A blank memory. A new life.

But her borrowed time just ran out

Two years after Grace Thackery washed up on a small-town Mississippi riverbank, she has the first clue about the life she doesn’t remember: someone wants her dead. And while search-and-rescue director Hollis Montgomery’s determined to protect her, the secrets of her past are darker than they expected. Can the bond between Grace and Hollis survive her true identity...and an assassin?

JESSICA R. PATCH lives in the Mid-South, where she pens inspirational contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. When she’s not hunched over her laptop or going on adventurous trips with willing friends in the name of research, you can find her watching way too much Netflix with her family and collecting recipes for amazing dishes she’ll probably never cook. To learn more about Jessica, please visit her at jessicarpatch.com.

Also By Jessica R. Patch

Fatal Reunion

Protective Duty

Concealed Identity

Final Verdict

Cold Case Christmas

Killer Exposure

Recovered Secrets

The Security Specialists

Deep Waters

Secret Service Setup

Dangerous Obsession

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Recovered Secrets

Jessica R. Patch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09739-0

RECOVERED SECRETS

© 2019 Jessica R. Patch

Published in Great Britain 2019

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.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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“I’m a ninja!”

She frantically shook her head, disbelief washing over her again as the scenario replayed through her brain. She’d assaulted a man with a jack! Yes, he’d come at her first...but she hadn’t even hesitated. What had she done?

“Grace,” Hollis said in a calming but wary tone, his gaze giving the strength she needed. “I need you to breathe, honey.” He pushed a mass of wet hair from her face and tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes.

His voice soothed her. His touch eased her knotted muscles as she followed his instructions. Slowly she gained her wits, until finally the hysteria passed and she could think rationally. “Hollis, two Latino men pulled up behind me on the highway. My tire blew. I’m pretty sure they set it up.” She told him what had happened next and how she’d single-handedly put them on the ground. She collapsed into his powerful arms.

Hollis held her tighter and she melded into him—a safe place. The safest place she’d been since she’d lost her memory...possibly ever. She peered into his dark eyes, searching for wisdom, answers...hope.

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed this story. I loved writing it. I’ve always been a big fan of spy movies and novels. What better way to explore amnesia than using a spy who did some things that blurred and even crossed moral lines. But that was Grace’s past. Maybe it’s your past too. But it’s not who you are anymore. In Christ, you are free. You get a clean slate. You get to be a new creation, making new and better choices. No longer are you a slave to sin. And you are forgiven. Completely. Thoroughly. Utterly. No more shame. No more guilt. That’s the beauty of salvation. Of mercy. Of forgiveness. Grace finally realized that, and it gave her the liberty to pursue her dream—to love Hollis fully. I pray that if you are battling the same feelings as Grace, you’ll take comfort from this story. Cling to truth, and walk in freedom, friend. It’s yours.

I love to hear from readers! Please drop me a line and visit me at www.jessicarpatch.com.

Warmly,

Jessica

Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

—2 Corinthians 5:17

To Dad—for giving me a love for spy movies, especially James Bond.

Special Thanks:

My agent, Rachel Kent, who has been one of the biggest blessings in my life. You are my friend and champion!

My editor, Shana Asaro, who makes everything I write so much stronger and better. I am thankful for you.

Susan Tuttle, my brainstorming partner and friend. I wouldn’t have a great story if you weren’t there to help me turn it into something worth pursuing.

My family, who always supports, understands and encourages me to keep writing and dreaming.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Grace Thackery was living on a borrowed name; she’d lost every single memory prior to the past year and a half since she’d awakened from a six-month coma. But as she breezed into the kitchen at the Muddy River Inn, inhaling the smell of cinnamon and yeasty dough, she had no doubt she’d loved cinnamon rolls. How could anyone not? She rubbed the round locket around her neck. At least she thought it was a locket, but it wouldn’t open—it was as locked as her memories. Had it been a gift from a family member, a friend...a boyfriend, fiancé or husband?

Tish LaMont looked up and grinned, her plump face colored pink from the oven heat; the lines around her lips and eyes showed she’d spent most of her life happy. She slid a pan of rolls onto the butcher block island and waved a pot holder over the steam. “If this rain doesn’t let up soon, we’ll float away. I can’t tell you the last time we had this much in Cottonwood. April showers are supposed to bring May flowers. Not more showers,” she drawled in a rich, Mississippi accent.

Grace snickered and helped herself to a cinnamon roll; the fresh hot glaze dripped onto her dessert plate. She’d lick that up last. It had been raining the past eight days straight. Gray and dismal. Something about it felt familiar, teetering on the edge of her fuzzy mind but unwilling to surface. “If I ever lose my memory again, there’s no way I’d forget these.”

Tish snorted and used her wrist to push away a strand of bobbed gray hair. According to Tish, women over fifty needed to let go and let God. And that meant allowing the silver to rule as a crown of glory and wisdom. Grace wasn’t sure what she meant, but it had to be something out of scripture. Tish was the godliest woman Grace had ever met—in the past year and a half, that is.

This woman had taken her under her wing, physically and spiritually, the day Hollister Montgomery—the man who’d rescued her—brought her to Tish. She’d given her a place to live, turning the garden shed into a small living quarter, and in return Grace helped Tish around the inn for a meager, but livable, salary. A man at Hollis’s church had given her a car. Once she got behind the wheel, the muscle memory had taken over. Weird thing about retrograde amnesia—she’d lost some words but not her procedural memory. She might not remember the name for a spoon, but she could drive a car or even ride a bike if she’d done it often in her past. Hollis insisted she take lessons and a driver’s test anyway. He’d worked with the sheriff to get her a temporary ID and license.

“You going to the facility today?” Tish asked, and pointed to her search-and-rescue raincoat.

“Yep. I told Hollis I’d help him do inventory.”

“Hmm,” Tish said and gave her a knowing eye. The one she always gave when Grace mentioned him.

Grace couldn’t have romantic feelings for Hollis—or anyone. How could she? What if she was already married—or in a relationship and her beloved was out there hunting for her, worried sick? And even if that weren’t the case, what did a woman with no memory have to offer? Nothing. Literally. She could see a first date now: Where did you grow up? I don’t know. What do you love to do in your spare time? I can’t remember. Do you have any brothers or sisters? Maybe.

Tish pointed toward the small dining area for guests. “Not many today. The two businessmen from Memphis. The Westcott couple. And a man from Jackson.” She rubbed her hands on her apron. “Before you head out—and take Hollis a couple of those cinnamon rolls—would you carry these into the dining room?”

