his wife, Lucille. They’d been father and mother to him for fifteen years, and being turned away by one they considered a son had hurt.
And always there was an underlying current of anger that seemed to propel him into constant action.
He spent his nights awake, pacing the halls of their small house like a caged animal. Day didn’t bring him relief, either. It was as if he had to keep ahead of whatever was haunting him or risk being devoured by it. Not knowing how to help him made her feel as helpless as when she’d been a girl and watched her mother rant and rave at her sorry lot in life.
His blank stare, his restless turmoil, his aloofness toward her were like a bruise she kept hitting over and over again. She hid the pain with a smile and continued encouragement. But the tenderest ache was knowing that he was home and didn’t want to share her bed. So in the bedroom he refused to enter, she cried herself to sleep every night.
Even though every defeat stung, it was up to her to find a way through the amnesia to the Chance she knew. She wasn’t going to give up.
Tonight she’d awakened from a light sleep to the quiet. Not hearing the soft footfall of his bare feet on the carpet had whacked her out of drowsiness with a fresh wave of worry. She found him standing in the dark by the sliding glass door in the kitchen. Two hundred yards down the grassy slope of their backyard, the river glistened in moonlight. His gaze was riveted on the water as if it held all the answers.
She went to stand next to him. “It’s late. Past midnight. You’re exhausted. Why don’t you come to bed?”
He flinched as if she’d suggested self-mutilation, and a bolt of panic jagged through his eyes. What was causing the fear? Was he afraid that if he slept he would lose the rest of himself?
“You don’t have to sleep,” she said, reaching for him then letting her hand fall back to her side. “Come rest.” Let me take care of you.
He didn’t say anything, but kept staring out the window. She hesitated, then stood closer, wrapped one arm around his and twined their fingers as she’d done a thousand times before. Something sighed inside her at the rightness of his hand in hers. He didn’t jerk away. She took it as a good sign.
“See the roses by the fence?” She pointed at the dark shape of bushes in the yard. “You planted those for me on our wedding day. You said you didn’t want me to live in a home without flowers. The way you said it was so sweet, I cried.”
There was no sign of recognition in his eyes, no shifting of muscle to indicate anything she said was getting through. The tears burning her eyes this time were tears of frustration.
“And the swing by the pecan?” she continued, proud the rawness in her throat barely wavered her voice. “You thought we could spend romantic evenings there talking and planning. But we hardly ever use it because the mosquitoes are too fierce. Instead, most nights, we linger over iced tea right here in the kitchen.”
She leaned her head against his arm, heard the sharp intake of breath, smiled and snuggled closer. She could still affect him. That had to say something, didn’t it?
“You hate cutting the lawn. You grumbled about it every blessed weekend. I finally got so tired of hearing you complain that I hired the Taylor boy. He’s doing a good job, don’t you think?”
Chance made a noncommittal grunt. At least he was listening. She’d half feared he was lost somewhere in his own mind, or drowning in the phantom memories awakened by the river.
Red Thunder looked innocent enough tonight. Romantic even, with the moonlight dancing on its wake. The sound of the water through the closed glass door had a steady, soothing quality to it.
“You do love the river. You spend all your free time on it—fishing, paddling, diving.” She looked up into his dark eyes, wanting to be sure she wasn’t pushing too fast into dangerous territory. She wanted to bring her husband back, not drive him farther away. “You and Jake—”
He stiffened against her as he did every time a name was mentioned. He didn’t remember Jake any more than he remembered anybody else, and didn’t care for the reminder. She tried to gloss over the ties as if it were something she did every day.
“You went through the police academy with Jake Atwood. He works in Beaumont and we still see him and his wife, Liz, often. Anyway, after your ordeal, you were afraid of the current, so Jake taught you to dive. He was the one who told you that the only way to deal with the fear was to face it. He said you were a natural, that he’d never seen a strong swimmer like you. Must be why you survived.”
Chance’s jaw flinched.
“It’s brought you a great deal of joy, the river has, but it’s stolen a lot from you, too, hasn’t it? Twice now, it’s taken your memory.”
He started to turn from her, but she hung on to him. “I won’t let it take anything more from you.” Reaching across her own body, she placed a hand over his heart, felt the strong thunder of it against her hand. “Talk to me, Chance. I can deal with anything but your silence.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
To evoke memories of their life together, she’d tried feeding him, she’d tried talking to him, she’d tried showing him his world. Maybe what he needed right now was to escape for a while.
She swiveled until they stood chest to chest. Her fingers skimmed his jaw. Afraid to look in his eyes and see rejection, she concentrated on the dark stubble along his cheek, marveled at how the prickly softness showed off the exotic planes of his face, the strength.
With the tip of a finger, she traced the velvet smoothness of his lips, felt them part. His breath blew hot against her skin. She wanted to feel her mouth against his, wanted to feel him devouring her. The sheer power of the desire cut her breath short. Deliberately, she released it. Slowly, she leaned forward. Tentatively, she pressed a kiss against his neck, felt the answering leap of his pulse against her lips.
Chance growled. He captured her wrists in his hands, tore them from his shoulders and pushed them back. Her pulse bounced against the hard manacles of his fingers.
“No.” But there was no strength to his denial.
“Yes.” She rose on her toes, watched him watch her with his keen gaze, saw his nostrils flare, felt the waft of heat from his body wrap around her, smelled the familiar scent of his musk on that heated wave.
And as her lips touched his once more, there came that delicious helpless-warrior groan low in his throat. Desire flared raw and charged in his eyes.
She could reach him on this primal level. She knew she could. “Let me love you, Chance.”
“No,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed her with equal ardor.
The rich and warm taste of him sent her blood whooshing through her veins. Her fierce need for him had been a wonder to her since their first kiss. Still was. Longing had her trembling, so she anchored her arms around his neck and brought him deeper into the kiss. Yearning unfurled low in her belly, reminding her what their love had created. A cascade of warmth and lust rippled through her and her kiss turned hard and wild. “Let me love you.”
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