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Had she really tried to swipe him with the knife? Or had she sat up groggy the way she’d claimed, and before she’d gotten her bearings, he’d attacked? Sean was no longer certain. The facts didn’t add up.
“How did you get here?” he asked. “Why did you kill the old prospector?”
Carlie didn’t answer. Once again she’d slipped into unconsciousness. Had she been hurt in the fight with Jackson? Sean’s suspicions might be diminishing but they didn’t vanish. Two of his friends had encountered this woman—and both of them were dead. Still, he’d been so ready to blame her for Jackson’s death, he hadn’t checked to see if anyone else was near.
Perhaps both she and Jackson had been attacked. If she hadn’t killed Jackson, then the person who had could be after her, too. The killer could be outside on the mountain, getting away even now.
Sean knelt beside her and covered her with a spare blanket. When she moaned and turned her head to the side, he spied blood and a nugget-sized bump three inches above the base of her neck, and he winced. So that’s why she’d passed out. Had she sustained the injury while fighting Jackson? Or had someone else hit her? Either way, she probably had a concussion and shouldn’t be left to sleep. He shook her shoulder, trying to wake her up. Not even one long eyelash fluttered. But the bleeding had almost stopped.
As he stood, his hand brushed a piece of plastic that must have slipped from her pocket during their struggle. Curious, he read the name on the driver’s license. Carlie Myer. Bill’s wife—no, widow, he corrected. Absently, he slipped her license into his pocket, pleased he’d confirmed her identity, but found it odd she carried no purse or backpack.
Sean considered untying her, believing he’d misjudged the woman. But first he’d look around.
Deciding there was little more he could do for Carlie until she awakened, Sean took more careful notice of the mine. Jackson’s supplies, camp stove and tools were neatly stacked along one wall. Dishes cleaned and set out to dry from breakfast indicated the prospector had eaten alone.
Exiting the mine carrying Jackson’s body, Sean knelt and gently set Jackson’s body down. He searched the hard-packed earth but saw no signs of struggle, no footprints in the dirt. Normal sounds of the forest had returned. Arctic warblers fluttered in the willow thickets, crickets chirped and Dall sheep grazed in the high grasslands.
Through the first flutters of snow, he looked below to the town of Kesky, population one-hundred and two. They had a bank, a post office, a church, a grocery and hardware store and a one-roomed schoolhouse. In a town that size, a stranger would be noticed, especially an attractive woman. He doubted she’d passed through Kesky without being spotted. Had someone followed her up the mountain?
He and Jackson employed twenty men to work the main mine. None of the miners would have allowed Carlie to make the rough climb to the Dog Mush unescorted. Maybe she’d come up with Jackson. But why?
Unfortunately, she hadn’t divulged in her letter the reason she’d been so intent on coming to see Sean. When she awakened, he intended to get some answers.
He returned to the cave, lit an oil lamp and examined the unconscious woman again. She displayed no other signs of injury. Her face was unnaturally pale, but neither cut nor bruised. Her chest rose and fell with rhythmic precision, and from the way she’d fought, he doubted she had any broken limbs.
She let out another groan and turned onto her side, tilting her neck at an odd angle. Hoping her sole injury was the bump on her head, Sean did his best to make her more comfortable, untying her hands, folding a blanket to pillow her head.
He should have known Bill wouldn’t have let himself be hogtied by anyone less than a beauty. But did those lush lips and dark eyelashes hide a mystery that could get a man killed?
Staring at her wouldn’t give him the answers he needed. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to study her lightly tanned skin, her straight, no-nonsense nose and lips that hinted at passion. No wonder his friend had fallen in love and married so quickly.
Sean forced his gaze away. Although he wasn’t hungry, he primed and lit Jackson’s stove and set water on it for coffee to boil, again wondering why she had come to Alaska to see him.
He’d have to be patient until she could tell him. Sean knew how to be patient. He could track an animal for miles. He could spend months working a vein in the mine. He could certainly wait for the answers this woman could supply.
He had no doubts she’d had a rough time. And with that knot on her head, no doubt when Carlie awakened she’d have one hell of a headache.
A cool gust whipped around the corner and into the cave, and Sean shivered as if a dark cloud clutched at him. Shaking off the eerie portent, he added coffee to the pot. He wouldn’t let his grief or his temper or his heart rule his decisions. He’d keep an open mind until he possessed the facts. Pondering over the best way to learn the truth, his gaze again turned to the unconscious woman. One way or another, she was going to tell him exactly what had happened—if she ever woke up.