“You got it.” She licked her fingers and washed her hands, then carried a platter of glazed goodness to the buffet in the dining area. She nodded a hello to guests she recognized and spotted the man from Jackson, Mississippi, at the table by the window, sipping coffee and gazing at the rain. He glanced her way as if he felt her watching, but made no move to be polite, to smile or even acknowledge he had locked eyes on her.

“Good morning,” she said softly and set the tray of sweets next to the bowl of fresh fruit. “Tish makes homemade cinnamon rolls that are out of this world.”

He said nothing, only stared.

“Are you okay, sir?” She moved closer to his table. Was he having a stroke? His fist tightened, and he cocked his head. “Sir?”

He blinked out of his stupor. “Fine. Sorry. I’m fine. I’m Peter Rainey.”

“Grace Thackery.”

“You work here or just doing a favor?” he asked and studied her. Not in an uncomfortable way, but curious.

“For almost two years now.” She granted him a smile and he returned it, dimples creasing deep into his cheeks.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin, a shade darker than his close-cropped blond hair. “And before that?”

“This and that.” Probably. Surely. She shrugged. “So, what are you in town doing?” Her lack of memory was no one’s entertainment. It was a horror story at best.

“Business.”

Grace checked her watch. “Well, I hope it goes well. If you need an umbrella, Tish keeps extras by the front door.” She waved and bustled to the kitchen. Before opening it, she tossed a look at Mr. Rainey. He was still watching her, his eyebrows pulled together creating a line across his brow. He couldn’t possibly know her. Could he? If so, why wouldn’t he have said something? She shook off the thought and snagged the to-go box of cinnamon rolls for Hollis, then she poured a cup of coffee and snapped the plastic lid over it.

She hollered a quick goodbye as Tish stirred a vat of gravy for biscuits and then she rushed into the steady rain. Once inside the small four-door Honda Civic, she removed her hood and set off for the SAR facility. She’d been volunteering at the search-and-rescue organization for over a year. It had started out to keep her busy while she was acclimating to her new normal, but when she discovered she loved the outdoors, hiking and had several survival skills—including tying a slip knot like a pro—Hollis had suggested she take the classes to join the volunteer team. Maybe she’d been a Girl Scout troop leader.

Being a part of a team and helping others had been a lifesaver for Grace. Guess Hollis suspected she needed to feel useful. He was intuitive and patient. Always going the extra mile to help others, including Grace. He’d made sure she had a place to live, to work, and he’d also taken her to church on Sundays. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever given her heart and life to God, but after a few months of attending she felt the urge to make the commitment.

The women had been kind and helpful, inviting her to Bible studies and quilting classes—she was a natural with a needle and thread—but the love and friendship she’d been lavished with still didn’t combat the nighttime warring where she wrestled with who she was—who she’d been. Did she want to be that person again? Were her interests and likes now the same as the woman once before? Would she ever know?

As she turned on Old Highway 4, a pop sounded and the car jerked to the right. The smell of rubber stamped out the homey scent of coffee and cinnamon. She veered off the shoulder and parked. Clambering out into the rain, she spotted the right front tire blown, tread hanging limply on the ground. Growling under her breath, she opened the trunk and hauled out the jack and the spare. Hey! She knew how to fix a tire. It was all there in her mind. Score. Maybe she was a mechanic. Or she had an attentive father who wanted her to be independent. Or a husband...boyfriend...brother?

She knelt in the wet puddle and went to work.

Headlights stabbed through the dappled haze. A pickup eased onto the shoulder of the road. She waved as two men clambered out and headed toward her. Both wearing jeans and work boots.

“I got it, fellas, but thanks for getting out in the rain to help a lady.” Were the people where she once lived as cordial?

The shorter, stockier man didn’t smile and the taller one ran a hand through his black rain-slicked hair—his eyes glinted like a shark’s. Grace’s neck hairs stood at attention and a pit of dread hollowed out her gut.

“I see you have a little trouble, eh?” The taller man shot her a wild smile, and the hungry animal gleam in his eyes said he very well may have done something to give her this trouble.

“No...no,” she stammered. “I’m doing fine on my own.” Rain trickled down her face and she gripped the jack as the stockier man edged to the left of her and the one speaking stalked her dead-on.

“We just want to know where the doctor is.”

Grace’s heart hammered in her chest as she jumped to her feet, her knees like jelly and her hands trembling. It was pretty clear they weren’t talking about Dr. Jones, the local General Practitioner. “You...you stay back. I don’t know anything about a doctor.”

He laughed. “Don’t play stupid. All you have to do is tell us the truth and no harm comes to you. But if you hold out...”

She backed up a step and right into the chest of the shorter Latino. He gripped her upper arms with force. “You hold out and we mess you up. Where’s the doctor? We won’t ask again.” He hurled Spanish slurs and she recognized them. She knew Spanish! At least the bad words. His fingers dug into her arms and she winced. Tears burned her eyes. “You don’t understand. I really can’t help you. I was hurt—”

“Now you’re hurt,” the jerk gripping her said, and slung her to the ground into a thick puddle of muddy water saturating the grass. His boot landed on the back of her head, forcing her face into the water. Panic raced through her veins and then into her throat, clogging it with a suppressed scream.

This was going to end terribly.

Grace’s lungs lit on fire with the need to consume air.

Suddenly her right foot connected with his groin, as if it had a mind of its own, releasing his boot from her head. She flipped on her back, gulped in the air, rose up and grabbed the man hunching over her by his shirt collar, pulling him toward her and the ground while placing her feet on his chest. She rolled back into the soggy earth, using the momentum to flip the man over her body and into the taller guy.

They both crumpled into the spongey grass.

How had she done that? The shorter attacker growled and told the other guy, in Spanish, to get a handle on her. Before she had a good clear thought she launched toward the man making it to his feet and muscled him toward the car, then she shoved his head onto the hood with so much force it reverberated through her entire arm. He collapsed and didn’t move.

The last assailant grabbed her hair and she bent forward, tossing him over her, then clutched the jack and slammed it into his head.

Grace dropped it when he went still. Oh no. What had she done? Her body trembled with total fear—from the men, from her behavior. Flight mode kicked in and she sprinted the two miles to the SAR facility.

She busted into Hollis’s office, startling him out of his chair. “I’m a ninja!” she squawked, panting for breath, dripping wet. “I’m a...ninja!” She frantically shook her head, disbelief washing over her again as the scenario replayed through her brain. “I thought I was a chef or a Girl Scout leader. But I’m a ninja! I’m a ninja—”

She assaulted a man with a jack! Yes, he came at her first...but she didn’t even hesitate. A weird predatory urge had taken over and she...she... What had she done?

