Sue Swift - The Ranger and The Rescue

She released him, then regarded him thoughtfully as he swayed, obviously ill, on her doorstep. If she sent him away, he could die. In his current weakened condition, without remembering the reason he’d been sent to find her, she was sure she could keep him under control.

“Hmm. You know me, but I don’t know you…and you don’t know you. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Serenity opened the door wider, inviting him inside.

“How’s that? Do you know me?”

Her mind raced. What could she tell him? “Um, no, but I’m a psychic. Don’t worry about a thing—the cards see all, know all, and have all the answers. And if the cards don’t tell us what we want to know, we can always try the crystal ball or the Ouija board. Don’t worry—something will work.”

He gulped. That Adam’s apple again. He was positively edible, this amnesiac cowboy who’d turned up on her doorstep like a tumbleweed.

Serenity reminded herself that he couldn’t be the only person who knew the location of Lori Perkins. Feeling exposed while standing outside, she retreated into her home.

Her stomach clenched and twisted. How had this stranger found her? She bet he’d been sent to check her out and to report back to—back to—

Her mind flinched away from the thought of Hank.

Until she figured out what to do, she’d keep this stranger close. In his befuddled condition, she was sure she’d remain safe…at least for a while.

He remembered to duck as he entered Lori Perkins’s house, but that was about all he remembered. That, and the woman. But the black-and-white photo he recalled bore only a slight resemblance to this flame-haired sprite. Maybe the snapshot was old; in any event, he remembered it only through a haze of pain and confusion.

“Give me your hat.” She hung the battered Stetson, dirty with grime and a splotch or two of blood, on a wooden coatrack near the door.

“Come.” Lori led the way through a whitewashed living room sparsely furnished with a futon-style couch and a couple of cushions in turquoise and coral. A braided rag rug in the same tones covered part of the wooden floor. A row of shiny, multicolored crystals sat on a narrow mantel above the curved adobe fireplace.

“Sit.” In the kitchen, she indicated one of four ladder-back chairs drawn up to a farmhouse table. After wringing out a worn-looking towel in steamy water, she applied it to his head. She seemed nice, wincing in empathy as she dabbed at the bump on his scalp, first with hot soapy water, then with ice.

While she brewed tea, he had a chance to look at his hostess and her home. Lori’s graceful movements reflected her simple speech. The white cotton dress she wore, brightly embroidered, harmonized with the Mexican-influenced decor. She lived modestly, but had a feminine knack for making this plain place a home. The small stuccoed, whitewashed house was typical of that part of New Mexico—and from where did that strange bit of information come? he silently asked himself.

The lack of appliances struck him. No television or radio, no dishwasher. He could hear wind chimes faintly tinkling in the quiet. He had a vision of pretty Lori Perkins washing her clothes on rocks in a stream. Was there even a phone?

She stood at the kitchen counter, dripping honey into a glass of iced tea. Her back was turned.

Pressing the ice pack to his temple with one hand, he poked at a pile of papers on the table with the other. Was he ordinarily a snoop? Maybe his rudeness was the result of the bump on his head. He hoped so, but in the meantime the bills he examined showed that his Ms. Perkins used a different name. A very different name. Serenity Clare. What kind of a wacky name was Serenity Clare?

He caught himself frowning, then consciously smoothed out his expression. Who was he to judge anyone else? He could be a Stetson-wearing version of Ted Bundy for all he knew.

Aha. A cellular phone bill in the name of Serenity Clare. Civilization did extend into the New Mexican desert wilderness.

A hand with short, buffed nails plucked the papers from his grasp. “Well, we know something about you,” she said. “You’re nosy.”

He actually became hot with embarrassment. Then, when she smiled, his temperature rose even more. She had a gorgeous smile, one that could coax the sun out from behind a cloud.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She didn’t answer for a moment, then spread out her hands. “You know my name. Lori Perkins.” Placing the glass nearby, she sat across from him at the farmhouse table. Her fingers fiddled with the yellow gingham cloth. Between them, in the center of the table, stood a blue earthenware pitcher filled with a tangle of wild grasses. Their subtle fragrance perfumed the air.

“Who’s Serenity Clare?” He put down the ice pack.

“I’m Serenity. I’m a psychic, remember? Lori Perkins is, well, just a little too mundane for your friendly neighborhood fortune-teller. So please, call me Serenity.”

“Serenity.” He tasted the name on his tongue, deciding he liked it. It matched the small, friendly woman who sat before him, matched her open face, guileless smile, and calm green eyes. He noticed a small scar, pale and almost invisible, cutting through one brow. “You’re a psychic? I thought all that stuff was a scam.”

Her eyes widened.

Damn, he’d probably blown it. The woman had rescued him, taken him into her home, and he’d insulted her. “I’m sorry.”

She held up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m used to skeptics. We all are.”

“‘We’?”.

“Are you familiar with Lost Creek? This town is a vortex site.”

“A vor—what?”

“A vortex site.” Lori—no, Serenity, he reminded himself—grew animated, waving her hands in the air. “See, the Native Americans used to gather here. You can see their ancient trails in the arroyos. This place is full of mystical energy.” She leaned toward him over the table, her gaze intense. “Can’t you feel it?”

Only to humor her, he closed his eyes and tried. His headache throbbed as though a road repair crew with twenty jackhammers had moved into his skull.

He sensed the dampness of condensation on the sides of the cool glass of iced tea in his hand. He opened his eyes and took a swallow. Cold and tasty, the tea had a flavor he couldn’t define. “Hey, this is great. What’s in it?”

“It’s a blend of my own. Sage is a general tonic. I also put in chamomile, to ease your pain, and valerian to promote healing and rest. It’s very healthful, much better for you than that nasty caffeinated stuff.”

“Well, thanks, Serenity.” He sipped some more, then set the glass on the table. “I’d love to stay here and shoot the breeze, but I s’pose I should be on my way. Do you know where the police department or the sheriff’s office is in this town?”

“Oh, uh, er, it’s the weekend.” Serenity ran a hand through her short red hair, tousling it into untidy spikes. “Nobody’s there right now.”

“No one? No one’s in authority here?”

“Lost Creek is a very small town. There are fewer than three hundred permanent residents. We don’t have full-time law enforcement,” she explained. “There’s no crime.”

“It sounds as though I’ve landed in Paradise.” With effort, he stood, managing to smile at her. “But I can’t take advantage of your hospitality any longer, ma’am.”

“Of course you can.”

“What?” Already he’d discovered that Serenity made the most surprising statements. Heck, he wanted to stay just to hear her talk about the vortex thing. He’d bet that every crystal in the living room had its own story.

“I mean, I’m the only link you have with your past, huh? I’d feel bad if you were to leave with no money, nowhere to go and no idea of who you are, with that bump on your head and—and all.”