Chapter Two
Carlie’s head pounded and pain stabbed behind her eyes, yet a sense of urgency forced her to open her eyelids. She needed to…She had to…Had to what?
Where the hell was she? She lay on a sleeping bag inside a fair-sized cave. The mouth-watering scent of coffee tantalized her stomach, which made embarrassingly loud noises.
“How’s the head?”
At the sound of a deep baritone, she craned her neck. Pain shot down from her nape to her back. She gasped and fought through the swirling tunnel of blackness to study the man hovering over her.
Although he’d asked how she felt, he didn’t look particularly concerned. Actually, he leaned aggressively forward, straining the fabric of his shirt, appearing as if he couldn’t decide whether to help her or hit her, but perhaps that was because he was blurry around the edges. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again, willing herself to focus. This time he came in as clear and crisp as a focused camera lens. The combination of his gray-eyed stare, harsh cheekbones and five-o’clock shadow caused her to tremble. Even his thin lips drawn in a tight line seemed judgmental and disapproving.
She had never seen him before. Who was he?
She tried to sit up and discovered her wrists were numb. Clenching and unclenching her fingers, she forced the blood back into them. After flexing her arms, she realized her gun had been removed from her holster, and a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach kicked in. A cop never gave up her weapon.
Something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the odd circumstance she’d found herself in. She was wearing ugly boots, a heavily padded olive jacket and khaki slacks. And cold seeped through her thermal underwear into her bones. Thermal underwear? Where had that thought come from? Her eyes widened as a flurry of snow fluttered just behind the strange man. Snow! It didn’t snow in Tampa, Florida.
“What happened? Who are you? Where am I?”
His eyes, as enigmatic as a wolf’s, darkened. “I already told you—”
“You did?” His words implied they’d already had a conversation. She drew an unsteady breath and tried to remember, but the pain in her head was taking its toll. Why didn’t she know this man? Lord, with those hard gray eyes and the lightning rush of her pulse whenever he looked at her, she didn’t know how she could have forgotten him. He had a fierce way of staring that made her feel like he was sizing her up as prey. Yet he held so still, and she sensed if she made one wrong move, he would pounce.
Damn it. Why couldn’t she remember?
She and Harry, her partner, must have been working a case that had gone down wrong, but she couldn’t recall any details, and a tight knot slowly formed in her stomach. “We’ve met before?”
One eyebrow cocked in skepticism. “You don’t remember me?” he asked very deliberately. “I’m Sean McCabe.”
His icy flash of doubt annoyed her as much as it confused her. “Carlie Brandon.”
“Brandon?” He shook his head and let out a long, low whistle of disbelief. “There’s no need to lie. I’ll try and help if I can.”
Lie? She’d told him the truth. The knot tightened another notch. Yet, despite her memory loss she tried to remain calm. Maybe he wasn’t the enemy.
In the haunting gray light of the cave, she could see a tight expression on his lips, and she realized he’d told her almost nothing about her situation. He seemed tense, a leashed force of taut muscles primed to spring if she made the wrong move. As a frisson of dread swept through her, she fought to keep the rising fear from her voice. “Could I have some water, please?”
When he didn’t hesitate to pour water from a canteen into a tin cup, she sagged against the sleeping bag, relieved. He didn’t seem to want to mistreat her. And when her numb fingers couldn’t hold the cup, he raised it to her lips with a hand that looked as if it had spent a long time in the wilderness. She’d always noticed a man’s hands. Indicating he worked with them for a living, his hands were large, the palms and pads of his fingers callused, the fingers long and without adornment. But then she didn’t need the lack of a ring to tell her this man wasn’t married. She couldn’t imagine any circumstance where he would share himself with a woman.
Although he eyed her steadily, he seemed uncomfortable around her, as if unsure whether to treat her with consideration or hostility. Her injury and weakness seemed to irritate him almost as much as it did her.
The water was cold, surprisingly refreshing, as if it had come straight from the refrigerator. She doubted politeness would soften him up. Still, she tried. “Thanks.”
Her words had no more effect on him than they had on the rocky walls around her. Still, she was aware of his intense scrutiny, the subtle aura of power he radiated as he completed the ordinary task of screwing the cap back onto the canteen and tossing it onto a pile of camping gear.
“I need to know what happened here.” His voice echoed darkly in the tomblike chamber. “Why don’t you tell me your real name—for starters.”