“Grace,” Hollis said in a calming but wary tone as he swung around the desk, his dark-eyed gaze giving her the strength she needed. “I need you to breathe, honey. Slow down. Let’s press Pause. Get your bearings.” He pushed a mass of wet hair from her face and tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “Focus,” he drawled in his rich baritone voice that always brought her comfort.

“You don’t understand.” He hadn’t witnessed her takedown, beating them like ragdolls with no thought whatsoever. “I have kung fu moves. And I know Spanish!” She told him in perfect Spanish she was a ninja and she thought she’d killed a man.

Hollis’s eyes widened. “What man?”

“Hollis, you know Spanish too?” Of course, he did. He was a former navy SEAL. He’d done a few tours. She was no navy SEAL. But it sure felt like it out there. “I know I’m not making any sense.” Her blood froze and she shivered. The room tipped.

“You’re going into shock.” Hollis raced to the lockers on the far side of the wall and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around her. He lifted her eyelids. “Pupils are dilated.” He cupped her face. “Look at me. Inhale. Exhale.” He rubbed her forearms, working to generate body heat, then he enveloped her, working his hands down her back. “Keep breathing.”

His voice soothed her, his touch eased her knotted muscles as she followed his instructions. Slowly she gained her wits, until the hysteria passed and she could rationally think. “Hollis, two Latino men pulled up behind me on the highway. My tire blew. I’m pretty sure they set it up.” She told him what happened next and how she singlehandedly put them on the ground. Grace had almost been murdered; the fear was overwhelming. Didn’t matter that she had defended herself. She had been harmed. Might be attacked again. She collapsed into his powerful arms. “I can’t be a murderer, Hollis.”

Hollis held her tighter and she melded into him—a safe place. The safest place she’d been since she’d lost her memory, possibly ever. He smelled like oranges and fabric softener. His dark stubble scraped against her cheek as he soothed her with soft shhs. She peered into his eyes, almost as dark as hers, searching for wisdom, answers...hope.

“It’s going to be okay. Let’s go to the site. Figure it out.” He lifted the collar of her jacket. “First go get some fatigues and get dry, then meet me here.” She frantically nodded and did as he instructed. When she returned, she’d wrung out her hair and wrapped it in a wet knot at the base of her neck. She wore khaki fatigues and her spare pair of hiking boots she kept at the facility.

Hollis scrutinized her. “You ready?”

No. She was terrified. Either someone had mistaken her for someone she wasn’t. Or Grace had secrets that were so dark, she didn’t ever want to remember.

* * *

Hollis kept his emotions close to the vest. He didn’t want to cause further panic, didn’t want Grace to be even more afraid, and showing his concern would set her off. Calmly, he escorted her to his pickup and opened the door for her. “It’s going to be okay,” he reassured her again. When he’d found her two years ago during SAR dive drills in the river, she’d been roughed up and left for dead on the bank. She was seizing and frothing at the mouth. He feared the trauma had affected her brain and she’d never recover. By the time he got her to the hospital, she was unresponsive, but breathing, though shallow. Then she’d slipped into a coma. The Grace he knew today might not be the Grace she used to be.

He rounded the truck and climbed in the cab. Grace wrung her slender hands—hands that had a few scars—and chewed on lips that should be kissed not tortured with worrisome gnawing. She was beautiful. Lightly bronzed skin—like the sun had kissed her—and hair as thick and black as night matching her eyes, and long lashes that reminded him of a Southern belle fan. She’d been extremely toned and sculpted when he’d found her, which told him she was a health nut, and the dress she’d been wearing exposed most of her back, revealing scars there as well.

His friend and ER nurse, Daphne, had overstepped HIPAA and confirmed that Grace had past injuries. Broken bones. Two arms. A collarbone. Her right leg. Left ankle. Several fingers. Hollis immediately suspected domestic abuse, but no one came calling for her. He’d called in a favor with an old SEAL buddy who ran a private security company now, but his search hadn’t turned up anything. He had done a missing persons check to see if anyone of her description had vanished around the time Hollis had found Grace, but no one matching her physical appearance had. And without knowing her name, her birthdate or any information that would aid in a background check or missing person’s report, it made things practically impossible. With her scars and broken bones, Hollis and the sheriff had agreed it was best to search for her identity discreetly. If the person who had injured Grace resurfaced, and she didn’t know him or her—and neither did Hollis nor Sheriff Freeman—then Grace was a sitting duck. What quiet investigating and inquiry they had done all hit dead ends. It was as if Grace didn’t exist.

Except she did and it was mind-boggling. Nothing but grace she survived. Day in and out Hollis came and sat at her bedside, talking with her even though she was unresponsive. He needed to call her something. Grace fit. Thackery was his great grandmother’s name. It wasn’t like he could call her Grace Montgomery. Then one day he was reading her a psalm and her eyelids flickered...once...twice and those coffee bean–colored eyes looked into his. For a split second it was like she knew him. Had heard every word he’d ever spoken or read to her. He thought she might even say his name, but then it registered she had no idea where she was or even who she was. Couldn’t recall a single thing and hysteria had set in.

He quietly drove through the rain, waiting for her to speak now.

Finally, she did. She told him in further detail what had happened. “Do you think I learned self-defense?”

That was the rational woman he’d come to know and admire. He smirked. “Already tossed the ninja theory out? I kinda liked it.”

Grace playfully frowned at his teasing. “I’m not quiet enough to be a ninja.”

“I’ll attest. You barreled into my office and scared my socks off.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Just in case. “It’s possible you learned self-defense or martial arts.” Health nut and martial arts or kickboxing—both great exercises. Or she may have taken it up to protect herself from whoever inflicted those wounds and had broken her body. One theory was her husband or boyfriend discovered she was leaving and tracked her, gave her the beating of her life and left her for dead. But she was wearing a red dress and heels. Someone running away wouldn’t have been in that flimsy—and slightly provocative—dress. There were other theories, but they were darker and Hollis didn’t let his mind wander there.

“What if I did kill them? What will happen?” she asked softly.

“It was self-defense.” They approached Grace’s car—no other vehicle around.

“The truck is gone!” Grace threw off her seat belt and bolted from the vehicle before it got good and stopped, darting toward her car, ignoring the drizzle. “No one is here!” Her voice held a measure of fear and relief. She hadn’t killed anyone. Good. But they were gone and that meant they could return. Not good. Hollis stood beside her and squatted, inspecting the tire.

“It’s been punctured by a blade of some kind. They must have stabbed it before you left the inn this morning, then followed you waiting on it to blow.”

