a false note in some of his comments, perhaps even a lie concealed within his truths.
Too restless to sleep just yet, Leah sat up, noticed her purse on the bedside table, and reached for it. She drew it into her lap and extracted her wallet. She poked through the contents once more, desperate for a place to start in her effort to reclaim her identity and also hopeful that she might trigger even the most inconsequential of memories.
After turning up the wattage of the bedside lamp, she lingered over the photographs in the wallet. A group photo of more than a dozen people taken on the front steps of a church following a wedding service—a smiling Leah stood beside the bride—hinted that she might be part of a large, loving family that resembled a recruiting poster for Viking men and their petite, golden–haired women.
Brett, who stood at the edge of the gathering, was the only dark–haired man in the group. A second photo, this one of Leah and several children seated atop a picnic table in what appeared to be a densely wooded park, gave her pause.
All the children except one were grinning, slim–limbed sprites with golden hair and fair skin. The offspring, she decided, of some of the adults in the first photograph. The exception among the children, a serious–looking little boy of about four or five, was dark–eyed, raven–haired, and sturdily built.
Leah’s gaze lingered on his image. His darker features made him stand–out from the other children. She gripped the photo, instinct more than anything else prompting her to study his image with greater care. A pinpoint of light flickered in the recesses of her mind, a teasing flicker of recognition that died as quickly as it had surfaced. Still, she peered at the child’s face. She sensed something familiar about him, but she failed to connect him to a specific past memory as she sat there and concentrated.
She reluctantly moved on to a third photograph, a posed shot of a mature couple in their late fifties. Leah saw a reflection of herself in the delicate–featured woman whose hair had gone white and whose eyes were a pale aquamarine version of her own. She felt a moment of panic as she studied a picture of the two people who had probably given her life, raised her, and cared for her until she’d set out into the world on her own.
Panic gave way to fear. Fear that she might never remember the people who loved her. Fear that produced tears she couldn’t hold back. Sobs shook her as she sank back against the pillows. Clutching the photographs, she wept for everything and everyone she couldn’t remember. She also wept for herself, although mindful of the fact that self–pity wouldn’t solve the crisis of not knowing her identity.
Leah eventually fell asleep. The image of the small, dark–haired boy stayed with her as her breathing slowed and then deepened. She took him into her dreams, and she found comfort in his presence. When she wakened several hours later, she still held the three photographs.
** ** **
After a few hours of much–needed rest, Brett used his satellite phone to call Micah Holbrook from the privacy of his bedroom.
"It’s about damn time!" Micah barked.
"Been a little busy." Brett kept his tone mild.
"Tell me… is she alright?"
"Leah’s
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