At his words, confusion settled in the pit of her gut. He acted as if he was giving her a test, as if he knew her name and that she’d been lying to him. Had a lunatic taken her captive? He’d said he’d help, had given her water, then sharpened his tone as if she were a habitual liar. For all she remembered, he could have been the one who’d caused the pounding at the base of her skull.
Her inability to recall her circumstances wasn’t just inconvenient but downright alarming. She didn’t recognize the partially covered body just outside the cave. Most likely, she’d been working a case and ended up here, but she hadn’t an inkling where here was or of how to play out her situation. Worse, her partner might be just around the bend, either hurt or injured, and depending on her to get them out of here.
Why couldn’t she remember? “I’m not lying. I have identification in my…”
But she wasn’t in uniform. Wild, speculative thoughts coursed through her. She must have been drugged. Taken somewhere. She reminded herself that Harry must be looking for her. If she could just stay alive, help would arrive. She swallowed hard and forced her gaze to the man looming over her. He looked hard and about two seconds away from doing her bodily harm.
Dizzy from the pounding headache, she was in no condition to fight. Actually, even if she’d been perfectly healthy, she would have been no match for two-hundred-plus pounds of lean, angry muscle. So she had no intention of provoking his anger.
Her mouth was still dry, but she was reluctant to ask for more water, preferring that he keep his distance. “What do you want with me?”
With a don’t-mess-with-me look, he set down the cup beside her and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I want answers.”
“Don’t we all.”
He jerked his thumb toward the mouth of the cave, at the body beneath a blanket. A bloody knife lay next to it. “Why did you kill my partner, Jackson?”
She hadn’t killed anyone. Or at least she didn’t think she had. Her mom had always told her the best defense was a strong offense, so at his accusation, she came out swinging. “How do I know you didn’t kill him?”
“The man was like a father to me. Besides, I’m not the one with blood on my sleeve.”
As his words sank in, she glanced down at her sleeve to the dark stain and shivered.
He was accusing her of…murder. Her mind couldn’t wrap around the thought. Murder? Oh, God. Why couldn’t she remember? If only the pounding behind her eyes would diminish, she might think more clearly.
Like an expert interrogator, he gave her no time to recuperate from his allegation. “And before you lie and tell me you didn’t kill him, you might want to consider that I saw the bloody knife in your hand.”
She had to concentrate, but a black hole in her memory seemed to have sucked away every recollection. “I can’t remember.”
“How convenient, Ms. Brandon.”
He seemed to emphasize her last name with a mocking tone, then wait for her reaction. But how was she supposed to react? She’d told him the truth. She was born Carlie May Brandon and she’d never married, never gone by another name. Had she been working this case undercover and used an alias? But Carlie didn’t do undercover. She was just a uniformed officer who patrolled the streets. Her gaze strayed to the body and skittered away. What had happened?
Think.
The last moment she recalled was stopping a speeder on the causeway connecting Tampa and St. Petersburg. Harry had teased her about letting off the cute guy in the Corvette with just a warning. It had been Tuesday, around 5:00 p.m.
“What day is this?” she asked.
Sean didn’t seem surprised she’d lost track of the days; his expression didn’t change one iota. But then, he looked as if he were carved from the same unforgiving rock that formed mountains. Beneath his full-length parka, he wore a black wool shirt, heavy denim pants and sturdy hiking boots. From his heavy clothing, the cold climate and the camping gear in the cave, she guessed they were in the mountains, someplace up north or out west. Colorado or Canada, maybe.
Wherever she was, time didn’t seem to have much meaning. She didn’t hear the sounds of civilization. No cars, no trains. No police sirens indicating help on the way. Obviously she wasn’t in Florida anymore and could only count on her own resources.
The man standing over her was a formidable opponent. Yet he didn’t seem the usual street criminal. Intelligence gleamed from his eyes, and the set of his mountainous shoulders warned her of his self-control. She doubted she could incite him into making mistakes.
At least he was talking to her. “It’s Saturday,” he told her.
She’d lost four days. Four days. “You’re sure?”
“Very. It’s October 30.”
She blinked when he added the year. No way. He had to be trying to trick her. But his words had been so offhand, downright casual. And what reason would he have to lie? She swallowed hard and tried for a normal tone. “Are you sure?”
He cocked his head, his deep baritone suspicious. “Lose a day?”
Stunned, she blinked hard, fighting back tears. “Near as I can tell, I’ve lost over two years.”
Two years gone, vanished as if she’d never lived them. She had to stay calm, in control of her rising panic. The knock on her head could have caused a temporary memory loss. Surely her memory would return if she just concentrated hard enough.
