Caroline Burnes - Familiar Obsession

From the pocket of his jeans he drew out the worn business card. Liza Hawkins, artist. 225 St. Ann. New Orleans, Louisiana. It was the only personal possession that had been on him when he woke up in a North Dakota hospital five years before. He’d been found, beaten into unconsciousness, in a boxcar at a small train depot. Three days later, he’d regained consciousness in the intensive care unit of Dola County Hospital. From there, fate had taken hold of him with a benevolent hand.

He replaced the card and continued to examine the painting, moving slowly around his rented apartment until he’d visited all five of the canvases he’d purchased in the past five months. All were Liza’s, and all depicted French Quarter scenes that somehow seemed to Mike to be a part of his personal history.

That was why he was in New Orleans—to find his past. He wasn’t certain he was in the right city or the right state, but it was the only place he knew to start.

The sharp ring of the telephone drew him out of his thoughts. When he answered, he felt his face melt into a smile.

“Rachel,” he said, instantly picturing the elderly woman who’d seen him in the hospital and somehow found it in her heart to want to help. “I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Perfectly fine.”

“Bristo’s been standing in the corral looking out toward the range,” Rachel Welch said. “He’s pining for you, Mike. We’re missing you, too. It’s calving season and we’re feeling the pinch.”

Mike’s smile increased. Rachel Welch was using both barrels to make him feel bad—his horse and the fact that all hands were needed during calving season on the ranch he might one day inherit.

“You know I’d be there if I could. I have to finish this. I want to be certain I’m the man you and Gabe think I am—the man you treat as your son.”

There was a pause. “You think you have to finish it,” Rachel said slowly. “Mike, whatever you were in the past, you are a son to me and Gabe now. Whatever you did, it doesn’t matter to us. I’ve never known a better judge of a man than Gabe Welch. You’ve won his respect, Mike. And his heart. That’s what matters, not a past that you can’t even remember.”

“It matters to me,” Mike said slowly. “I don’t even know my real name.”

“Mike Davis has worked here for five years. It’s a good enough name.”

“Rachel, I tried to move on. You know I did. But I can’t go forward until I know my past.”

“I told Gabe he shouldn’t have put you on the spot about the ranch. I told him just to make out the will and leave it all to you without telling you. None of this would have come up.”

Mike hesitated. There was a certain amount of truth in Rachel’s accusation. He’d settled into ranching, acquiring the skills and the tremendous knowledge it took to keep cattle alive and thriving through the cold North Dakota winters. Figuring ways to stretch grasslands and outwit droughts. In the long days of hard work, he’d found satisfaction and managed to keep concerns about his past at bay. But when Gabe had pulled him aside and told him that he was heir to the Circle C, Mike had found himself up against the wall of his unknown past. He couldn’t allow Gabe and Rachel to hand everything they held precious and dear over to him until he was certain his past wouldn’t impact his future.

“The ranch is part of it. But eventually, I would have had to learn the truth.”

“Cowpatty!”

“Rachel,” Mike admonished gently.

“Listen to me, Mike. The past can be like quicksand. It can pull you down into darkness. You and I both know there’s a reason you don’t remember. Whatever it is, you left it way behind. You have a good life up here. I’m afraid if you keep digging and digging, you’re going to find something that—”

“I have to know the truth.” Mike’s grip on the phone increased. “Don’t you see? If I can’t face the truth, I’ll always see myself as a coward, as a man who couldn’t face up to the consequences of his past.”

“Have you talked to the artist woman?”

“Not yet,” Mike admitted. Even the mention of Liza Hawkins made his stomach tighten.

“Well, get on with it. Just go up to her and ask her point-blank.”

Mike nodded, then realized Rachel couldn’t see the gesture. “I will. It’s just that whenever she catches a glimpse of me, she acts terrified. I went by her gallery tonight, and she was having a big party there. I was looking in the window and she saw me. Rachel, it was like she hated me.” He didn’t have to ask the question that tormented him. What if he’d hurt her in some way?

“If you’re going to confront the past, then do it and get back up here. I know you’ll run out of money eventually. You’ll come home to us.”

“I will,” Mike promised. “I certainly will.”

“Be careful, Mike,” Rachel added. “Already I hear a change in your voice. It’s my biggest fear that you’ll end up caught in the web of the past. Leave the darkness behind you, son. Come on home and work on the new life you have with me and Gabe.”

At Eleanor’s direction, Liza leaned back against the sofa and accepted the cup of steaming hot tea. “Do you think I ruined the party?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“‘Ruin’ is too strong a word. Let’s say that we didn’t answer all the questions, and judging from the look on Ms. Blevins’s face, she doesn’t intend to let what happened tonight drop.” Eleanor took a seat beside the sofa. “And I have a few of my own to ask. What’s going on, Liza? You were never a person given to drama and scenes.”

Liza wrapped her hands around the cup and stalled for time to think through her answer. During the past five years, she’d become more and more isolated from everyone who cared about her. Painting had become her life, her only outlet. Her life had spun out of balance, leaving only her work and her desperate longing for the man who’d disappeared five years before.

She wasn’t close to anyone, not even her parents. In those few years, she’d managed to alienate her artist friends in New Orleans. The blame lay on her, she knew. No matter how she’d tried to shake off Duke’s disappearance, it had consumed her life. There wasn’t enough left to maintain friendships. Eleanor was the only person left who’d known her for any length of time. Liza knew if she decided to come clean, Eleanor was the person she had to trust.

“Remember Duke Masonne?”

Eleanor sat up a little taller. “How could I forget him, Liza? You were in love with him. You were going to marry him. And then he disappeared.” Eleanor’s voice was sharp.

“Yes.” Liza saw the anger in her friend’s eyes. Whenever she broached the subject of Duke Masonne, her friends had one of two reactions—they hated him because they felt he’d dumped her and skipped town or they pitied her because they thought he was dead, the victim of foul play. Eleanor obviously preferred the first theory.

“That was five years ago, Liza. The cops closed the case on his disappearance. As far as everyone is concerned, he’s dead.” Eleanor waved her hand around. “You’ve moved on since then. You’ve become a celebrated artist with enough money to open your own gallery.”

Liza sat up. “You never thought he was dead, did you?”

“My thoughts don’t matter. He’s dead to you. Five years, Liza. Even if he is alive somewhere, there’s no excuse for a man who abandoned the woman who loved him and never had the decency to tell her goodbye or let her know that he was safe—”

“I saw him tonight.” Liza saw Eleanor’s reaction, though her friend attempted to mask her shock.

“Really, Liza,” Eleanor said, rising to her feet. She bent over and felt Liza’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”