Chapter Two

      Danielle struggled for words to describe the void she lived in. Empty rooms. Frames without pictures. A book without a cover to bind it together. A life without a past. How could she expect Langley to understand? She couldn’t even comprehend the loss and she was forced to deal with it every second of the day.

      But she might as well come clean with the whole truth. It would do no good to try to hide her vulnerability from a man who carried a badge. He’d make a few phone calls and find out the full story anyway.

      Besides, if the man who’d attacked her in New Orleans had followed her to this dilapidated ranch house, if he’d been the man to create this havoc, she’d need all the help she could get.

      Stuffing her hands into the pockets of her damp jeans, she sucked in a deep breath and met Langley’s gaze. “Two weeks ago, thirteen days to be exact, I was in the French Quarter in New Orleans. For some reason, I had left the beaten path and ended up on a nearly deserted street at dusk.”

      “Do you live in New Orleans?”

      “I don’t know. Just hear me out and then you can ask questions, though I doubt I’ll be able to answer them. Anyway, I was on a side street when someone dragged me into the doorway of a building and attacked me with his fists and with a knife.”

      She felt the burn of Langley’s scrutiny. He was probably studying the patterns of bruises that still colored her flesh, though not nearly as vividly as they had at first. His gaze made her uneasy and she turned to face the window and stare into endless darkness.

      “One of the residents of the building came downstairs and found me. He took me for dead but thankfully dialed 911. It was touch-and-go for a while, mostly due to the severity of the beating. Apparently, I’d jerked away as the man had stabbed me. The blade of the knife had veered off at an angle without damaging any internal organs.”

      “Was the man who attacked you someone you knew?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      His mouth twisted in a scowl. “Can you identify the perpetrator?”

      “No.”

      “But you must have some idea what he looked like. Was he tall, short, dark?”

      “I have no memory of him, Langley. None. All I know of him are his eyes. I see them in my nightmares. Cold and angry.” The words stuck in her throat, but she forced herself to continue, to say what she had to and get this over with. “I have no memory of anything beyond the attack. My past life has virtually disappeared in a thick fog of nothingness. I don’t know if I have a family. A husband? Children? A career? I don’t know who I am or where I belong.”

      She hated saying the words. It was as if they deleted who she was, what she might have been. Now she was a crime statistic, one reported on the back pages of the Times-Picayune.

      Her life had been shattered, the remnants of it left in pieces so tiny she couldn’t begin to put them back together again.

      “A total memory loss. Amnesia.”

      Langley rolled the words off his tongue as if he were having trouble absorbing their meaning. But, to his credit, he wasn’t looking at her like some sideshow freak, the way a couple of the hospital orderlies had. And he hadn’t reverted to that I-know-you’re-lying expression the New Orleans police had been so quick to adopt.

      “What kind of time line did the doctors give you for the return of your memory?”

      “A day, a week, a year.”

      “But they didn’t say it was irreversible?”

      “No. The neurologist said that the trauma to my system caused by repeated blows to my head and extensive blood loss was to blame and that my memory could return at any time. But according to Dr. Silvers, the staff psychiatrist, I am likely choosing not to face the terror of the brutal battery.”

      “He thinks you’re blocking out the whole attack. That makes sense.”

      The words destroyed one more fragment of the confidence she tried so hard to maintain. “I’m glad it does to you and to Dr. Silvers because it makes no sense at all to me. What I choose is to know who I am and why someone tried to kill me.”

      “Probably some guy on drugs, desperate for cash. You just happened along at the wrong time.”

      Danielle leaned against the counter, clutching the edge for support. She had started shaking again, a much too common occurrence over the past two weeks. “That wasn’t the investigating detective’s opinion. He thinks the man might have been someone I knew. Perhaps a jilted lover or an estranged husband.”

      “Did he have any evidence to back up his theory?”

      “Nothing concrete. He believes the severity of the attack indicates that it was personal rather than just a random robbery.” She swallowed hard, her throat and chest drawing tight. “I woke up in the hospital with no clue as to who I was or how I got there.”

      “You must have had the letter you showed me.”

      “Not until two nights ago. One of the nurses stopped in and tossed an envelope onto my bedside table. She said someone from the crime lab where they were examining my bloodstained clothes had dropped it off.”

      “Odd that the police didn’t find the letter before they sent your clothes to the lab.”

      “Apparently, the letter and key were stuffed into a hidden pocket inside my jacket, one neither the police nor the attacker noticed.”

      “Did you show the letter to the police?”

      “No. I’d had enough of bureaucracy and red tape by then. And too few results. I decided to regain some control over my life and thought my uncle would be able to provide the information I needed to start doing that.”

      “So you simply walked out of the hospital?”

      “Yes, and fortunately, the other patient in the room was a streetwise teenager who thought my story was fascinating. She’s the one who lent me enough money to buy a few necessities and a one-way bus ticket to Kelman.”

      “How did you get your clothes back from the crime lab?”

      “I didn’t. One of the nurses had some things she’d outgrown. Once I was strong enough to get around, she brought me these jeans and a couple of T-shirts. I was glad to get them. I was not about to parade through the hospital in the open-air gown they’d provided.”

      She looked down at her T-shirt and noticed for the first time the way her nipples were outlined against the damp fabric. She crossed her arms over her breasts and felt an uncomfortable burn in her cheeks.

      “So, now that you know as much about me as I know about myself, do you still want to take me home with you, Langley Randolph? Are you the kind of fearless man who takes chances, who thrives on being a hero?”

      He nudged a loose-fitting brown Stetson back on his head. “I’m nobody’s hero, Danielle. For the record, I’m a rancher who’s just standing in as sheriff while my brother Branson is on his honeymoon. You can stay at the Burning Pear or not—your choice. If you decide to, you’ll be welcome and safe.”

      “In that case, I accept your offer of a bed. For one night. Tomorrow I’ll come back over here and clean up this mess.”

      “Fine, but not until after I’ve had the deputy dust for fingerprints.” He reached down and picked up a piece of jagged glass. Turning, he laid it on the counter, then let his gaze lock with hers. “You don’t have to clean up the cabin,