- -
- 100%
- +
A witness with amnesia
Can she trust this Gold Country Cowboy with her life?
Tracy Wilson witnessed a murder—but after a head injury, she can’t remember what she saw. Now someone plans to silence her for good, and only cowboy Keegan Thorn believes her. With a killer after her at Christmas, Tracy is running out of time to remember...and falling dangerously hard for the cowboy who could break her heart.
DANA MENTINK is a national bestselling author. She has been honored to win two Carol Awards, a HOLT Medallion and an RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award. She’s authored more than thirty novels to date for Love Inspired Suspense and Harlequin Heartwarming. Dana loves feedback from her readers. Contact her at danamentink.com.
Also By Dana Mentink
Gold Country Cowboys
Cowboy Christmas Guardian
Treacherous Trails
Cowboy Bodyguard
Lost Christmas Memories
Pacific Coast Private Eyes
Dangerous Tidings
Seaside Secrets
Abducted
Dangerous Testimony
Military K-9 Unit
Top Secret Target
Rookie K-9 Unit
Seek and Find
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk
Lost Christmas Memories
Dana Mentink
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-08650-9
LOST CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
© 2018 Dana Mentink
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Version: 2020-03-02
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
SIGN ME UP!
Or simply visit
signup.millsandboon.co.uk
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
“I’m in this mess because I got shot at, too...”
Keegan cleared his throat. “Where do we go from here?”
“Can you drop me here?” Tracy asked. “I’ll get a ride home some other way.”
“Nope.”
She frowned. “I wasn’t asking your permission.”
“I know, but I’m going to go with you. I’m helping. I’m awesome like that.”
Again, she shifted. “Keegan, I’m involved in a mess and I’ll get out of it. By myself. Do you understand?”
He heard his mama’s voice in his head. Don’t be pushy, Keegan. Not everyone gallops through life like you do. Speed, excitement and danger were the stuff that made life worth living, and too much slow contemplation time could drive a man crazy.
He heaved out a breath. “This isn’t something you should face alone. You saw a murder and it’s possible the murderer is still out there.”
She didn’t answer but he knew she was thinking the same as him.
And he knows who you are.
Dear Reader,
I just love a good cowboy story, don’t you? It has been such fun to write the Thorn brothers’ stories, from oldest, Barrett, to youngest brother, Keegan. Throughout the series, Keegan has struggled to feel a sense of belonging, to find a place where he feels loved and valued. We all search for that kind of place, don’t we? Isn’t it nice to know that God has a room waiting for us where we will be fully loved and completely accepted? I can’t imagine a happier ending than that!
It has been my pleasure to gallop with you through Gold Country in this four-book series. I hope you will come along with me on the next adventure, too! As always, I love to hear from my readers. You can contact me via my website at www.danamentink.com and there’s a place to sign up for my quarterly newsletter. There is also a post office box listed below. Thanks again, dear readers, and God bless you!
Dana Mentink
P.O. Box 3168
San Ramon, CA 94583
Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.
—Galatians 6:2
To Cheryl, a wonderful friend and an excellent mom to her fur babies.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Dear Reader
Bible Verse
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
Extract
About the Publisher
ONE
Tracy Wilson jerked to a stop in the decorated lobby of the deserted Mother Lode Equestrian Center as a scream died away. At first, she’d doubted her senses. Perhaps it had been the whinny of a horse she’d mistaken for a cry. Then came the thud.
Had someone fallen? A worker unloading boxes after hours? She ran down the hallway to the one open door. Pushing into the dark space, she stopped dead. A figure, tall and wearing black, leaned over a dark-haired woman, hands on her throat, squeezing. Tousled hair screened the woman’s face and her hands gripped convulsively, clawing at the fingers throttling her. The attacker was in shadows. Was it a man? Woman? She couldn’t tell, but the person looked up at Tracy just as the choked woman went limp, her hands falling away, the life draining out of her. Irises black with hatred locked on Tracy.
The scream of horror died in Tracy’s throat as the attacker let go of the victim and dived for her instead. Panic fueled her. She raced back into the hallway, intending to make for the exit, but her pursuer was right behind. In her frantic flight, she knocked over a Christmas tree, sending it to the floor, where it smashed into a mess of silver fragments and gold beads. It did not slow her pursuer.