“I don’t understand, Hollis. This makes no sense.”

But it might if she had her memories. “If you gave them a solid whupping like you say you did—if that was a skill they were aware of—then they aren’t going to believe you have no memory.”

“It’s retrograde amnesia!” she protested and Hollis snorted. “What? What is so amusing?”

“I doubt two probable criminals care or know much about amnesia. All they know is you kicked their butts from here to Timbuktu, and they’ve gone to lick their injured pride.”

Grace’s cheeks paled. “And when it’s been mended?”

“They’ll return with new tactics.” Likely the kind that don’t involve getting too close. That triggered a new wave of panic through his chest, squeezing it tight.

“Like the kind they can administer from a distance?”

Too perceptive. He kinda dug it. “I wasn’t going to say that but...yeah.” He changed her tire and wiped his wet, dirty hands on his jeans. “It’ll be okay, though, Grace. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

“Gonna be on me like blue on sky.”

He chuckled and opened her driver’s-side door for her. “Something like that.”

“You know,” she said wistfully, “I’m handy with a needle and thread, and that time Dennis fell into the ravine I knew how to splint his arm. If these guys are looking for a doctor... I could be a doctor or in the medical field too.”

“Anything is possible. I’ll follow you to the inn. Drive slow on the spare. I’ll have it fixed later today.”

She nodded and cranked her engine. A doctor? Hmm...doubtful, but for now he’d keep his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t sure he liked where they were going.

* * *

Inside the inn, Grace snagged a leftover cinnamon roll. She deserved it. She also deserved to get clean. Her face was a mess, muddy and streaked from the battle a little over an hour ago.

“Hollis, I’m going to take care of all this filth. When I’m done, we can get back to the facility. I need to look at the weather satellites, and I know you want to ride out and inspect the waters around the levee.”

Hollis finished off his roll and nodded. “You really should. You smell.”

“I do not!”

Laughing, he held his mug up in a salute and winked. “Maybe not, but you do look like you wallowed in mud.”

She shuddered. She had and not by choice.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” His eyes held concern.

“You didn’t. I need to clear the gunk off my face.” She headed for the kitchen door.

“Holler if you need anything.”

Her place from the kitchen was about fifteen to twenty feet. Grace waved and made her way out the door and along the sidewalk lined with flower pots—the flowers wilting at the merciless and unending rain. It was overcast but warm. After unlocking her door, she stepped inside and tensed.

Something wasn’t right. Pausing in the entry, she grabbed an umbrella from the wicker basket. Nothing appeared out of sorts. But the eerie sensation skittered across her skin. Everything inside her screamed a warning. Should she call for Hollis? The window in the inn’s kitchen was open. He’d hear. Grace surveyed the open floor plan. To the left of the kitchenette was her bedroom and bathroom. Inching toward her room, her heart galloped. Was she being ridiculous?

She toed her bedroom door farther open and stepped inside, caught a whiff of musk. The smell zinged along her memory pulling something familiar forward, but it was blurry. She inched into the bathroom, switched on the light and felt a presence behind her.

Turning, a figure loomed. Throat constricting, adrenaline racing, she didn’t wait for him to tackle her. She went on the offensive and rushed him, but he dodged her. She swung around and his back was to her. Grace instinctively thrust out the umbrella—the hook catching around his neck like a noose. She yanked—choking him—forcing him backward and toward her.

“You...always...knew how...to make...an entrance...” he sputtered and held his arms out to his side. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then what are you here for? My valuables? I’ll give you a hint. I don’t have any.” Where on earth did that bravado and snark come from or her instincts to use that umbrella as a weapon?

“I’m turning around.”

She recognized his voice now that her ears weren’t buzzing, but her heart was going wild and she itched to run. Run fast and hard.

With hands raised, Peter Rainey from breakfast faced her. “You can put the umbrella down. Really.”

She lowered it.

“I thought you were dead.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “But then three weeks ago I saw you on the national news. In the background while the SAR chief told the world they’d found the little girl their team had been searching for. It was covered almost nightly. I was in shock. Then confused.”

He was confused? How had he seen her on TV? Hollis had made sure to steer her clear from the media during that hunt for their pastor’s little girl—her scars kept him protective of her, and she appreciated that. She hadn’t found the child for the recognition anyway.

“Why did you settle down in this Podunk town? Why did you pretend not to know me earlier? And why are you volunteering with Search and Rescue and living under a tin roof?”

“Why are you under my tin roof? I don’t have any cinnamon rolls here.” Now probably wasn’t the time to go comedic and dry, but a memory teetered on the edge of her mind—she used this kind of banter to do something...what?

He chuckled. “Always loved that snark. I know you hate me.”

She did?

“I’m here to make amends, Max, even though you have every right to stomp me into the ground for betraying you. I should have known better but...”

Max! Was that her name? Short for Maxine or something? She glanced at the door and her hands shook.

Peter spotted it. “Are...are you afraid?”

She was working hard to conceal it; should she not be? “Well, you did betray me.” If she told him her brain had deflated like a balloon and she was at a loss for memory, he might try to hurt her or clam up. He’d asked why she pretended not to know him. Well, he hadn’t acted like he knew her either, so he was hiding something. He was her only link to her past. She had to play the game for as long as she could.

“Look, I’ll tell you everything, but I may not be the only one who knows you’re alive.”

Oh so true. She had two creeps coming for her already.

Peter sighed. “I can help you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I’m telling you the truth. Where is Dr. Sayer? I can help her too.”

Her! The doctor had a name and gender. Good, she could work with this. But could she work with this man? What if he tried to betray her again? How did he betray her before? By beating her up and leaving her for dead? Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she bit down on her lip to hide the tremble. What if she didn’t know any more self-defense moves?

“I didn’t—” He paused, cocked his head and surveyed her. It gave her the shivers but she tried to hold fast. Still, her fingers jittered, causing the umbrella to bounce. He watched it then let his gaze slowly roll over her face and locked onto her eyes again.

“What’s my name?” He was on to her somehow. The fear. The fear was tipping him off that something was wrong.

“Peter.”

He narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. She took a step back and he paused, tipped his head to the side. “What’s your name?”

Busted. Would he kill her now?

“Why do you ask?” She tossed a glance at the open door and took another step toward it.

Peter matched a step forward for every one she took in retreat, surprise in his eyes. “I thought you were toying with me this morning somehow so I didn’t say anything, played the game. But you weren’t up to anything sneaky. You don’t know me. And you don’t know you either. I’m so sorry, Max.”

“For what?”

“Everything. It was all lies.”

