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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 cut two chunks of food from the pan, her knife scraping on the metal bottom. She placed each portion on a plate. After covering them with waxed paper, she put them in the microwave and punched some buttons.
The machine hummed. “So you have some modern conveniences,” he said.
She smiled. “Did you suppose I used kerosene lamps and cooked food over an open fire?”
“I can’t see a TV or a radio.”
“I live simply, not stupidly. With electricity, I have the modern conveniences I choose. I don’t want mass media.” She refilled his glass with tea. “The outside world is…disturbing to my meditations.”
“What do you mean?”
Serenity shrugged. “The news seems to consist of foreign wars and local crime. TV and movies are full of car crashes and shootings. Why distress myself with such violence?” Forks and napkins in hand, Serenity set the table.
“Do you get a newspaper?” The enticing aromas of oregano and garlic began to fill the kitchen. His mouth watered.
Amnesia sure was crazy. He remembered that he liked lasagna but didn’t know his own name. Crazy.
“Not a daily. There’s a weekly paper that covers local matters. That’s enough for me.” The microwave buzzed. She took out the food. “Lost Creek is my little world.” She removed the wrap from the plates, releasing a fragrant, steamy cloud.
He sniffed appreciatively. “Most people have broader interests, don’t they?”
Serenity handed him his meal, then sat opposite him. “Do they?” Her eyes held a quizzical gleam.
He dug into the tofu lasagna. The piping-hot square of pasta, oozing spicy-smelling red sauce, didn’t look unusual. But how would he know? He blew on his bite before hesitantly placing it on his tongue. It tasted as good as it smelled, maybe better. He chewed and swallowed, then said, “Lordy, but this is good. Whatever else you might be, you’re one heck of a good cook.”
“Thank you.”
Why did Serenity go all red? “You act as though nobody ever complimented your cooking.”
Her gaze dropped to her plate. “I’m surprised you appreciate natural food. Few men do.” Serenity toyed with her fork before eating a bite.
“What’s so natural about it?”
“The pasta is whole wheat and the sauce is made from organic tomatoes and herbs. Instead of meat, I used crumbled tofu.”
“Tastes like normal lasagna, maybe a little better than most.” He took another hearty, yummy mouthful.
“That’s what’s great about tofu.” Serenity’s eyes sparkled. She waved her fork in the air for emphasis as she warmed to her subject. “It’s practically flavorless. If you put it in salsa it tastes Mexican and makes a great taco filling. With tomatoes, garlic and oregano, it’s Italian. And no fat whatsoever. Tofu’s the best protein around.”
Was she the kind of woman he usually dated? He hoped so. He’d hate to regain his memory only to discover he detested this charming, likable person. But was that how amnesia worked? He frowned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m…thinking.” He ate another bite of lasagna while considering the situation.
Who was Serenity? She must be the key to his identity, he realized. Why else could he remember only her?
She must know who I am. But why won’t she tell me? What’s her game?
He glanced up from his plate. Serenity sat, calmly eating her supper. She didn’t look like a person with secrets. But why would she welcome a stranger into her home?
Maybe she was just friendly. “Are you sure you don’t know me?”
She looked up. “Never seen you before in my life.” After finishing her portion, Serenity carried her plate to the sink and poured him more iced tea. She filled another glass with water.
“You don’t want tea?” He gestured with the glass. “It’s delicious.”
“No. It’s a healing tea, remember? I don’t need it. You do.”
Replete, he leaned back into his chair with a satisfied sigh. “That was great. Thanks, Serenity. I think you saved my life.”
Her answering smile was ready, yet nervous. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, I think I should go to town and maybe try to contact the authorities.”
Reaching across the table for his empty plate, her nose crinkled. “Uh, um, do you want to clean up a little before we go? You might cause some comment if you don’t.”
“Do I really look so bad?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Come with me.”
He followed Serenity through the living room, then down a narrow hallway to a bathroom. Upon seeing his strange image in the mirror, he couldn’t restrain a shocked gasp.
Short, black hair stuck up in filthy spikes on top of his head. The gash on his temple needed rinsing. Bloodshot brown eyes. A two-day beard. “Oh, man. I could scare a prison gang right out of their tattoos.” No wonder she didn’t tell him anything. He looked like a pretty tough customer. “Why’d you let me in your house, lady?”
“Your aura is pure.” Serenity smiled at his reflection. “Do you recognize yourself?”
