Buchanan's Pride (4 page)
Authors: Pamela Toth
“Why did you quit?” He narrowed his eyes and turned to look out his side window. “Sorry. That's really none of my business.”
Leah didn't mind telling him. Except for the patrons who came into the library, she didn't get to talk to people all that often, and she realized now just how much she missed the human contact.
Her friends were married or scattered. Her social life was a big fat zero, and most of her time was spent alone here at the ranch, talking to animals that didn't talk back.
“It's okay,” she said. “You aren't being nosy. I quit college when my dad died. He was a bullfighter. A rodeo clown,” she elaborated when John looked puzzled. “I always meant to go back for my degree, but I couldn't leave Mom here by herself.” She waved one hand in a vague gesture.
Despite her efforts, Leah hadn't been able to fill even a small part of the hole her dad's death had left in her mother's life, she thought sadly.
“Where's your mom now?” John asked.
“She lives in town.” Leah didn't elaborate. Being unable to cope with what her mother had become was one more failure on Leah's part. “I don't know,” she concluded. “Maybe I'll still go back to school someday.” It wasn't as though her mother would miss her visits.
John must have sensed that the subject was a painful one. “What was your major in school?” he asked.
“Medieval history. I loved learning about the people and their customs, their living conditions, the challenges and the hardships they dealt with. It's all so fascinating. I wanted to teach. I thoughtâ” She caught herself abruptly. “Sorry. I didn't mean to go on like that.”
“You thought what?” he asked. “Tell me.”
Leah squirmed in the seat. Why had she brought this up? “I thought I could make history interesting,” she muttered, her gaze fixed firmly on the road she knew like the back of her hand. “It can be so much more than just a dry subject in a textbook.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That's all.” She stopped the truck where she'd found him the evening before, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.
“I'll bet you'd make a good teacher,” John said as he opened his door.
Even though he couldn't know that with any certainty, his approving words gave her a jolt of pleasure. “I work at the library now,” she explained. “But without a degree, I'm just a clerk. It's a pretty small branch and the head librarian is very traditional.” That was putting it mildly. Miss MacPherson saw no reason for change and she distrusted modern technology. The fax machine the district had sent was still sitting in its original box. Leah thought of her boss as a speed bump in the information highway.
She shut off the engine. Duke jumped down from the bed of the truck and began nosing through the grass. Too bad he was no bloodhound.
Leah got out and John did the same. “So your boss looks at progress as a tool of the devil, huh?” he guessed, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the wind that had sprung up.
Leah nearly laughed out loud. “You got it. She fought against the new computer system and she doesn't think libraries should clutter their shelves with modern gimmicks like video tapes and CDs. I'm not sure she even approves of magazines.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and then his pupils darkened as he continued to look down at Leah. Her mind went blank and the silence between them stretched awkwardly until she was finally able to glance away and break the spell.
“Now, what color is your wallet?” Slightly breathless, she studied the ground around them. Anything that small could easily be hidden in the tall grass.
He didn't answer, so she looked back up at him. He hadn't moved and he was frowning.
“The wallet?” she repeated. “Black? Tan? I'd be more likely to spot it if I knew what to watch for.”
“You don't have to do this,” he replied. “I know you're busy. Why don't you go on and I'll just walk back to the house. I'm not an invalid.”
“No one said you were, but four eyes are better than two,” Leah replied. “That's what my mother always said.”
“Interesting.” John's tone was dry. “If you insist on staying, why don't you look over by the main road?”
Obviously he wasn't a man who accepted help readily. She could understand that. Since her father's death, she'd come to examine an outstretched hand with a dose of skepticism herself. To give John some space, she wandered in the direction he'd suggested, pausing to kick at a clump of grass. Some men didn't pay much attention to details like color, she reasoned. He could even be color-blind.
They'd been searching for ten minutes or so when she glimpsed something in an area of tall grass near a ditch. It was a navy blue duffel bag and it didn't appear to have been there very long. She picked it up and waved it triumphantly.
“Hey, does this look familiar?” she called out.
She thought John would be pleased with her discovery, but his face was grim as he hurried over. Squatting down, he unzipped the bag. She glimpsed some clothes, neatly folded, and a shaving kit. Too bad. She rather liked the soft blur of whiskers on his cheeks.
“I just wanted to make sure everything was here,” he said finally as he closed the bag back up. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Leah told him.
He thanked her again and tossed the bag into the truck. They resumed the search for his wallet, moving in ever-widening circles. Leah found several beer bottles, a rusted rake and an old slipper, but that was all. Eventually John straightened and stretched as if he were loosening the kinks from bending over too long, then walked toward the truck.
“Are you giving up?” Leah called. Duke trotted over to her side.
“I think we've wasted enough time,” John replied. He sounded disappointed.
“If your wallet fell from your pocket, it can't have wandered far,” Leah argued as she joined him beside the truck. She'd lost her purse once, at school, and felt as though a part of her were missing until it was returned, miraculously intact.
“Maybe someone else picked it up,” John said.
“Since last night? This isn't Times Square in New York City,” Leah said, wondering why she was so reluctant to give up. She was getting hungry, and she still had to ride out and check the cattle before the day was over.
John's stomach gave a low rumble. “Didn't you say something earlier about breakfast?” He kicked at a clump of weeds with the toe of his boot.
Leah wondered once again if his wallet had been stolen. But why would he go through the charade of looking for it? Nothing about him added up. She shrugged philosophically. Well, it was his loss and his business. “Yes, I did promise to cook,” she replied, signaling Duke, who jumped in the back of the truck. “If you're through looking, let's go.” John had worked hard in the barn; he must be starving. She certainly was.