“What was all lies? Is my name Max?” she asked, her head spinning. Did she try to run or did she trust this man who admitted to betraying her?

He glanced out the window and shook his head; he seemed concerned. “No. It’s a nickname. Mad Max.”

Mad Max? “Am I crazy or something? If you’re not here to hurt me...then tell me who I am.”

“Max,” he whispered. “Your real name is—”

Glass shattered and Peter fell to the ground dead. Grace stared at him frozen and stunned, then another bullet slammed into the wall by her head. “Hollis!” she screamed and hit the floor.

TWO

Hollis hit the door running when the first shot cracked through the air and was at Grace’s front door as she screamed for him. “I’m here,” he called and slid across the floor to her. “Stay low.” He glanced into her bedroom and did a double take. A body lay on the floor. “Who is that?”

“Peter Rainey,” she breathed, her face deathly pale.

“You remember?” Had memories surfaced in the last ten minutes? Questions would have to wait. He needed to get Grace to safety. Hopefully, the shooter wouldn’t open fire on people in a public place. It was his only chance. Once she was out of danger, he would inspect the woods, then find out who the dead guy was in her bedroom. They huddled on the floor for several moments. The gunfire had ceased. The shooter could be changing positions, windows. Getting a better line of fire. Was it one of those men from earlier or someone new?

The woods covered the south of her house. North was the inn. No decent place there to find accurate cover or to get a good shot. “We’re going out the front door and making a dash to the inn. You ready?”

“Not really,” she groused. “But let’s go.”

“One, two, three!” He hauled her up but kept her hunched as he shielded her with his body. They sprinted across the wet walkway to the inn. Inside he slammed the door and kicked a kitchen chair into the corner. No windows. No easy target. He lowered her into the chair. Grace’s face retained the muddy streaks from earlier and strands of dark hair had come loose from its bun, sticking to her neck.

“I want you to stay here. I’ll be right back.” Hollis gripped Grace’s shoulders. “Promise me.”

She nodded as Tish entered the kitchen. “What in the world is going on? I heard the door slam and a ruckus in here...”

“Grace is in danger, Tish.” He gave her the short version, and with every word her face blanched even further until she looked like a walking snowdrift. “I believe she’ll be okay since the inn is full of people—though I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but still...keep an eye out.” He looked at Grace. “Call the sheriff. Chances are no one paid attention to the shots.” Gunfire wasn’t unfamiliar in the South, in this town—even Tish hadn’t been drawn into the kitchen from the gunfire, but from their commotion. “I’ll be back.” Hollis wanted his own time to search and he’d have it if he moved fast. Probably the SEAL in him, but he wanted dibs on any clues that might give them more information on the deceased and Grace’s identity.

Grace nodded.

“We’ll be fine.” Tish headed for the cherry-red tea kettle on the stove.

Tish had mettle and Hollis loved her for it. He retrieved his ankle weapon and slipped outside into the woods. After about five minutes, he found one man’s footprints in the mud. Fairly large. Hollis aimed his Glock toward the garden house. Perfect angle. Clean shot. Good distance away. No casings. Looked like the shooter had collected the brass, meaning he might be and probably was a professional.

He followed the prints about a mile until they tracked to an old back road. The shooter either cased the place for a few days, finding the best way to enter and escape undetected, or he was familiar with the area—a local or someone who frequented Cottonwood. The inn was rife with businessmen and women who’d rather stay in a cozy home for a week than an impersonal hotel. But why would a local want to hurt Grace or kill Peter Rainey? And who?

He hurried to Grace’s, wiping his muddy boots on her mat, then he entered. Under her sink he found a pair of yellow cleaning gloves and slid his hands into them, then he strode into the bedroom. He studied the scene. The last thing Hollis wanted to do was move the body, but he needed to inspect the wound. The air smelled like iron and Grace’s vanilla candles. Appeared to be a rifle shot. A possible sniper.

He carefully rummaged through pockets, searching for identification, credit cards, anything. The only thing on the man was a wallet with two hundred bucks and a single peppermint in his right jean pocket. Who traveled with no identification?

Someone who didn’t want to reveal their identity.

What had Grace been immersed in? He’d suspected an abusive relationship, and that was still a possibility, though it seemed much slimmer with the earlier attack and now this.

Hollis used his cell phone camera and snapped a picture of the guy, then swept the perimeter. No sign of danger. Back inside, Grace’s face and hands were clean and she’d redone the bun; this time it was higher on her head. Tish sat beside her with a cup of tea as they murmured to one another.

“I just hung up with Sheriff Freeman.” Grace stood, hope and dread vied for first place in her gaze. “What did you find?”

Hollis hated being the bearer of bad news. “Nothing. Let’s go through his room before Sheriff Freeman arrives. We don’t have much time.” Once Cord Freeman showed up, which could be any minute, Hollis feared he’d be out of the loop. Even if they worked closely on occasional rescue missions, Cord was a stickler for rules. Hollis might have to bend some in order to protect Grace and he didn’t want anyone—not even Cord—standing in the way. He turned to Tish. “Can we have a pair of those latex gloves you clean with?”

Tish made haste and gave him a pair, worry in her eyes. Hollis laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.” He kept saying that, but the truth was he had no idea if it was or not. “Come on.” He gave the gloves to Grace. She followed him through the dining area, into the foyer and to the front entrance where the stairs were located. They climbed up and around to the second floor. Found Peter Rainey’s room and entered. Tish said he’d arrived late last night.

“Did you find a driver’s license?” Grace asked as she opened and closed drawers. Hollis spotted a rolling suitcase in the corner of the room. Carry-on size.

“No. He had a wallet but only cash inside. Odd, don’t you think?” He carefully unzipped the black Samsonite carry-on bag. A pair of jeans. Button-down shirt. Socks...toiletry bag.

“It is odd.” Grace finished with the dresser and headed for the chest of drawers. “He told me that he calls me ‘Mad Max’ as a nickname. What does that mean?”

Hollis paused perusing the suitcase and glanced at Grace. Mad Max was a cop who’d lost his son and sought revenge. He was a wild card, but excellent at his job. “It’s from a movie. A series of movies. Mad Max was a good guy.” He left it at that and filed away what the nickname might mean in context to Grace. “What else did he say?”

“Our doctor is female and her name is Dr. Sayer. He didn’t know I had amnesia until he noticed I was scared. That signaled something was wrong. I guess I shouldn’t have been afraid of him. He also said he was sorry for betraying me.”

Hollis’s stomach knotted. Could they have been romantically involved? Had he betrayed her with infidelity? “Tell me everything.”

