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Serenity sighed. Though he was inches away, his warmth enveloped her. His distinctive male scent filled her senses. She thrummed with delightful, forbidden longings. The memory of his recent kiss haunted her, branding her soul forever.
A fantasy of making love with him sneaked into her brain. She nearly groaned aloud, passion overtaking her.
Could she?
Would he?
What would be the harm?
Once his memory returned, he’d be leaving, wouldn’t he?
And didn’t they deserve some happiness until they learned who he was…and why he was here?
Dear Reader,
Brr…February’s below-freezing temperatures call for a mug of hot chocolate, a fuzzy afghan and a heartwarming book from Silhouette Romance. Our books will heat you to the tips of your toes with the sizzling sexual tension that courses between our stubborn heroes and the determined heroines who ultimately melt their hardened hearts.
In Judy Christenberry’s Least Likely To Wed, her sinfully sexy cowboy hero has his plans for lifelong bachelorhood foiled by the searing kisses of a spirited single mom. While in Sue Swift’s The Ranger & the Rescue, an amnesiac cowboy stakes a claim on the heart of a flame-haired heroine—but will the fires of passion still burn when he regains his memory?
Tensions reach the boiling point in Raye Morgan’s She’s Having My Baby!—the final installment of the miniseries HAVING THE BOSS’S BABY—when our heroine discovers just who fathered her baby-to-be…. And tempers flare in Rebecca Russell’s Right Where He Belongs, in which our handsome hero must choose between his cold plan for revenge and a woman’s warm and tender love.
Then simmer down with the incredibly romantic heroes in Teresa Southwick’s What If We Fall In Love? and Colleen Faulkner’s A Shocking Request. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll fall in love all over again with these deeply touching stories about widowers who get a second chance at love.
So this February, come in from the cold and warm your heart and spirit with one of these temperature-raising books from Silhouette Romance. Don’t forget the marshmallows!
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
The Ranger & the Rescue
Sue Swift
www.millsandboon.co.uk
The various details of the Texas Rangers
and their operations were the sole creation of the author.
This book is dedicated to my critique partners, Cheryl Vincent Clark
and Janet Shirah, who continued to believe when I didn’t.
I’d like to thank my critique partners and others who helped me with this book:
Judy Dedek, Jackie Hamilton, Celia Zweig and Colin Swift.
My editors, Darlene Winter, Diane Grecco, Kim Nadelson
and Mary-Theresa Hussey, have been enormously helpful.
As always, I depend upon the love and support of my husband.
Books by Sue Swift
Silhouette Romance
His Baby, Her Heart #1539
The Ranger & the Rescue #1574
SUE SWIFT
A criminal defense attorney for twenty years, Sue Swift always sensed a creative wellspring bubbling inside her, but didn’t find her niche until attending a writing class with master teacher Bud Gardner. Within a short time, Sue realized her creative outlet was romance fiction. Since she began writing her first novel in November 1996, she’s sold three books and two short stories.
The 2001 president of the Sacramento Chapter of the Romance Writers of America, Sue credits the RWA, its many wonderful programs and the help of its experienced writers for her new career as a romance novelist. She also lectures to women’s and writers’ groups on various topics relating to the craft of writing.
Her hobbies are hiking, bodysurfing and kenpo karate, in which she’s earned a second-degree black belt. Sue and her real-live hero of a husband maintain homes in northern California and Maui, Hawaii. You may write Sue via e-mail at sue@sue-swift.com or at P.O. Box 241, Citrus Heights, CA 95611-0241. And please visit Sue’s Web site at www.sue-swift.com. An interview with Sue is featured at the author area of the Harlequin/Silhouette Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
The most beautiful man Serenity Clare had ever seen stood at her door. Tall, lean, and utterly virile, his appearance was as unexpected as the proverbial snowball in you-know-where.
A slender ribbon of desire unfurled deep in Serenity’s body, tingly and warm.
She blinked, surprised. She’d thought Hank had destroyed her passion for any man. What was different about this guy?
He removed his Stetson, revealing short, sable hair. The pressure of his hat in the searing heat of the New Mexico summer afternoon had stuck his hair to his skull.
Rubbing his scalp, he asked, “Lori Perkins?”
Serenity took the question like a punch to the gut. Pleasure fled, blown away like dust in the desert wind. She shrank back, craving the solidity of the doorpost behind her.
She hadn’t used that name in close to a year and didn’t want to hear it now. She gazed at him while breathing deeply to recapture a calm state of mind. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Excuse me.”
She tried to close the door, but he stuck his booted toe in the way. “You’re Lori Perkins. I’ve seen a picture of you.”
Resignation filled her chest, a frightful, leaden weight. “Who are you?” she managed to whisper.
He hesitated. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Bambi-brown eyes looked too gentle for his craggy face. He shifted from side to side; his heels crunched on the gravelly stoop.
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am.” His twang reminded her of home.