“I’m not sure.” He watched the mirror as the unfamiliar mouth, narrow and a little mean-looking, scowled. “I don’t know if I like my appearance.”
“The soul is what matters, and yours is a sweet one if your energy is any indication.”
“Uh, well, thank you kindly.” I guess.
“Why don’t you shower? Cleanse the outer body to match the inner spirit. Meanwhile, I’ll wash your clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, figuring that he’d now learn if she used the rocks-in-the-stream method of laundry.
The bathroom door opened a slit and the stranger’s sinewy arm, dusted with dark hair, thrust out a bundle of dirty clothes.
“You can use my razor. It’s in the shower.” Serenity grinned, wondering what he’d make of her pink-flowered shaver. “And there’s a new toothbrush and some antiseptic under the sink.”
She took the clothes to the laundry room. Located off the kitchen, it contained an old-fashioned washer and a broken dryer that Serenity’s cheap landlord refused to fix. Anyway, Serenity preferred the scent of clothes dried on the line in the desert sun and wind.
Fingering the heavy jeans, she chuckled to herself as she tugged his leather belt free. The pants would take all night and part of the next day to dry, at least. Another day keeping the stranger in her home away from the authorities—such as they were—in Lost Creek. The next day, Sunday, would find the Lost Creek Police Department deserted. Two days of security gained. Two more precious days during which she’d decide what to do about the threat posed by the amnesiac cowboy.
Lucky for her, she’d decided to major in psychology when she’d attended college. She didn’t know much about amnesia, but recalled that no certain cure existed. The likelihood of the stranger recovering his memory soon was slight.
She pulled a flimsy scrap of leopard-print cloth out of the jeans, then tossed the pants into the washer with detergent and set the water to the hottest setting. After vainly checking for a label in the shirt, she added it to the washer with the socks.
Coming to the underwear, she stopped. Leopard-print thongs seemed out of character for her cowboy. Were they silk? She poked at the fabric. Searching for the label, she thought they were the kind of sexy underclothing that a man might receive as a gift from a lover.
Her teeth ground together. She took a deep breath, seeking calmness, before putting the underwear into the wash with his other clothes. She told herself that she cared if he had a girlfriend only because a lover would miss him and, perhaps, search for him. Otherwise, Serenity decided, she wasn’t concerned at all. Letting a man into her life wasn’t an option for her.
She dropped the lid over the churning, bubbly wash and went to the kitchen to clean up the remains of their supper. Nice of him to flatter her cooking. Hank never had. She washed the plates and stacked them in the drainer to drip dry.
She sniffed at the dregs of his iced tea before rinsing his glass. The tea should promote sleepiness, if her Healing Herbs book was to be believed. She doubted its efficacy. She doubted everything.
He’d drunk close to three glasses. If the stuff worked, he should be so woozy that he’d fall asleep in the shower.
Walking down the hall, she listened as the sound of the water stopped. The glass door creaked, then slammed. She guessed that he’d stepped out and was drying off.
She imagined a taut, muscular body gleaming with wetness as he rubbed one of her towels across his chest. Her feminine, peach-colored linens would be a spine-tingling contrast with his developed pecs and furry, masculine chest.
Leaning against the doorpost of the guest room, she mopped her damp brow with the sleeve of her dress before squelching those wild thoughts. She hadn’t dared to dream about any man since shortly after she’d married.
She couldn’t be attracted to him. That was just plain stupid, and she hadn’t survived by being stupid. Chances were that Hank had sent him. She’d been lucky that this stranger had lost his memory.
The usual treatment for amnesia was to place the sufferer back into his normal environment. There, surrounded by the familiar, each reminder of who he was would trigger a flood of memories. But that remedy wasn’t an option for the stranger. In her home, she could keep him comfortable but ignorant.
Who had said keep your friends close but your enemies closer? That was her plan, though deep down, big men still frightened her.
She’d have to get over it.
Serenity opened the door to the guest bedroom. She generally used the room for craft projects—stringing crystal necklaces and the like. Since she was a naturally tidy person, no evidence of her work littered the desk. Her unexpected visitor would dwarf the narrow, single bed, but she couldn’t change either the size of the bed or the stature of the stranger.
Besides, she wouldn’t want to change him. She liked his stature just fine.
Serenity parted the beige drapes, then slid open the screened window to let the warm, sage-scented desert breeze into the room. She adjusted the black-and-white Mexican serape covering the bed, then fluffed the pillow. A rustle warned her of his presence. She turned.