As they combed the room, finding nothing, she laid out the details. This guy carried light and had zero identification. How did he fly? Or drive? “We need to find his car.” Peter’s keys had been on the nightstand.

Outside, they spotted Cord’s sheriff’s unit. He’d bypassed finding them for the crime scene. Typical. “We need to hurry.”

Grace nodded and they rushed to the white sedan Peter had been driving. Nothing of value or telling inside. Just maps of Mississippi and stacks of brochures in the glove box for surrounding towns. Doubtful he was a sightseer. No, when he’d seen Grace was alive, he’d come straight for her.

When little Lilly’s disappearance in the state park had gone national, Hollis feared whoever hurt Grace would see her and come to finish what they started. It’s why he’d flown home early from his sister Greer’s house in Alabama. Now that Greer and Locke were together and engaged... “Remember me telling you about my sister’s fiancé?”

“The one who chases tornadoes for a living? What about him?” Grace asked.

“His sister is former Secret Service and now works with their cousin and a specialized team at a private security company in Atlanta. I also know the head of the company—he’s a former SEAL too. He looked into your case when you were in a coma, but obviously nothing turned up.” With these new developments, it was time to try again. “But they have skills that can get us information far faster than the local sheriff’s department. How about I call them again. Maybe we can dig up some information on Dr. Sayer, Peter Rainey and those Latino men.”

Grace gnawed the tip of her thumb. “I’m up for anything that gets me answers. He said others might know I’m alive. Why does that feel ominous?”

The sheriff rounded the corner on foot. Cord Freeman was a hulk of a man and as rough as a corn cob. A few years older than Hollis’s thirty-two years and serious about everything. He nodded at Grace, lingering a bit longer than necessary—like most men in town. She was striking and exotic. “Grace, Hollister.”

“Hey, Cord,” Hollis said.

Cord eyed his gloves, then Grace’s. “I see you’ve been playing CSI. I’m going to assume you weren’t dumb enough to disturb the evidence.”

Hollis’s jaw twitched but he reined in his temper. Cord had a point. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

Cord raised a dark eyebrow. Amusement gleamed in his eyes. He was mad, but not livid. “Well...at least you admit you’re half an idiot.” He smirked. “What’d you find?” Cord asked a million questions and scratched his head. The coroner arrived and Cord followed him to Grace’s. Hollis held Grace back with him. “I know things feel like they’re crazier than ever, but let’s look at it like the glass is half full. We now have a few pieces of information. Names. We can make this dog hunt.”

She reached up and lightly touched his cheek, no longer wearing the gloves. He hadn’t shaved this morning, but his stubble didn’t seem to bother her. “Hollis, I don’t know what I would have done—what I would do—without you. I will never be able to repay you.”

He caressed the hand resting on his cheek, his heart swelling and aching in unison. “I don’t want to be repaid, Grace. I just want you to know who you are.” And who she might belong to. He wanted her unlocked from this prison of her mind. Free to... He wouldn’t go there. “I’m going to call Locke and have him see if his sister can help us. If I can’t reach him, I’ll call Wilder directly.”

More deputies showed up and filed into Grace’s house. Her brow turned worried. “I hope this doesn’t mess up business for Tish. She’s worked hard to build this inn after Ed died, and having a shooting on the property isn’t exactly the picture of cozy and safe. What if they see the cadaver?”

Cadaver. A word that flowed off her tongue like it belonged there. She might be in the medical field...but he held reservations. A man with no identification found Grace...and wanted the doctor. Said he could be trusted. Two obvious bad guys wanted said doctor as well. Why would Grace know about this person’s whereabouts? Could Dr. Sayer be in the Witness Protection Program? He liked the idea of Grace being a marshal a whole lot more than a woman with a seedy past—possibly criminal. Hollis couldn’t imagine Grace would desire to return to that environment if her memories surfaced. He was there the Sunday she walked to the front and gave her heart and life to God. She was a new person now. But the needling inside him intensified. Reminded him of his own past.

Mary Beth had been a bright and shining star when he’d moved to Cottonwood to take over the SAR several years ago. He’d fallen fast and thought she returned those feelings, but after a year she claimed she didn’t know who she was and needed to find herself. Whatever that meant. She’d asked for three months, and Hollis had agreed with hopes she’d return from New York ready to move forward in their relationship.

But instead, she’d decided small-town life wasn’t for her. It was mundane. Too small. Not enough excitement. She ought to be here now. Mary Beth would have more excitement than she could handle.

She’d broken Hollis’s heart, and all but told him he wasn’t enough. He’d managed to get over the fact that his dad had walked out on his family, but Mary Beth stomping on his heart seemed different. Didn’t matter now. It was water under the bridge. Which reminded him. “I’d like to take a boat out and check river levels.” He peered into the sky. “I don’t see this letting up.” They had levees in place, but if this didn’t level off soon, he wasn’t sure what would happen. Being a water town had its perks, but also its fears.

“The rain or what’s happening to me?” Grace muttered.

Truthfully?

Both.

* * *

Grace watched as they discreetly carried the body of Peter Rainey from her home. She answered additional questions for Sheriff Freeman, though she had only so much to offer. After that hoopla wore off and a crew had come in and cleaned for her, she and Hollis sat on her worn gray couch and he made a call to Locke and then to Jody Novak, Locke’s sister. They put her and the team at Covenant Crisis Management on Speaker and Hollis relayed everything that had happened.

Wheezer, their computer analyst, had jumped on the search and according to the team, if there was something to be found he would find it. Grace hoped so. Once again, she prayed and asked God to reveal her past so she could move forward.

“Okay,” Wheezer said over the speaker, “I have a pretty large list of Dr. Sayers. Cutting down to female. Less of a list. I’m going to filter the search to doctors who went off-grid in the past two years. It’ll take a minute, but when I have something, I’ll call you.”

“Hang in there,” Wilder Flynn, the security team director, said to Grace. “We won’t stop until we have answers. If you need us there, Hollister, say the word. I can send a team member or personally fly in.”

“I appreciate that, Wilder. For right now, I think we can manage.”

Grace did, too, but flying blind was dangerous. Anyone could be against her. She wouldn’t recognize an enemy from an ally. They hung up and she offered to make coffee.

Hollis grinned. “I never turn down coffee.”

Grace actually laughed. As she headed for the coffee pot in her kitchenette, she glanced inside her bedroom and a sudden wave came over her. A memory! Like a scene from a movie playing in full color in her mind.