Tracy knew at that moment she would never make it back to the parking lot. Who could help her? The center was deserted, the Christmas decor gleaming oddly in the dim light. Surely even after hours someone would be around, tending to the horses, the steers? Was there not a single soul to hear her if she screamed for help?
She threw herself at the first door she came to, an office, which was locked. The second door, a storage room, was her only hope. Pulse thundering, she shoved her way inside. There was only a flimsy lock, but she managed to ram a dusty chair under the doorknob.
What she had just witnessed...brutal, incomprehensible, murderous...rocked her to the core.
A fist slammed at the door and booted feet began to kick at the flimsy wood.
Panic bucked like a rodeo bronc inside her. She reached for the phone in her pocket, realizing with a flood of despair that she’d dropped it somewhere. On her way in? In her flight down the hall?
Her clumsiness had always made her father laugh. Now it might just get her killed.
Nerves firing, she searched for a way out. There was no rear exit inside the room, which was cluttered with new supplies for the first ever Yuletide Silver Spurs Horse Show. She yelped as another kick rattled the door. “Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed, hoping the noise would frighten the attacker off.
There was no response except a renewed onslaught of kicks. A chip of wood detached and fell to the scuffed linoleum as the chair shuddered under the knob.
What could she use as a weapon? There was nothing but an old broom, boxes of file folders, rolls of tinsel, cleaning supplies, a folded stepladder. Another vicious kick to the door sent vibrations through the floor.
This can’t be happening, she thought. She’d arrived in town only hours before, before making the seventy-mile drive to her newly purchased property in the foothills. She’d never even set eyes on the Mother Lode Equestrian Center until now. After making better time than she’d expected, she’d decided to pop in on the off chance Bryce Larraby, the event’s main sponsor, would be there to let her take a peek at the horses she was eyeing for her clients. She’d messaged him that afternoon but he hadn’t replied.
Violent memories of what she’d witnessed made her head spin. The killer’s fingers throttling, eyes gleaming from the shadows, riveted on her.
A pale glimmer made her look upward. Set high in the wall was a small window that looked out onto the newly erected corrals. It would be a tight squeeze, but she could do it—had to do it.
She dragged the stepladder over and hoisted herself up just as the door lock failed and her flimsy chair barricade with it. She didn’t stop to look or scream, legs scrambling up the ladder until a hand reached out and grabbed her ankle. Kicking for all she was worth, she made contact, heard a high-pitched gasp of pain. The effort made Tracy wobble, her cheek hitting the edge of the window frame. Pain seared through her. Flinging the window open, she sucked in a lungful of freezing air and charged through, dropping to the ground, the breath forced out of her.
In a moment she was on her feet again, racing for her Jeep. As she ran she looked for someone, anyone, but there was only the pattering of winter rain and the sound of a horse whinnying. She sprinted, heedless of the crack of thunder and the sizzle of lightning, and finally reached her vehicle. Jamming her key in the lock, she half fell into the front seat. With icy fingers, she shoved her pile of messy blond hair behind her ears and gunned the engine, flooring the Jeep along the road away from the Mother Lode Equestrian Center.
She caught the center’s side door fly open in the rearview mirror. Her stomach screwed into a knot as the dark-clad killer barreled out. He or she would head to their car, chase her down and murder her before she could report what she’d seen.
You’ve got a head start, Tracy told herself. Get on the road, lose yourself, call the police. Just stay alive.
The faint sound of an engine floated above the storm. The killer was not giving up.
Well, neither am I.
She glanced at the glove box, where she’d locked her father’s Smith & Wesson pistol. What prickle of unease had made her decide to take it along on her business trip to the center? Whatever instinct had kicked in, she was grateful beyond measure. All she needed was a moment to unlock her weapon and load it, and she’d be able to even the playing field. It calmed her, if only a fraction.
She took the twists and turns as fast as she dared. The road became narrower, winding past dark hills. Unease ratcheted closer to panic. Where was the freeway entrance? Had she made a wrong turn?
She took the road indicating she was nearing the town of Gold Bar, but it was still some fifteen miles away. There had to be an on-ramp, a main thoroughfare that would get her to the safety of other people. Evening shadows closed in, swallowing up the road in darkness, and she battled back the taste of terror.
