Colleen Thompson - Lone Star Survivor

Seeing how they worked as a team with Eden and how much joy the little girl, who’d started school just last week, brought them struck Ian with a sense of loss—and anger, sometimes, creeping up on him when he didn’t expect it—for the life he’d been missing out on, a life centered on a family he’d never even known he wanted. Or maybe that wasn’t true. He couldn’t say for certain these days. Along with his memory, he’d lost so much more, including a true sense of who he was.

He left a brief note on his brother’s desk, grateful that Zach would be running later than usual this morning since it was his turn to drive Eden into town for school. If he were here, Ian knew, there’d be another lecture and maybe an argument like yesterday’s, when Ian had told his brother what he could do with his advice to quit acting like a stubborn jerk and give Andrea a chance.

He did miss his brother’s coffee though, he thought as he eyed the fancy espresso machine longingly. But no way was he taking a chance on messing with Zach’s prize possession, which had enough buttons and levers to rival the fighter jets he’d once piloted.

Ian thought of heading back inside to cadge a quick mug of Althea’s simpler brew—and maybe a couple of his favorite raspberry thumbprint cookies—before he rode out, but that would bring the risk of running into Andrea since she’d been getting up earlier each day in an attempt to catch him alone. He felt idiotic sneaking around his own home—and more aggravated than ever with her for forcing him into it.

Which is why he swore under his breath when he saw her standing by the hitching post, next to his saddled palomino. She held two insulated travel mugs, one of which she offered with that gorgeous smile of hers, so white it competed with the glorious September dawn. Sleek and straight, her dark brown hair had been brushed back, with a clip keeping the front sections out of those long-lashed hazel eyes he’d always loved.

“Peace offering,” she said, looking more casual today in a pair of jeans that drew his eye to other favorite parts of her anatomy. Places he’d awakened hot and hard from dreams of touching, tasting and claiming as his own again.

When he reached for the mug, she didn’t let go, locking in on him with a take-no-prisoners gaze instead.

“Didn’t realize there’d be strings attached,” he said, looking at her almost straight on, since she wore a pair of riding boots that brought her to within a couple of inches of his own six-four.

“Life is a series of negotiations, Ian. The question is, what will you bring to the table?”

He lowered his hand and shook his head. “Thanks for bringing out the coffee, but I prefer mine black, not tarted up with a bunch of shrink talk. Or any talk at all, as far as that goes.”

“Then how ’bout if we ride instead? Just ride and see how that goes?”

He chuckled to himself, getting the point now of the boots and jeans. “You really think you’re up to riding fences with me all day?”

“I want to try.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to play nursemaid to some greenhorn. Or ride back for a ladies’ room when we’re a couple hours out.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he felt a stab of regret. He was being a jerk, he realized, punishing her for... Had she broken up with him, or was he the one who’d left her? When he reached back for the memory, he found only a black fog of loss and pain—that, and the nameless anxiety that stalked him day and night.

There’s something important you’re forgetting. Something so big, the weight of it will crush you flat when it finally comes.

“You don’t know what you want, Ian. That’s the problem. But I might be able to help you with that.”

“I want to be left to my work, alone. And that’s not gonna change, not even if you start staying up all night to try to catch me before I ride out.”

“I’m coming with you,” she insisted.

“Do you even know how to saddle a horse? Or where we keep the tack?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Well, no. I was hoping you could help with that part.”

“But you’ve ridden before? I see you’ve got the boots for it.”

Her cheeks reddened. “Well, actually, Jessie was nice enough to lend me these. Turns out we wear the same shoe size. And she’s tied up doing some research for a story she’s been working on, so she told me I could take her horse, too. Um, Princess, I think her name is?”

He felt a tug at the corner of his mouth. “My five-year-old niece named her, which means she could’ve done a lot worse, considering that Eden calls the barn cat Fizzy Fuzzbutt.”

“So you do still smile,” Andrea said. “In a nice way, I mean. Haven’t seen that for a long while.” Emotion rippled through her words, real emotion as the mask of compassionate professionalism slipped a little. “I’ve really missed that, Ian. Missed the man I knew.”

“That man’s gone forever.”

She nodded, her eyes somber. “You’re right, I’m afraid. Experience changes people. Even experiences you’re not ready to remember.”

“I’m ready. More than ready. I just— It’s gone, no matter what I do. No matter how hard I try.” He shook his head, his sore fist curling—the same fist that had punched through the wall of his bedroom in frustration. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

“I don’t think anyone has all the answers. In a lot of ways the mind’s still the same uncharted wilderness it was in Freud’s day. But I may have a few insights for you...if you’d like to hear them.”

His knee-jerk reaction was to shut her down, to say hell, no. But something in the way she’d looked at him in that single, honest moment had touched off a yearning to see more of the real Andrea, the same woman who still lived in his dreams.

Besides that, he was getting sick of himself, of the way he had been acting. And if she knew something that might change that...would it really hurt so much to try?

He reached out for the coffee, their fingers brushing as he took it. Her skin felt so soft and tender beneath his calluses. So warm.

Taking a sip of the dark brew, he was relieved to find it black and bitter.

When he murmured his thanks, she shrugged. “I remembered how you took it.”

“As opposed to yours...right?” he asked, as an image of her pouring cream into a porcelain mug came out of nowhere. She’d been wearing a loose white robe, her hair a jumble around her shoulders. Her lips were puffy and her smile warm, her eyes misted with a contentment that told him they’d just made love that morning.

A sense of loss sent a pang through the hollow of his chest. Of all the people the government could have sent to see him—and he felt sure they were behind this, somehow—why did they have to torture him with her?

“You’re right,” she confirmed, smiling sheepishly. “Two sugars and real cream whenever I can get it. I still eat pretty healthy, but I’m hopeless on that front.”

“I’ll saddle your horse, Andie—”

“Please, call me Andrea. All right?”

Ignoring her, he finished. “If you’ll agree to wear a riding helmet. Horses can be dangerous enough when a person knows her way around ’em.”

“So if I agree, you’ll take me?”

“Only because I want to get my brother off my back about it. Well, that and to see how you walk tomorrow morning.” Ian smiled, figuring it would be no hardship to watch the sway of her hips under any circumstances.

She winced and said, “Oh, boy. I haven’t ridden very much, but I do remember that part.”

“It only lasts a few days. Then you’ll get used to it. Or die.”

“You are teasing about that last part. Aren’t you?”