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Authors: Pamela Toth

BOOK: Buchanan's Pride
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How did he picture her? Jeans and boots? “And what's the real me?” she demanded. He didn't know her at all.
“Something soft,” he mused, walking around her in a slow circle. “Feminine. I think there's a secret side to you that likes satin and lace. Girlie things.”
His reply stunned her. Made her feel vulnerable. In defense, her chin went up. “Not very practical,” she drawled.
He leaned closer, balancing the pizza box like a serving tray. “I think you have an impractical side,” he whispered.
Leah's gaze drifted to his mouth, so close she could lean forward and—
She blinked. “Pizza's getting cold,” she said.
Was that disappointment that flickered in his eyes, quickly doused? His grin was easy, revealing nothing.
“Sure. Let's eat.” It was her turn to scamper after him.
“How'd you do on the list I left?” she asked as she followed him up the porch steps.
He stood aside and let her go in the house first. “Okay. I got everything on your list done except for replacing that post. I couldn't find anything to use, so we'll have to buy something, I think.”
She wondered if he realized he'd said “we” and not “you.” “Everything else on the list?” she exclaimed. She'd never dreamed he'd get that much done. She'd just figured working down the list would keep him busy.
He nodded, a grin slashing his face.
A few minutes later, when she had reheated the pizza in the oven and they were sitting at the table, she remembered what he had said earlier and mentioned his mother again. “You must miss her.” Florida was so far away.
A shadow crossed his face and his expression turned grim. To her utter confusion, his mouth tightened.
“It was probably for the best,” he said. “She'd been ill for a while and she hated being dependent on anyone.”
Chapter Five
“A
re you telling me now that your mother is dead?” Leah demanded.
John glanced down at the piece of pizza he'd been about to bite into. His face registered acute dismay. He set the pizza back down without answering, and Leah tried to remember exactly what he'd told her earlier that day. She was sure he'd said his mother lived in a condo in Florida—and that she liked bingo. What was going on?
“It's complicated,” he said now.
“Complicated?” she echoed. “Either the woman is alive or she isn't.” Her own mother's situation leaped to mind, but she dismissed it. Quality of life wasn't the issue here.
“It's not what you think,” John protested, but he didn't meet her gaze.
Leah sat back and folded her arms across her chest, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “You don't know what I'm thinking.”
For several long moments, she waited to hear his explanation. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. John had lied, but why? And what else had he lied to her about?
Amy was right. Leah didn't know anything about him and she'd been a fool to trust him. Even now as he sat and watched her, he was probably trying to decide what new story would work best with her.
And she had
kissed
him!
Cautiously, Leah slid back her chair and got to her feet. “I'll be right back.” To her own ears, her voice sounded brittle. The phone, right there in the living room, was out of the question. So was the rifle she kept in the coat closet. Her father's pistol was in the top drawer of her nightstand. Perhaps she could get to it before John's suspicions were aroused. She tried to smile, but her cheeks felt stiff.
“Leah, wait,” he said quietly. “There's something I need to tell you.” When she hesitated, he said, “Please. Sit down, would you? Give me a chance to explain.”
She glanced around at the heavy vase by the couch, the fireplace poker, even the butter knife on the table, looking for potential weapons. Duke was somewhere outside. If she ran, would John grab her? Would he erupt into some kind of monster? Perhaps it was better to pretend to go along with him.
Never taking her gaze from his, Leah sank back down into her chair and waited expectantly. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, to keep her hands from trembling.
Absently John began picking pepperoni slices from the nearly forgotten pizza sitting between them and stacking them in little piles. Leah eyed the door and wondered if she should run for it.
“I have amnesia,” he said baldly.
“What?” She stared, struggling to make sense out of what he'd just said. “Amnesia?” she repeated dumbly. “You mean you've lost your
memory?”
“That's right.” A flush darkened his cheeks, as though it were something to be ashamed of.
Leah sat back in her chair and expelled a long breath. Good golly. “Why didn't you tell me this before?” she asked, puzzled. Several things she'd thought odd now slid into place. His reluctance to talk about himself. His hesitant manner and his vague answers to the questions she'd asked. What a nightmare for him.