Grace was dressed in a long black evening gown, her hair swept to the side. She had her arm looped into a man’s and as she gazed up, it was Peter Rainey’s face. He laid his hand on hers, and that’s when she noticed the engagement ring. Peter leaned down and kissed her. “You look beautiful, Max,” he said.

Then the memory was gone. Fade to black.

She fumbled the carafe and it slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor. Hollis jumped up from the couch. “Grace?”

“Sorry... I uh—I dropped the coffee pot. Don’t come over here. Glass.” She rushed to the small pantry and retrieved a broom, but her hands shook. What did this mean? Had she been engaged—married even—to Peter? His betrayal could have been adultery. She’d had little moments of memory pops over the past six months but nothing this big. This substantial. This confusing. Grace went to task sweeping up the glass shards.

“What startled you?” Hollis asked.

Heat ballooned in her cheeks. She couldn’t hide this from Hollis. But everything in her wanted to keep it buried. “I... I had a flash of a memory. A snippet really, and it unnerved me. Came on so sudden.”

Hollis ignored her warning about the glass and leaned over the breakfast bar, resting his elbows on it and putting himself eye level with her. “What was it?”

“I’m not sure what it meant,” she whispered as she dared a peek at him. Solemn eyes. Jaw tight. As if bracing himself for the worst news. What would be the worst news to Hollis? Had she once loved Peter? He’d never mentioned any feelings. Granted, he hadn’t had much time before he was murdered. It was as if someone knew he would talk, and they were shutting him up.

Instead of revealing the secret, she changed the subject. “Someone wanted Peter dead. He was going to tell me who I was and possibly answer any further questions I may have had.”

Hollis’s lips twisted to the side as he pondered the information. “If the shooter didn’t know you had amnesia, then killing Peter first might not be about him giving you information as much as you giving Peter information...as in the doctor’s location. If those Latino men wanted the doctor, they could have killed Peter to cut him out of finding her first.”

“Excellent point. The guy with the gun may have believed I’d go with Peter. The men who attacked me didn’t realize I had amnesia—neither did Peter at first. If they’re behind killing Peter, your theory makes more sense.”

Hollis nodded. “I wonder if he was truly your ally. He said to trust him, but he also said he’d betrayed you.”

“He mentioned it had all been lies. What does all mean?”

Hollis’s phone rang, and he answered. “...Okay. Location? We’re on our way. I got Grace with me.” He hung up. “Two teenage boys out fishing on the river. With the rain and flow, they can’t paddle in. Need a tow.”

Grace left the broom and a pile of glass on the kitchen floor and followed Hollis outside to his truck. “Why would teenage boys be in the fast-flowing Mississippi River, knowing all the water—”

“One, they are teenage boys. Two, teenage boys have no sense. I know. I was one. And I’m sure there was a dare involved. They’re going to be grounded for a century.” Hollis chuckled but it didn’t quite hit the jovial mark. They could drown out there.

They stopped at the SAR facility. Hollis hitched the trailer to his truck and loaded the boat onto the trailer while Grace grabbed extra life vests. They headed west on Old Highway 4 until they reached the parking lot at the river’s boat ramp entrance. Grace backed the boat down the ramp and they lowered it into the water, put their life vests on and sped across the choppy waters toward the location the boys had given the 911 dispatcher.

Grace pointed ahead. They were bobbing in a little johnboat. “You’re right. They have no sense at all.”

Hollis pulled the boat close and tossed a rope. Then he leaped into the boys’ johnboat, rocking it wildly. Both boys sat quietly. No doubt dreading the parental punishment to come. Once he tied the rope, he said something to the boys and they nodded. “We need life vests, Grace. They seem to have lost theirs.”

Both boys hung their heads as Grace tossed two over.

“I’m going to ride with them. Pull us in,” Hollis said.

Grace nodded and slid into the captain’s seat, revved the engine and carefully turned the boat, so she didn’t tip the little one behind her. She towed them to the ramp. The older teen hopped out and ran and got his truck, then backed the trailer into the water as the other boy and Hollis secured their boat on the trailer.

“Don’t run off just yet,” Hollis called. “Park up there and wait on me.”

After securing their own boat, they pulled up beside the boys, hopped out and reclaimed the vests.

“They are sorely regretting this decision,” Hollis whispered, amusement lining his words. He gave them a stern warning about boating in the river—especially when it was this high and without life vests—and said that their parents would be receiving a phone call from him. The boys nodded and gave yes sirs, then Hollis and Grace strolled toward Hollis’s truck.

“Well, that was fun,” Grace deadpanned and turned toward the Big Muddy, Hollis leaning on the side of the truck. “River is really high, Hollis. That concerns me.”

“Me too.”

The boys peeled through the gravel lot, fishtailing and whooping and hollering. Hollis shook his head. “And they learned nothing. They’re just going to take their recklessness to the roads.”

Grace frowned. “Recklessness. I can’t make that definition come.” Stuff like this happened all the time, and it was frustrating to no end.

“It means behavior with no thought that it could endanger themselves or others. Or both.” He sighed. “Make sense?”

Hollis had been her saving grace these past two years, but now that her life was in danger, was she being reckless by letting him stay involved? He watched her carefully, waiting for her answer. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Makes sense.”

“Grace, are you okay? Since the memory flash you’ve been kinda off. You know you can share anything with me, right? I’m here for you. We’re...we’re friends.” That last sentence seemed hard for him to say. They were friends, though. She couldn’t remember ever having any but surely friends cared enough to look out for one another. Hollis was protecting her, but who was protecting him? Not Grace. But down deep came an intense desire...so incredible—to protect him. To guard him. She wasn’t even sure she had the ability, but the emotion was so wildly strong that surely she must have the power to back it up.

“I need you to know, Hollis—”

Pop!

A bullet whizzed past and Grace winced as a sudden sting seared her skin. Her jacket ripped open near the shoulder. She’d been shot.

Hollis threw her to the ground. “Get under the truck,” he hollered and they slid their way underneath. “How bad are you hit?”

“A graze. I think.” If it was the same shooter from earlier this morning, he had excellent aim. Either he missed this time or was sending a deadly warning that if she didn’t cough up the doctor, next time he wouldn’t miss. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know how to make these people understand that the information they want is sealed up tight in my brain!”

“We’ll worry about that later. Right now, shimmy out the other side. Stay down, but get inside the cab. I’ll wait until you’re in before heading for the driver’s side.”

“No! Hollis, they may shoot you on sight. They have no reason to keep you alive, and they may believe that killing you might make me talk.” It wouldn’t. The very thought of them hurting Hollis sent a rage she didn’t remember ever feeling through her system. It was cold. Dark. And frightening—because for a split second it crossed her mind to make them pay if they hurt him. Deep in her marrow, a whisper said she could do exactly that.