Ignoring his eyebrows raised in disbelief was easy while thoughts raced through her head like a runaway train. What was wrong with her? It was as if she’d never lived the last two years. Panic surged through her. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten here. Suppose her memories never returned? Suppose she had killed Jackson?
Fear clamped around her chest and squeezed. At least she’d retained most of her memories. She remembered her family, her friends, her job. But she’d lost two whole years. And she’d awakened in a cave and been accused of murder. She suspected no one would believe her memory loss, and even if they did, they might lock her up and toss away the—
Stop it. You’re a trained professional. Act like one. Focus on the facts.
She wasn’t completely helpless. She had a real sense of who she was, a cop—not a murderer. If she’d killed Jackson, she must have done so in self-defense. But even as a cop, she’d never had cause to pull her gun.
Still, a lot could have changed in two years. Perhaps she’d made detective or gone into undercover work.
While she remained silent, Sean McCabe stared at her as if waiting for her to admit she’d lied about the partial amnesia. His acute stare told her he was taking her lack of memory personally, and like a dog gnawing a juicy steak bone, he wasn’t about to let her go until he was satisfied.
She wished she could lie, because that would mean she was in possession of her full memory. All her recent recollections were gone—more than twenty-four months’ worth. Trying to force a memory only made her head ache worse. Gingerly she touched the knot. Perhaps when the swelling receded, her memories would return.
Her partial amnesia could have been worse. After all, she remembered her name, her childhood and her parents. She had a job with the police department, a family that loved her and many friends. All she needed to do was find a phone, and even if her memories never returned, they could fill her in.
Slowly her speeding heart calmed. She was alive, and at the moment her accuser didn’t seem inclined to hurt her. She wasn’t even sure if she was being held hostage, but if so, perhaps she could escape.
If his intentions were honorable, if he thought she’d murdered his friend, why hadn’t he called the police? She stared back into the darkened eyes surveying her with a mixture of pity and bridled anger and wondered if revealing her memory loss had been a mistake.
His tone was low, harsh. “Tell me what you remember.”
“About what?” she asked, vowing to give him nothing he could use against her.
“About…us.”
“Us?” That one word rocked her, hinting at a former and possibly a current personal relationship. Although his mountain-man ruggedness was attractive, she was positive they couldn’t be lovers. She felt no connection to him, could dredge up no past feelings about him one way or the other. And yet, a certain awareness zinged through her every time she looked at him. She noticed the way his eyes softened around the edges every time she winced in pain, the way he jutted his jaw at a certain angle when he didn’t get the answers that he sought, the way he held his back to Jackson’s body, as if keeping the man out of sight would lessen the pain of his loss. But as for real memory, for all she knew, she’d never met Sean McCabe before she’d awakened and told him her name was Carlie Brandon.
Thoughts swirling in a muddy haze of confusion, she’d never felt at such a disadvantage. Her lack of knowledge undermined her normal confidence. Confused and hurting, she wanted to close her eyes and sleep until the pain receded.
“Do you remember fighting with Jackson?” he asked softly, too softly, more than a hint of menace and resolve in his tone.
She rubbed her pounding temple, wishing she didn’t feel so vulnerable, wishing for her gun. “I don’t remember fighting with anyone.”
“And no one else is here with you?”
She forced her eyes to stay open. At least Sean was considering the possibility that someone else may have killed Jackson. While thankful for his ability to focus on facts, what she really wanted was his trust. She sensed that once this man made up his mind, he would pursue his goal no matter how difficult the challenge.
She wanted him on her side and decided to use every ounce of her persuasive abilities to prove her innocence. Right now, it would be wonderful if he believed her, but she’d settle for what she could get. “The first thing I remember is you asking how my head felt. I don’t know where I am or how I got here.”
“You’re in Alaska.”
“Alaska!” She sat up abruptly and pain sliced down her neck.
“Easy.” With a big hand on each of her shoulders, he steadied her.
He smelled of cedar and a hint of wood smoke. For a moment she thought he might insist she lie back down. Instead he held her until she stopped swaying and she took comfort in his support. In her injured state, the last thing she needed was to crack her head again. She accepted his help, and yet she sensed the crackling tension in him. Obviously he wanted to find answers to Jackson’s murder as badly as she did.
While she couldn’t be certain whether to trust him, she’d come to the conclusion Sean McCabe would not act with haste. No matter how deep his feelings, he was a man with unusual self-control.
“I don’t remember how I got here. I’m from Florida.”
