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.”
He sat, relieved. Dog-tired, hungry, and dirty, he really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere. Despite the healing tea, his head hurt so much that he couldn’t move or speak without waves of pain reverberating through his brain.
She’d offered, and he found that he wouldn’t mind imposing on pretty Serenity Clare for a while longer. “Maybe you’re right.”
“If you left, where would you go?” Serenity asked.
“I don’t know.” He touched the bump on his head. It seemed to have gone down a tad, but not much. Still hurt like the dickens.
“You’d better stay here.” She sounded definite. “I’ll call a friend of mine. Mairen is an expert at psycho-spiritual integration. And that’s got to be the solution.”
“What?” This woman said the damnedest things. Maybe he was a reporter, or a scout for one of them TV talk shows, and he’d been sent to interview Serenity Clare.
“The blow to your head caused a psycho-spiritual rift. That’s why you can’t remember anything. Heal the rift and your memory returns.” She patted his hand.
The slight touch of Serenity’s delicate fingers made his flesh ripple and heat. He squelched his desire along with his growing interest in her, hoping her talents of tarot reading and crystal ball gazing didn’t extend to clairvoyance. Otherwise, she’d throw him out of her house.
He wanted to stay. This sexy, screwball little sorceress was the only link to his identity.
“How long has it been since you ate?” Standing, she went to the refrigerator.
“I don’t know.”
“I have some nice tofu lasagna from last night, if you don’t mind leftovers.” She took a rectangular pan from the fridge and put it on the tiled counter.
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.” He realized he wasn’t merely hungry, but famished. He’d never heard of tofu lasagna, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. The clock above her microwave indicated four-thirty. He guessed he hadn’t eaten since the day before, possibly longer.
Serenity