The road was hemmed in on both sides by pines. Another time she might have stopped, enjoyed the topography of rippled hills and the distant Sierras still visible in the darkening sky, the scent of wood smoke in her nose. Making friends with some local ranchers always served her well in her career as a bloodstock agent. She evaluated horses and bid on them at auction for her clients, sizing up horseflesh while evaluating the skeletal secrets hidden by the glossy coats.
A cold shiver rippled her spine. Bodies carried all kinds of secrets, she knew, especially human ones.
The sky surrendered to darkness, shrouded by clouds that spit rain on her windshield, but Tracy’s pulse thundered with every passing mile. She’d just decided to drive another few minutes in the hope of finding a gas station with a working phone, when the steering wheel shuddered in her grip. Fear choked her. Had the killer caught up? Shot out the tire? But there was no sign of anyone in the rearview mirror, only the irregular flapping that told her she’d run over something and given herself a flat. Not surprising, since she’d been putting off replacing the tires. Why now, though? She slammed a hand against the wheel, poring over her options in her mind.
The rising moon caught the silhouette of a rabbit on the shoulder of the road, wide-eyed, body tense with fear. She knew that fear, too, the sense that she was prey. In a hollow below was an old building, an abandoned train station that had to be some kind of historic relic. With an effort, she sat straighter and squeezed the steering wheel in a death grip.
The killer might catch up with her if she had not managed to shake him off her trail. She desperately did not want to stop, not here in this isolated place, but she could not continue with a shredded tire.
Pull the car into the cover of the shrubs and hide, she told herself. Wait until you’re sure you’re not being followed and hike to the main road. The old train station huddled like some sort of squatting monster waiting for a victim. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to stay away from the festering ruin.
But the heavily overgrown lot offered a hiding place and surely her pursuer would never imagine her stopping in such an out-of-the-way spot. It was either a savvy move or sheer lunacy. Squaring her shoulders, she edged the Jeep off the road, deep into the blackest shadows.
What exactly is a pomander anyway? Keegan Thorn fought against his natural tendencies and kept his motorcycle to the speed limit as he navigated the wet turns that hugged the tree-lined hills. He’d been dispatched by his mother on an errand to Copper Creek and his saddlebag was stuffed full of ribbon he’d secured for the mysterious pomanders, one of many wedding subjects discussed daily in the Thorn family kitchen of late. The Gold Bar Ranch covered one thousand acres, housed some sixty horses and, at the moment, was filled to the rafters with paraphernalia for a Christmastime double wedding.
His brothers, twins Owen and Jack, were marrying the women of their dreams: Ella, a farrier, and Shannon, an emergency room doctor. Although Jack and Shannon were already officially married, this would be the ceremony they’d both longed for, for years. And then there was his eldest brother, Barrett, and his wife, Shelby, who were expecting their first baby in another few weeks, which required additional piles of infant supplies scattered amid the wedding stuff. He grinned. He enjoyed the hubbub and he liked his future sisters-in-law, strong and spirited women both. Shannon, with Jack’s help, had recently outsmarted a motorcycle gang bent on murder, so the upcoming wedding festivities were doubly welcome.
Three cowboy brothers married and one with a baby on the way. He chuckled to himself. “Better you guys than me,” he said out loud. He approached the turnoff that led to the abandoned train station, grateful that he’d brought his rain gear. He was running late, of course, and his nose was still bleeding a bit after the altercation at the gas station when he’d stopped to refuel.
A shadow from his troubled past had returned. But Keegan wasn’t overly bothered by it. He could deal with trouble. He’d been doing that since he was a toddler.
Something flickered in the gathering darkness. He slowed and flipped up the wet visor of his helmet. There it was again—a weak yellow light, like a flashlight beam, bobbing along the gravel path.
Kids probably, teens sniffing out trouble. He knew. He’d done it himself, looked to unleash some of the wild energy that never seemed to dissipate, even after he’d been formally adopted by Tom and Evie Thorn when he was sixteen. He’d spent many hours combing through that abandoned train station, meeting up with people just as wild as himself, doing things he knew full well he shouldn’t have done. Drinking, smoking, vandalizing.
