“You’re here, you’re safe. There’s time for the rest later.”
“Was it bad enough to ruin our relationship?”
“Angie—”
“Was it?” she repeated breathlessly, demandingly.
“Yeah.”
She swallowed the information, but didn’t know what to do with it. Nothing made sense, and the harder she tried to remember, the more fuzzy her brain became.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the roar in her head and the ache in her heart.
“I need to clean that cut on your forehead.”
“Shane—”
“Don’t be so stubborn, Angie. Give in.”
She didn’t want to, but she knew he was right. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “For now.”
He released his hold on her, and her hand fell to her side, her palm still warm.
“Sit on the couch.”
When she did, he crouched in front of her and poured peroxide on a cotton ball.
His touch tender, he feathered her hair back from her forehead and said, “This may sting.”
“No more than this awkwardness between us.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“You made me promise that I’d never give up on us. And I won’t.”
Their gazes locked, and the spikes of pain in his eyes stole her breath. She’d seen that kind of hurt there before, when he’d told her about his mother and the way she deserted him on his ninth birthday.
The ache in his eyes had intensified when he’d confided that he’d proposed to Delilah Clark, a girl he’d gone to high school with. Delilah said she’d marry him as long as he got rid of his sister.
Angie had held him that night, promising him she’d never walk out on him, no matter what.
Now, just like then, she wanted to cradle him. But this time, she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, she hugged her arms around her middle so she wouldn’t do anything she’d regret.
He applied ointment and a bandage, his fingertips barely glancing off her skin.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You need to take off those wet clothes.” He stood and capped the brown bottle, sliding it on the coffee table. “I’ll get you a couple of aspirin first.”
He offered his hand and she hesitated. He might not want her touch, but she craved his.
Patiently he waited, his mouth a tight line, revealing nothing. In fact, if she hadn’t seen the thready pulse in his temple, she might have thought he felt nothing.
Finally, desperate for the connection, any connection, she slipped her hand against his palm. Maybe if she broke past the barrier of ice…
For a moment, his fingers closed around hers. Warmth and longing flooded her as he slowly pulled her up.
She swayed toward him. Her hopes of him softening died in that instant. He simply steadied her, then released her before turning on his booted heel. His steps away from her seemed to echo her loneliness off the hardwood floor.
Tears from Shane’s rejection stinging her eyes, she crossed to their bedroom only to gasp aloud at the sight of it.
“Angie!” he called. “Are you okay?”
She heard his boots thundering on the flooring, but she couldn’t answer. Instead, she frantically grabbed hold of the doorjamb.
There were no traces of her anywhere in this room.
Their mismatched set of furniture—bought at a yard sale—was gone, replaced by a set of solid oak pieces. A bedspread, colorful with a southwestern design splashed on the fabric, lay across the mattress. But where was her pastel-colored quilt with the wedding-ring pattern?
“Angie?” he asked again, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Where are my things?” Pulling away, she moved into the room, dropping to her knees and yanking open the bottom right-hand drawer where she usually kept her lingerie. She found his socks and briefs.
She slammed the drawer and reached for another, where she should find belts and hair accessories. Nothing. Frantically, she yanked open a third drawer and started shoving aside his sweaters hoping to find something—anything—of hers.
“Stop.” Kneeling next to her, he clamped his hand around her wrist.
She looked up at the man she’d sworn she’d love forever, the man she’d given herself to, body and heart.
And she didn’t recognize him.
“Answer me, Shane. Where are my things? Why is there no trace of me in this room? Was our fight so bad that you’d kick me out of your life like this?”
“You’ve got clothes in the closet.”
Her breath rushed out. “In the closet?”
“On the shelves.”
She didn’t remember….
He slowly released his grip, but he didn’t move away.
“But that’s not all,” she said softly, momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. “You’ve changed, Shane. You’re not the man I married.”
“I’m the same as I’ve always been.”
He still had the same good looks, the same scar beneath his chin from the childhood bike accident, the same angular jaw, the same intensely green eyes, the same thick, dark hair begging to be mussed, the same cleft in his chin where she’d rested her finger earlier.
He was still the same, yet so much…more. “You’re harder.” Broader, stronger, more rigid. More man. “Less loving. I remember the way you’d smile when you saw me, the way you’d reach for me, the way you’d carry me in here.” Her voice broke as she finished, “The way you’d make love to me…”
He cursed softly. His eyes lightened a shade. If she didn’t know otherwise, she might have thought she’d glimpsed tenderness.
But then it was gone, and night returned to the pine-forest depths of his eyes. Swimming in a sea of confusion, she got to her feet.
“When did we get this furniture?” she asked.
“I ordered it from the Mountain Majesty catalog you like.”
Drawing her brows together, she whispered, “When?”
“Does