A tremor ran through her body. Texas was the past, something she wanted to forget. This was getting worse and worse. “You don’t know what?”
“My name. I was hoping you could help me.” He swayed slightly. “I…I woke up in the desert, and I remembered your name and address.”
The icy fingers of fear clawed at her wits. Serenity sucked in a deep breath, commanding her body to quit trembling and her mind to begin functioning. She had to discover who this man was and how he had found her. “Do you have an ID?”
“Huh?” He stared, glassy-eyed.
“Turn around.”
He did. Hmm, she thought. The left back quarter of his jeans showed a lean, shapely buttock. A faded square marked the place in the back pocket where ninety-five out of one hundred men kept their wallets. Vanished, it would provide no answers, reveal no secrets.
“Why do you know my name, but not your own?”
Turning to face her, he opened his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Bend down. Maybe you took a whack to the head.”
“I do have a headache.”
He obliged, leaning over from the waist.
Serenity gingerly ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, catching his male, musky scent while she parted the locks. He jerked as she contacted sticky wetness.
“Oh, my.” At his temple, a lump the size of a half-dollar oozed blood. It looked bad.
She released him, then regarded him thoughtfully as he swayed, obviously ill, on her doorstep. If she sent him away, he could die. In his current weakened condition, without remembering the reason he’d been sent to find her, she was sure she could keep him under control.
“Hmm. You know me, but I don’t know you…and you don’t know you. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Serenity opened the door wider, inviting him inside.
“How’s that? Do you know me?”
Her mind raced. What could she tell him? “Um, no, but I’m a psychic. Don’t worry about a thing—the cards see all, know all, and have all the answers. And if the cards don’t tell us what we want to know, we can always try the crystal ball or the Ouija board. Don’t worry—something will work.”
He gulped. That Adam’s apple again. He was positively edible, this amnesiac cowboy who’d turned up on her doorstep like a tumbleweed.
Serenity reminded herself that he couldn’t be the only person who knew the location of Lori Perkins. Feeling exposed while standing outside, she retreated into her home.
Her stomach clenched and twisted. How had this stranger found her? She bet he’d been sent to check her out and to report back to—back to—
Her mind flinched away from the thought of Hank.
Until she figured out what to do, she’d keep this stranger close. In his befuddled condition, she was sure she’d remain safe…at least for a while.
He remembered to duck as he entered Lori Perkins’s house, but that was about all he remembered. That, and the woman. But the black-and-white photo he recalled bore only a slight resemblance to this flame-haired sprite. Maybe the snapshot was old; in any event, he remembered it only through a haze of pain and confusion.
“Give me your hat.” She hung the battered Stetson, dirty with grime and a splotch or two of blood, on a wooden coatrack near the door.
“Come.” Lori led the way through a whitewashed living room sparsely furnished with a futon-style couch and a couple of cushions in turquoise and coral. A braided rag rug in the same tones covered part of the wooden floor. A row of shiny, multicolored crystals sat on a narrow mantel above the curved adobe fireplace.
“Sit.” In the kitchen, she indicated one of four ladder-back chairs drawn up to a farmhouse table. After wringing out a worn-looking towel in steamy water, she applied it to his head. She seemed nice, wincing in empathy as she dabbed at the bump on his scalp, first with hot soapy water, then with ice.
While she brewed tea, he had a chance to look at his hostess and her home. Lori’s graceful movements reflected her simple speech. The white cotton dress she wore, brightly embroidered, harmonized with the Mexican-influenced decor. She lived modestly, but had a feminine knack for making this plain place a home. The small stuccoed, whitewashed house was typical of that part of New Mexico—and from where did that strange bit of information come? he silently asked himself.
The lack of appliances struck him. No television or radio, no dishwasher. He could hear wind chimes faintly tinkling in the quiet. He had a vision of pretty Lori Perkins washing her clothes on rocks in a stream. Was there even a phone?
She stood at the kitchen counter, dripping honey into a glass of iced tea. Her back was turned.
Pressing the ice pack to his temple with one hand, he poked at a pile of papers on the table with the other. Was he ordinarily a snoop? Maybe his rudeness was the result of the bump on his head. He hoped so, but in the meantime the bills he examined showed that his Ms. Perkins used a different name. A very different name. Serenity Clare. What kind of a wacky name was Serenity Clare?
He caught himself frowning, then consciously smoothed out his expression. Who was he to judge anyone else? He could be a Stetson-wearing version of Ted Bundy for all he knew.
Aha. A cellular phone bill in the name of Serenity Clare. Civilization did extend into the New Mexican desert wilderness.
A hand with short, buffed nails plucked the papers from his grasp. “Well, we know something about you,” she said. “You’re nosy.”
He actually became hot with embarrassment. Then, when she smiled, his temperature rose even more. She had a gorgeous smile, one that could coax the sun out from behind a cloud.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
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.