It was John's turn to look confused. “I could be anybody,” he said. “A bank robber. A murderer. An escapee from a mental hospital. I have no idea.”
No. Just hearing him reel off the possibilities and seeing the torment in his eyes was reassurance to Leah that he was probably none of the above. For a timeless moment, she searched his face, and then she came to a sudden decision. “Let's find out,” she said briskly, getting to her feet once more and heading for the phone. She wanted to believe him, but she had to be sure.
“Wait!” There was panic in his voice. “What are you going to do?”
“Call Sheriff Brody,” she replied, one hand on the telephone receiver “He's probably still in his office and he must have access to a list of missing persons. Can you remember anything? Where you're from?”
He shook his head, but at least he wasn't trying to stop her from calling.
“What about your duffel bag?” she asked. “Were there any clues in it?” As he shrugged, a sudden thought occurred to her. “Is John Brown your real name?”
He held up his hand. “The only thing I found was this. My ring is inscribed to J.B. Probably a coincidence.” For a moment, he looked so achingly vulnerable, so alone that she was tempted to go over and put her arms around him. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose your entire identity.
Then realization hit with a sickening thud, sticking her feet to the floor. He could be married, with a family. Oh Lord, how that idea hurt.
Leah felt selfish for even considering her own feelings right now. Some poor woman somewhere could be worried sick about him. He might have children who were going to bed at night wondering where their daddy was.
She remembered the way she had returned his kiss, had thought of kissing him again and fantasized about more, and she burned with guilt.
“You need to know who you are,” she insisted, picking up the receiver.
She
needed to know, too. Before she was able to dial the number, John came over and covered her hand with his bigger one.
“What if I'm wanted by the law?” he asked, voice hoarse. “What if I'm some kind of fugitive?”
She studied him carefully. “I don't believe that for a moment.”
He shook his head. “You can't know.”
“My instincts are usually pretty good,” she insisted. “But what if you have a family somewhere worrying about you? A woman who loves you and who's wondering where you are, why you haven't called her?” It hurt to say out loud, but the possibility had to be faced.
“I don't think so.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “Somewhere in here, I'd
know
if I loved someone.”
John swallowed thickly. He'd almost said “someone else.” But he didn't love Leah. It was too soon. He was just attracted to her sweetness, her energy and the way she had of smiling as though she were reaching out to him alone.
She wasn't smiling now and she didn't appear to be buying his reasoning. “Let's call the sheriff and see what he can find out.” she suggested without taking her hand from the receiver. “Okay?”
At least she wasn't waving a butcher knife at him and insisting he clear out. Sensing this was some kind of test, John stepped back, hands spread wide. “Yeah, go ahead. I guess you don't have any choice but to turn me in.”
“That's not what I'm doing,” she protested. She leaned forward and laid a hand to his cheek. “It will be okay.” Her voice was husky. Then she turned away and dialed while he waited, his guts twisting into a knot of dread.
 
“I can't find anything to indicate who you might be,” Sheriff Brody told John as the three of them sat in the cluttered office in Caulder Springs. He was younger than John had imagined, with dark brown hair and a mustache. “No one matching your description has been reported missing or wanted for anything that I can see.” As he talked, he set aside a stack of forms.
Leah looked disappointed. Part of John was relieved.
“The other thing I can do is to take your fingerprints and see if they're on file anywhere, but that will take a while.”
John stiffened and set down his coffee cup. One taste had convinced him all law enforcement officers must have lead-lined stomachs. “You mean find out if I have a criminal record?” Not everyone was as trusting as Leah.
“There are a lot of different reasons,” the sheriff replied calmly. “They would tell if you've been in the military, for example, or held some kinds of government jobs. It would be a start.”
“It's voluntary?” John asked.
Sheriff Brody's eyes narrowed slightly, but his reassuring smile didn't waver as he sat back in his chair. “At this point.” In other words, until or unless his suspicions were aroused for some reason.