They got back in the truck and headed up the road to the house, John holding the duffel bag on his lap. Luckily Leah had stopped at the store in town a couple of days ago. Except for the milk that had soured, her larder was fully stocked with provisions. From her mother she had learned to cook the plain food her father favored and plenty of it. John might not find it exciting, but neither would he starve.
Slowly, he followed her into the house, not sure what she expected him to do or how much help he would be in the kitchen. To his relief, his offer of assistance was politely turned down. Duke, who had come inside with them, watched him from across the room, but he ignored John's cautious overture of friendship.
“Maybe I'll take my things out to the barn while you're busy,” John suggested, eager to search the bag for clues. He hoped she wouldn't tell him not to bother, that he wasn't staying. To help her decide she couldn't get along without him, he'd worked his butt off earlier, even though his head had started to throb dully and he'd had no real clue what to do until she showed him.
What if she still told him to leave? Where would he go? Perhaps he should throw himself on her mercy, tell her the truth.
No, she'd want to call the sheriff and he wasn't ready for that. He'd been convinced that when he woke up this morning his memory would have magically returned and this bizarre nightmare would be over. Instead, except for a few vague images that disappeared before he could focus on them, his life was still one big blank. Perhaps a more thorough search of the bag would yield something, anything, to trigger a glimmer of recognition.
Leah had been rattling around in the kitchen, measuring flour into a mixing bowl while he stood by awkwardly. Now she glanced up and wiped her hands on a faded towel. “If you'd like to shower, you're welcome to use the bathroom here in the house,” she said with a little smile. “I'm sure you've noticed the one in the barn doesn't have hot water. Dad's knowledge of plumbing only went so far.”
John scratched his chin and ran his fingers over the stubble that covered his cheeks. Funny that he could remember how good a hot shower felt, but not whether he'd ever had a beardâor how long he'd been wearing the clothes he had on.
“I'd like that,” he said, “if you're sure you don't need my help here.”
Leah brushed past him and headed toward the bathroom. “I move faster alone. I'll get you some towels. When you're done, I'll change your bandage.”
John wasn't about to argue as he followed her and stopped in the bathroom doorway. As long as she didn't tell him to leave, she could climb in the shower with him and wash his back if she had a hankering.
The idea caused a rush of heat that wasn't helped by the sight of her bending over to get towels from a cabinet. All morning he'd been conscious of her as she took care of her horses. The sound of her voice as she crooned to them had drifted through the open window like a siren's song. Every time he wheeled a load of manure out to the compost pile, he got a glimpse of her moving around the corral with a simple athletic grace that was surprisingly erotic.
Until he got his memory back, he had no business thinking about her like that. He might be married, with a family. Right now some woman could be worried sick about him. Besides, if Leah realized the direction his thoughts were taking, she'd probably have Duke run him off the ranch.
Preoccupied, John stepped into the tiny bathroom, remembering only when it was too late how crowded it felt with the two of them squeezed in there together. Before he could beat a retreat, Leah eased by him. Their bodies brushed and John put out a hand to steady her. It closed on her upper arm and she froze. Her warmth soaked into his palm and he let her go reluctantly. He started to thank her, but his voice was hoarse and he had to clear his throat.
“I'll start breakfast,” she said, sounding breathless, as if she'd been running. Had he spooked her? She didn't strike him as the nervous type.
“I won't be long.” John let her go, shutting the door firmly behind her, and turned eagerly to the bag he'd brought with him. Sitting down with it on his lap, he closed his eyes and breathed a wordless prayer. Slowly, heart pounding, he peeled open the zipper. Impatiently he dug out jeans that looked identical to the pair he was wearing and several western-cut shirts patterned in a variety of blue-and-white checks and plaid. For all he remembered, he'd never seen any of them before in his life. Neither the labels nor the sizes rang a bell. He might as well have been looking at the possessions of a stranger.
Discouraged, he dug deeper, hoping for a prescription bottle or some papers bearing his name. The shaving gear was generic, the underwear a common brand. He held up a faded gray T-shirt with a logo on the front in purple script. U Dub Dawgs. What the hell did that mean? Staring hard, he tried to open his mind. Hell, he couldn't even remember wearing the shirt. Thrusting it aside, he pulled out several pair of socks and noticed that one had a sizable lump in the toe.
When he shook it, a wad of bills fell into his palm. He counted them, hands trembling, and was relieved to discover he was nearly a thousand dollars away from dead broke. Dividing the money, he returned part of it to the sock, which he rolled back up and tucked into the bag, and shoved the rest into the back pocket of the jeans he'd set aside to wear. Refusing to speculate on how or where he'd gotten so much cash, he resumed his search. From an inside pocket he pulled out a folded baseball cap. It was blue and the word “Mariners” was embroidered across the front above crossed baseball bats. Frowning, he studied the design carefully.
Apparently he was a sports fan of sorts. Perhaps a newspaper would tell him what he wanted to know, unless the Manners were some obscure high school team. A tag dangled from the cap, but to his disappointment, all it contained was the price. A souvenir? A going-away gift? Shaking his head, he put the hat back in the bag.
When he checked the inside pocket again, his fingers brushed something round and hard. He pulled out a nng. It was silver, with a modern design and a smooth black stone in the center. John narrowed his eyes, but the memories did not come rushing back. He was about to slip the ring on his finger when he thought to check inside the band. There, in tiny script, was engraved, To J.B. Love, M.B.
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