Falcon's Lair. Sara Orwig
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“There isn’t anything I can do tonight and in the morning, I’ll be there. A chopper can get in and out.”
She sighed as she wiped her fingers and mouth and folded up the paper the hamburger had been wrapped in. “What a feast! Thank you, Ben.”
He shrugged, starting on a second burger. “I was starving, too.”
“Tell me more about your life.” She sat up in bed and touched the back of his hand where a faint white line crossed from his knuckle to his wrist. “How did you get hurt?”
“Canoeing long ago when I worked one summer on a ranch in Colorado. Turned over in white water and gashed my hand on a rock. I went to Texas University, was on the track team,” he added between bites.
“You have a scar on your jaw.”
He looked amused as he touched the faint line across the lower part of his jaw. “Horse kicked me— if it had been a little higher, I would have lost an ear. I ride in rodeos occasionally.”
“You weren’t raised on a farm— why did you go into cattle and ranching?”
“Dad owns a ranch in West Texas and I used to spend summers there, and that was the best time of my life. I like engineering and I’ve worked on rigs and it’s challenging, but when I left home, I wanted as far from the oil business as I could get. There’s a satisfaction in living like I do. It’s cussed mean at times like this,” he said, glancing out the window where snowflakes still swirled and struck the glass to slide in a frozen heap at the bottom of the pane.
“This weather is bad for you and I’ve been so much trouble, but I feel safe in here, like I’m in a cocoon. I almost wish tomorrow wouldn’t come. I feel shut away right now without any problems or past, but then there’s no future, either.”
“You’ll be all right, Jennifer,” he said quietly and settled back in the chair, stretching out his long legs. “With daylight your memory should return.”
She gazed into his dark eyes and felt a troubling uncertainty, yet his presence and the conviction in his voice were reassuring. Feeling as if she could talk to him all night, she leaned back against the pillow. “You’re not married?”
“No,” he answered, shaking his head, his gaze going beyond her. “Twice in my life I’ve been interested in a woman— one time it was on the verge of becoming serious, only I discovered she had been selected by my father.”
“Why would a woman do that?”
He gave her a cynical look. “I’m healthy, sound in mind and body. Marry me with Weston’s blessings and someday Falcon Enterprises would be mine and my wife’s. Some women are willing to give that a try.”
She blushed. “I didn’t mean you wouldn’t be appealing.”
“You didn’t?” he asked with great innocence, and she laughed again and he had to grin at her.
“I guess I’ll find out a lot about you because all we can do is talk about you. I don’t have anything to tell.”
He smiled, a quick smile that warmed her. “You’ll remember.”
“Tell me about getting started on your ranch.”
Locking his fingers behind his head, he told her about traveling cross-country and not intending to settle here, thinking he would go to Montana or Idaho.
It was hours later when his voice deepened, his words slowing. A nurse checked Jennifer often and had said it would be fine for her to sleep, yet they continued talking, Jennifer learning about Ben’s ranch and life. Finally he dozed and she studied him, his thick lashes dark shadows on his prominent cheekbones, an air of strength about him even when he was asleep. With a sigh she closed her eyes and prayed that her memory would return with the dawn.
* * *
The next morning they boarded a chopper for home, Ben sitting beside Jennifer. She was pale and quiet, remembering no more than she had the night before. The snow had stopped, but more was predicted. As they flew in the first light of dawn, he held her hand in his. She looked solemn, as if she were headed for an ordeal, and he suspected she was worrying because her memory was still absent.
As the sun tilted over the horizon and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains loomed into view, snow sparkled on peaks. The dark horizon to the north was the only hint of the next storm brewing.
They set down and Ben jumped out, swinging her into his arms and striding to the house. Within minutes, Ben had Jennifer seated with her foot elevated and ice packs around it, he had placed a call to Zeb and built fires. He needed a shave and shower and he was hungry again, but he was paying for every second he had the chopper and he couldn’t afford to wait. He rummaged in a closet and found crutches for her. As he pulled his coat on again, he faced her.
“Unless we run into trouble, I’ll be back by midafternoon. You may get a call from my father, but I don’t think anyone can pick you up unless he sends a chopper.” His gaze ran over her ripped slacks and the green sweater. “I can’t get to a store to get you other clothes, but you’re welcome to my shirts or sweaters. They’re in the bottom dresser drawer.”
“Thanks.” She nodded, using one crutch to follow him to the door. He paused as he looked down at her, thinking it seemed natural to have her in his house. He brushed a quick kiss on her forehead and strode outside.
Jennifer stood in the doorway, feeling the cold and watching the husky bound after the tall man. She felt as if Ben Falcon were her world, her family. Aware of a dull ache, she rubbed her hand across her head, gingerly touching the knot that was going down now.
Two men and a horse-drawn wagon had loaded square bales of hay into the chopper. Ben swung up into the chopper followed by another man, while the third one climbed into the wagon and turned toward the barn. In seconds the helicopter lifted and swooped out of sight.
She closed the door and then stood in the rustic kitchen, gazing at pine cabinets, fishing poles in the corner, the fire dancing on the hearth. The house was masculine and comfortable.
She hobbled into the living area, crossing to look at shelves with worn books— fiction and nonfiction, technical books on oil. She rubbed her head again, wishing memory would return, unable to believe that she could work for the monster Ben described. She moved closer to the shelves and a book caught her attention. The jacket was torn on a copy of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, and Jennifer could remember lying on a rumpled fold-out bed and reading the novel. She remembered a crowded room with the Hide-A-Bed, the small house. Elation raced through her and she rubbed her head, straining to remember more, but nothing came. She replaced the book on the shelf, lightly touching it, wondering about the book’s owner who seemed tough and so much an outdoorsman, yet who must like to read, as well.
Jennifer hobbled around the room to a table at one end of the sofa. She picked up a picture of a dark-skinned, dark-eyed young boy with black hair. His features didn’t resemble Ben’s and she wondered who he was.
Her gaze shifted to the phone and she almost dreaded hearing from Texas until she could remember everything. Right now she had to accept whatever people told her. She heard scratching at the door and limped across the room to open it. The husky trotted inside, leaving tiny puddles where his wet paws tracked as he passed her, going to his dog dish in the kitchen.
“Fella, you could at least wipe your paws before you come in.”
* * *
By noon the sun was behind clouds and a howling wind was blowing over the mountain. Ben swung the hatchet and broke ice on the wide metal tank so the horses could drink. When he finished his task he climbed inside the Jeep. At the barn Zeb came striding into sight, waving his arm and Ben waited.
“Boss, I got a call from Derek. Their electricity is out and their generator is acting up.”
“I’m on my way. Call and tell him, will you?”
“You’re