An intense feeling of claustrophobia washed over John and he got to his feet. He wasn't ready to deal with this, he realized.
Leah looked up at him. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Thanks for your time,” John told Sheriff Brody. He looked at Leah. “It doesn't sound like I'm a serial killer,” he said. “Let's go.”
Her eyes widened. “Aren't you going to let the sheriff find out what he can?”
She didn't understand. The feeling of panic grew stronger. “The sheriff has been a big help.” He glanced at the other man, then back at Leah. “My memory will come back on its own,” he insisted. “We can give it a few days, can't we?” He wanted to plead with her for time, but he was loath to do it in front of the other man, who was watching them both with a professional interest John could almost feel.
Leah switched her attention to the sheriff, who shrugged his khaki-clad shoulders. “He's right. From what I know about amnesia, his memory could come back all at once, with no warning, or a little at a time in a series of flashbacks.” He made a notation on his pad. “Have you had any of those?” he asked John.
“So far it hasn't been anything that definite,” he admitted, remembering the woman in the dream. “It's more like strong feelings, vague impressions, that's all.”
“Can you give me any examples?” the sheriff asked.
“Like being pretty sure I'm not married,” John told him without looking at Leah. “I don't know why. I just feel that way.”
The sheriff studied him without comment. It was an effective interrogation technique, John realized. It made him want to spill his guts in an attempt to convince the other man he was telling the truth. With a sheer effort of will, he stayed silent and returned the sheriffs gaze with one he hoped didn't look too shifty-eyed.
Finally the other man sat forward, his chair squeaking in protest. Although his office was cluttered with cartons, files, papers, various pieces of equipment and used disposable cups, his desktop was nearly bare. There were no pictures or personal objects, just more papers, neatly stacked, a brass desk set that looked rather incongruous there and a coffee mug full of pens. A black phone sat next to a tattered Rolodex. Behind him on the wall were framed certificates that John couldn't make out and last year's calendar. It was turned to December, with a photo of a German shepherd wearing a Santa hat.
Now Sheriff Brody closed the manila folder he'd opened at the start of their interview and tapped it with his finger. John wondered what his notes contained. Just the facts, few as they were, or his observations, as well?
“Will he be staying with you?” the sheriff asked Leah.
She glanced at John, whose gut tightened as he held his breath.
“Yes,” she said after a barely noticeable pause. “He's doing chores around the ranch for me.”
“How are you managing out there?” the sheriff asked her. “I heard Eli quit.”
“That's right. He moved to St. Louis to be with his daughter. John's been a tremendous help.”
“Taylor Buchanan was in the other day,” the sheriff said quietly as he scratched his sideburn. “Asked if I'd seen you lately.”
Leah stiffened in her chair, her sudden tension communicating itself to John. Who was Taylor Buchanan? A boyfriend? She hadn't mentioned anyone. From the tightening of her mouth, it was more likely he was a rejected suitor.
“What did you tell him?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Good.” Her tone was grim. “That's how much about me is any of that man's business. If he's hoping to get his hands on more of my land, he'll have to whistle for it.”
The sheriff rose, bringing the interview to a close. “Didn't you used to baby-sit for the Buchanans?” he asked.
Leah's chin jutted out as she got to her feet. “That was a long time ago. I was a teenager. Unfortunately, people change and not always for the better.”
“There are some who'd say Taylor was just doing his duty when he turned in your father,” the sheriff replied in a neutral tone.
Leah pressed her lips together, but she didn't say anything more. John wondered if she would tell him about the situation if he asked. The sheriff's comments had aroused his curiosity.
“Nice to meet you,” he told John with a penetrating stare as he stuck out his hand.
“Thanks for your time.” John shook it firmly.
“Let me know if you want me to do anything more,” the sheriff replied easily. “There are avenues we can pursue if you don't start to remember things on your own.”
John nodded and glanced at Leah. Even being here voluntarily made him nervous and he was anxious to leave so he could ask her more about this Buchanan fellow. “Ready?”

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