Jessica R. Patch - Recovered Secrets

Except she did and it was mind-boggling. Nothing but grace she survived. Day in and out Hollis came and sat at her bedside, talking with her even though she was unresponsive. He needed to call her something. Grace fit. Thackery was his great grandmother’s name. It wasn’t like he could call her Grace Montgomery. Then one day he was reading her a psalm and her eyelids flickered...once...twice and those coffee bean–colored eyes looked into his. For a split second it was like she knew him. Had heard every word he’d ever spoken or read to her. He thought she might even say his name, but then it registered she had no idea where she was or even who she was. Couldn’t recall a single thing and hysteria had set in.

He quietly drove through the rain, waiting for her to speak now.

Finally, she did. She told him in further detail what had happened. “Do you think I learned self-defense?”

That was the rational woman he’d come to know and admire. He smirked. “Already tossed the ninja theory out? I kinda liked it.”

Grace playfully frowned at his teasing. “I’m not quiet enough to be a ninja.”

“I’ll attest. You barreled into my office and scared my socks off.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Just in case. “It’s possible you learned self-defense or martial arts.” Health nut and martial arts or kickboxing—both great exercises. Or she may have taken it up to protect herself from whoever inflicted those wounds and had broken her body. One theory was her husband or boyfriend discovered she was leaving and tracked her, gave her the beating of her life and left her for dead. But she was wearing a red dress and heels. Someone running away wouldn’t have been in that flimsy—and slightly provocative—dress. There were other theories, but they were darker and Hollis didn’t let his mind wander there.

“What if I did kill them? What will happen?” she asked softly.

“It was self-defense.” They approached Grace’s car—no other vehicle around.

“The truck is gone!” Grace threw off her seat belt and bolted from the vehicle before it got good and stopped, darting toward her car, ignoring the drizzle. “No one is here!” Her voice held a measure of fear and relief. She hadn’t killed anyone. Good. But they were gone and that meant they could return. Not good. Hollis stood beside her and squatted, inspecting the tire.

“It’s been punctured by a blade of some kind. They must have stabbed it before you left the inn this morning, then followed you waiting on it to blow.”

“I don’t understand, Hollis. This makes no sense.”

But it might if she had her memories. “If you gave them a solid whupping like you say you did—if that was a skill they were aware of—then they aren’t going to believe you have no memory.”

“It’s retrograde amnesia!” she protested and Hollis snorted. “What? What is so amusing?”

“I doubt two probable criminals care or know much about amnesia. All they know is you kicked their butts from here to Timbuktu, and they’ve gone to lick their injured pride.”

Grace’s cheeks paled. “And when it’s been mended?”

“They’ll return with new tactics.” Likely the kind that don’t involve getting too close. That triggered a new wave of panic through his chest, squeezing it tight.

“Like the kind they can administer from a distance?”

Too perceptive. He kinda dug it. “I wasn’t going to say that but...yeah.” He changed her tire and wiped his wet, dirty hands on his jeans. “It’ll be okay, though, Grace. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

“Gonna be on me like blue on sky.”

He chuckled and opened her driver’s-side door for her. “Something like that.”

“You know,” she said wistfully, “I’m handy with a needle and thread, and that time Dennis fell into the ravine I knew how to splint his arm. If these guys are looking for a doctor... I could be a doctor or in the medical field too.”

“Anything is possible. I’ll follow you to the inn. Drive slow on the spare. I’ll have it fixed later today.”

She nodded and cranked her engine. A doctor? Hmm...doubtful, but for now he’d keep his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t sure he liked where they were going.

* * *

Inside the inn, Grace snagged a leftover cinnamon roll. She deserved it. She also deserved to get clean. Her face was a mess, muddy and streaked from the battle a little over an hour ago.

“Hollis, I’m going to take care of all this filth. When I’m done, we can get back to the facility. I need to look at the weather satellites, and I know you want to ride out and inspect the waters around the levee.”

Hollis finished off his roll and nodded. “You really should. You smell.”

“I do not!”

Laughing, he held his mug up in a salute and winked. “Maybe not, but you do look like you wallowed in mud.”

She shuddered. She had and not by choice.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” His eyes held concern.

“You didn’t. I need to clear the gunk off my face.” She headed for the kitchen door.

“Holler if you need anything.”

Her place from the kitchen was about fifteen to twenty feet. Grace waved and made her way out the door and along the sidewalk lined with flower pots—the flowers wilting at the merciless and unending rain. It was overcast but warm. After unlocking her door, she stepped inside and tensed.

Something wasn’t right. Pausing in the entry, she grabbed an umbrella from the wicker basket. Nothing appeared out of sorts. But the eerie sensation skittered across her skin. Everything inside her screamed a warning. Should she call for Hollis? The window in the inn’s kitchen was open. He’d hear. Grace surveyed the open floor plan. To the left of the kitchenette was her bedroom and bathroom. Inching toward her room, her heart galloped. Was she being ridiculous?

She toed her bedroom door farther open and stepped inside, caught a whiff of musk. The smell zinged along her memory pulling something familiar forward, but it was blurry. She inched into the bathroom, switched on the light and felt a presence behind her.

Turning, a figure loomed. Throat constricting, adrenaline racing, she didn’t wait for him to tackle her. She went on the offensive and rushed him, but he dodged her. She swung around and his back was to her. Grace instinctively thrust out the umbrella—the hook catching around his neck like a noose. She yanked—choking him—forcing him backward and toward her.

“You...always...knew how...to make...an entrance...” he sputtered and held his arms out to his side. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then what are you here for? My valuables? I’ll give you a hint. I don’t have any.” Where on earth did that bravado and snark come from or her instincts to use that umbrella as a weapon?

“I’m turning around.”

She recognized his voice now that her ears weren’t buzzing, but her heart was going wild and she itched to run. Run fast and hard.

With hands raised, Peter Rainey from breakfast faced her. “You can put the umbrella down. Really.”

She lowered it.

“I thought you were dead.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “But then three weeks ago I saw you on the national news. In the background while the SAR chief told the world they’d found the little girl their team had been searching for. It was covered almost nightly. I was in shock. Then confused.”

He was confused? How had he seen her on TV? Hollis had made sure to steer her clear from the media during that hunt for their pastor’s little girl—her scars kept him protective of her, and she appreciated that. She hadn’t found the child for the recognition anyway.

“Why did you settle down in this Podunk town? Why did you pretend not to know me earlier? And why are you volunteering with Search and Rescue and living under a tin roof?”