Fingers gripping the handlebars, he was about to press on toward home when the flashlight beam was turned upward to reveal a woman’s small face, skin luminous in the darkness.
There were two things about the face that kept him there, immobilized. First, her cheekbone was darkened. Though he could not see perfectly, he’d participated in enough brawls to know a shiner when he saw one. Second, her expression, caught in that one spurt of illumination before she vanished into the shadows.
Scared.
Not “I just walked into a spiderweb,” but a full-on look of unadulterated terror.
And that was enough to make him pull his motorcycle off the road and ease it down the gravel path in search of the frightened woman vanishing into the shadows of the abandoned station.
He figured a helmeted guy on a motorcycle would only add to the woman’s unease, so he rolled down the slope and parked the bike in the shelter of the empty water tower that glowed eerily in the gloom. After dismounting, he left his helmet on the seat, finger-combed his overgrown black hair away from his face and took the path in the direction he’d seen the woman headed, down to the busted-up platform. He decided she would probably have scooted into the depot, where at least she’d be sheltered from the storm. Where had she come from? He saw no sign of a vehicle, but the station was miles from the nearest building.
He eased through the open door. “Hello?”
Inside, a blast of chilly air hit his face, carrying the sharp scent of rust. The clouds parted to allow just enough moonlight to probe the broken windows, lending weak illumination. The old benches were still intact in some places, as well as the ticketing counter. Branches collected in moldering piles and the tapping of tiny claws indicated rats had also found the spot to be a suitable sanctuary.
“Hello?” he said again. No reply except for the rattle of pine needles dropping onto the sagging roof. “I saw you come in.”
Still no answer, but his eyes were adjusted now and he saw that the most likely hiding spot was behind the ticketing counter. He had to edge around a place where the floor had fallen out, giving way to a sort of storage cellar some fifteen feet below. One wrong step would lead to a fall that would undoubtedly result in two broken ankles or worse.
This was no place for a lady.
He picked his way carefully around the gaping hole, his cowboy boots protecting him from the protruding nails and bits of broken wood.
He heard the floor creak as the woman moved behind the counter.
He was about to try the friendly conversation approach for the second time when the woman bolted up over the top of the counter and fired a pistol at him.
TWO
The shot went close, closer than Tracy had intended. She never had been very good with guns in spite of her father’s tutelage. The dark-haired guy’s eyes flashed shock and disbelief as he stumbled at the noise, falling into a chasm where the floor ought to be. She scrambled around the ticket counter. Her heart pounded, ears ringing from the shot, sick with the notion of what she’d just done. Had she hit him?
This stranger wasn’t the killer. His eyes gleamed silvery in the gloom and his shoulders were too broad, but sheer panic had made her fire the gun anyway. She’d meant to scare, to buy time. Had she killed instead? Gripping the pistol, she edged to the crevice in the floor. “Who...who are you?”
She was relieved beyond measure when he answered.
“Keegan Thorn. And that was completely uncalled for when I was just trying to be neighborly.”
The man, she saw now as she peered over the broken flooring, was roughly her age, late twenties or early thirties. His black hair was long enough to fall across his brow as he struggled to hold on to the piece of broken flooring that dangled a foot or so down below. He wore a leather jacket and rain pants. His long legs ended in flailing boots. Dark brows framed his eyes, and for a split second she wondered what color they must be in the daylight.
“I...I thought you were someone else. Are you...all right? Um...your nose is bleeding.”
“It was bleeding when I got here, from a fist.”
Who is this guy? “What are you doing here?”
He looked up at her peevishly. “Well, I thought I was helping you out. I live at the Gold Bar, about fifteen miles from here, and I saw you heading into the train station.”
She still gripped the gun, unsure.
“Are you going to shoot at me again or help me out of this hole?”
The question startled her. “Neither. I’m sorry I shot at you, but I have to go. Don’t try to follow me.”
He grimaced, face contorted with effort. “Why would I do that?”
His questions unsettled her but she steeled herself. “You’re a stranger and I’m having a real bad night.”
“My night’s not going so great, either, and I’m not a stranger. I already told you my name, so help me up ’cause this beam’s getting slippery.”