Crystal Green - The Stranger She Married

Her tone and his damned pulsing scar made him shift on the couch. What kind of man had Matthew Shane been?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.” He paused. “I’ve wanted to come back to reclaim what’s mine, Rachel. And I’ll make up for that money.”

“You want the farm?”

She hadn’t included herself in the question. That stung his conscience, especially since he wasn’t so sure he wanted the family part.

He tried to remain unaffected by her apparent coldness. “Is this a healthy business?”

“In spite of you, we’re fine.” Rachel took a quick swig from her iced tea, capping the answer. Then, “Am I going to hear your story?”

Damn, his story. What there was of it.

He set down his beverage on a coaster. “It’s pretty simple, really. I woke up one morning in New Orleans with the mother of all hangovers. A wino was going through my pockets, but I didn’t have anything. No ID, no money. I suppose I’d been mugged. I don’t know.”

He left out one important detail. The blood on his shirt. Rachel didn’t need to know that yet. He’d been covered in the red matter on his left side, evidence of a knife wound that had sliced between his ribs. It’d been superficial, but enough to leave a slight scar.

But then there’d been the blood on the other side. The side with no wounds. There’d also been coagulated red liquid on his hands, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was someone else’s blood.

It’d kept him from going to the police to find his identity, from going to the hospital. What if he’d committed a crime? Should he have turned himself in?

He’d had no answers, had needed time to think the possibilities through, to listen to the word on the streets.

Rachel gasped at his news. “You don’t remember anything?” She paused while he shook his head.

“Damn,” she continued. “You obviously don’t know that your wallet was found a while ago. It was behind old crates in a New Orleans alley. Some random guy was using your remaining credit cards, so I doubt you were mugged for money.”

He couldn’t even feel relief at this news. He still had no idea about his past.

Rachel shot another question at him. “Why didn’t you get to a hospital?”

“Leave it to a nurse,” he said, trying to change the subject. “I only remember commonsense things, no details. Enough to get by in life. I took a job as a dishwasher, but I knew I could do something more. One night, these Texas ranchers came into the restaurant. I cleared the dishes from their table before they ordered after-dinner drinks. When I heard them talking about horses, something sparked inside me. I quit and went to Texas.”

Rachel held up a finger. “Well, you didn’t go for medical attention then but I still want you to go now, Matthew, to make sure you’re okay. Even if you’re stubborn as a mule.”

At least that hadn’t changed about him. “Do you want to hear my story, or not?”

She sat up like an attentive choir girl. “Yes.”

“Great.” His body tightened as he looked into her eyes. Eyes that reflected a man who’d obviously hurt this woman in the past. The thought didn’t sit well with him. “I got a job as a ranch hand near Houston. Menial stuff, mucking out stalls, exercising the stock. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t what I was cut out to do. My boss knew it, too, but I was a good worker.

“One day, this feisty gal—a P.I.—came into the foreman’s office, asking questions about a Matthew Shane. My boss suspected something, but he didn’t give any information. He came to my bunk that night and told me everything she’d said. The private detective left her card, and my boss gave it to me. Told me if I knew anything about this man to call.”

Matt didn’t add that he himself had done some checking about this Matthew Shane, just to see if he’d been the man who’d done something immoral to coat his hands with someone else’s blood. When Matthew’s record had turned out clean as a whistle, Matt had decided to return to Kane’s Crossing, facing his old life while remaining “Matt Jones,” the name he’d given his new identity. Even now, if he dropped the “Jones” part and adapted the last name “Shane,” he’d still be the man he’d become in Texas, resuming his former business—horse breeding—and reclaiming his sanity. Bottom line—he’d still be a nobody.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do about the wife part, though.

He looked over at her, sitting so primly and properly on the couch. She was playing with something on her finger.

A ring.

An image assaulted him, making his head swim. It was a flash of strumming guitars, bougainvillea, sultry nights spent walking down narrow streets with balconies looming overhead, the scent of saffron floating over seafood.

Then it was gone. Too insignificant to mention. But she must have seen the shock on his face.

“It’s my wedding ring,” she said, flushing as if she were embarrassed to be caught still wearing it. “Are you okay?”

He reached for his iced tea to chase the dryness from his mouth and nodded.

He stopped cold, his arm stiffening.

A little girl stood in the doorway, an urchin with a searching gaze and pursed lips. Expressions reminiscent of Rachel’s.

In his mind’s eye he saw the girl swinging through the air with the effort of his arms, her long curly brown hair and eyes—his hair and eyes—bouncing and laughing with delight. He saw her dancing on the tops of his shoes, giggling and holding on to his forearms for dear life.

“Company, Mommy?” she asked in a voice that couldn’t have pulled experience from more than six years of life.

Still reeling with the last image, Matt shut his eyes as the next one assaulted him: a platinum-blond woman and a little boy, posing for a camera, springtime smiles on their faces.

Problem was, the image didn’t look anything like Rachel and this girl who couldn’t be anyone other than Matthew Shane’s daughter. Problem was, he didn’t know who the picture people were.

All he knew was that they had to be an important piece in the puzzle of his past.

But who were they? And why had he remembered them right after seeing Rachel’s ring and his own daughter?

Matt’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, keeping pace with the throb of his scar, as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Once again, he wondered what kind of life he’d led before leaving Rachel.

R achel stood and went to her daughter’s side, brushing a cookie crumb from the girl’s face. “Tamela, I’d like you to meet someone.”

The child wrinkled her nose in Matt’s direction. He wondered if she remembered anything about him: what he looked like, what it had been like to hug him.

He only wished he could remember more.

Rachel took Tamela by the hand, leading the girl to Matthew. “This is your daughter,” she said, a catch in her voice.

At least he could hold on to the few images that had entered his mind. He dropped to the stone floor on one knee, bringing himself eye-to-eye with Tamela. He stuck out a hand for a shake. “How’s my girl?”

Rachel shot a cold glance at him, maybe warning him that he’d already gotten too familiar. Well, this was his daughter, for Pete’s sake. Again, he got the feeling that Rachel wasn’t all that comfortable with his return.

Why?

Tamela stepped toward him, ignoring his outstretched hand, widening her eyes. Matt felt like a snake behind the glass of a zoo exhibit. “Why did you leave, Daddy?”

Oh, damn. Matt didn’t know how to explain this. He drew back from her.

Luckily Rachel stepped in, leaning her knee on the floor, right along with Matt. “Daddy’s got a story to tell us, honey. Just keep in mind that we’ve still got a lot to talk about. Okay?”