“Don’t worry about me, Grace. I’m a big boy and this ain’t my first rodeo.”

“I know, but—”

“Get in the truck. We can argue later.” His voice had the same scolding tone he’d laid on the boys, but she caught a measure of fear behind it—not for him but for her. She scooted until she was free from under the truck, then rolled over and carefully ducked while opening the door.

A bullet slammed into the hitch. Were the shooters toying with them? “Hollis, you need to come out this side and slide in. I’ll drive.”

Hollis paused then followed suit. Grace stayed low but scooted over.

Another shot fired. Her arm burned like crazy, and blood had seeped through her shirt and jacket.

Hollis jumped in, and Grace hit the gas, the truck throwing up gravel and fishtailing through the parking lot. She kept the pedal to the metal until they neared the SAR facility. Hollis had remained quiet, his jaw clenched. Once they jumped out, he rounded on her with fire in his eyes. “Grace! I can’t believe you!”

Grace stepped back stunned. “Me? You’re angry with me?”

“You don’t change orders in the middle of a mission. It gets your team killed.” His voice had risen an octave or two.

“Yet I’m the only one wounded.” She shoved her shoulder around so he’d get a good look. Why was she so angry? “I was trying to save your sorry tail from getting your head blown off. That was a Barrett M82A1, thank you very much! And you’re mad because you could have—”

“What did you say?” he asked, eyes wide. The anger dissipated.

“I said, I saved your sorry tail?” What had she said? She was fired up and for no good reason—Hollis was right. She hadn’t experienced this kind of fury before, and it terrified her that it could be buried deep within her.

“No. You said I could have had my head blown off by a Barrett M82A1. That’s a sniper rifle, Grace. A very specific rifle. How do you know that?”

Grace gasped. She had said that. How did she know? “I recognized the sound. It makes a high-pitched pop.” Was she an arms dealer or something? She nearly fainted.

“Grace, could you have been in the military?”

It was a nicer thought than where she was going. “Maybe? Are there female snipers in the military?”

Hollis stared blankly, then blinked. “Only a handful, but yes.”

Grace Thackery. Quilter, bed sheet changer, dining server and possibly a US military sniper. “Now what?” she whispered, unsure she wanted her memories back. If she’d been a sniper, maybe she’d been on a mission to rescue the doctor. In Mississippi?

Hollis touched her shoulder. “First we mend this graze. And then, Grace Thackery, Mad Max...we put a rifle in your hands and see if your brain remembers if it loves the feel of it in your hands or not.”

THREE

“Well, Grace...ready or not,” Hollis said and pointed to the disassembled rifle lying in its box on the outdoor table. “Let’s see if you’ve done this before.”

She hoped she hadn’t. Not once. Not ever.

Last night it had rained too much for them to attempt any shooting practice and she simply couldn’t bring herself to try and assemble the rifle. But it was Tuesday midmorning and the rain had let up—the heavy clouds were a warning it would make its return, and she had no more excuses. Only a couple of guests had been around to witness the scene yesterday, and Tish handled it with grace and a free night’s stay. Plus maple pecan muffins. That alone was worth staying at the Muddy River Inn.

Hollis had insisted on he and Grace staying in adjoining rooms at the inn to be on the safer side. It was clear that no matter what she said to try and push him from this situation and the danger, he wasn’t going to back down. A sliver of her felt guilty, but mostly, she felt grateful and protected.

Grace stared at the rifle and her fingers twitched. She didn’t remember holding one. Right now, nothing came to mind. She reached out, hesitated. “I feel stupid.”

“I say that at least once a week. Maybe today’s your day of the week.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Hollis. I’m blank.” Except the innate feeling to pick it up and give it a go.

“Touch it. See what happens.”

She nodded and licked her lips. The best-case scenario, she couldn’t remember because this wasn’t something she’d done before—or often enough—for muscle memory to take over. Worst-case? She did know which meant...she’d killed people before. “I don’t want to.”

“Even if it might give us a lead? Give us more insight to who you might be? And why three men—so far—have come hunting you? The sniper might be one of—or with—the two men who jumped you when your tire blew. But it could have been someone entirely new sent to take out Peter, and now you...or to warn you. I don’t know. But that’s too many men who want to hurt you, and they have the advantage. I hate that one man wants you dead. So...maybe just...do it for me.”

There wasn’t anything Grace wouldn’t do for Hollister Montgomery.

She nodded and touched the long black case. She picked it up and placed it on the ground. Not the table.

Grace skimmed her fingers across a long piece with...pods. Lower receiver. She extended the bipod on the lower receiver and laid it on the ground. Oh boy.

She grasped the charging handle and pulled against the tension, withdrawing the midlock pin from its holder. A shaky breath let loose and she glanced at Hollis, but he stood with a grim expression, arms folded. He nodded for her to continue.

She slowly allowed the bolt carrier to come forward until there was no longer any spring tension and it rested in the lower receiver. Carefully, she picked up the upper receiver, making sure the barrel extension and feed ramp were correctly aligned.

She closed her eyes and a flash of memory came. She was dressed all in black, carrying the long black case up a flight of stairs.

She opened her eyes and slid the barrel forward until it was fully seated against the barrel stop. Quickly she slid the impact bumper into position, locked the rear pin into the barrel key, followed two more steps and put the upper receiver into position. After a few more swift maneuvers, she placed the midlock pin through the midlock hole in front of the magazine well on the bottom of the rifle until it was fully seated, locking the upper and lower receivers together. Once the receivers were mated, she loaded and inserted the magazine.

She heard the click and tugged on the magazine to ensure it was properly placed.

“Do you want me to shoot it too?” she asked, adjusting the pad to her shoulder and setting her sights.

“Do you want to shoot it?” Hollis asked.

Her stomach leaped and twisted. Fear and excitement rushed her. “I kinda do. See that tree about two hundred yards? There’s a broken branch.”

“You wanna hit a broken branch.” His tone all but screamed “too easy.”

“I want to hit that leaf dangling off the end.”

Hollis didn’t laugh, and she was only sort of joking. “Okay,” he whispered.

She set her sights. Looked up, peered through her scope. Grabbed her locket and kissed it, as if she’d done it a hundred times before. She thought she heard Hollis make a noise like a grunt, but she didn’t focus on him. She focused on her breathing and the target. Aimed. Fired.

The leaf blew to bits.

A wave of adrenaline raced through her, warming her blood and giving her a serious energy boost. She stood and shook her head. “I was half kidding. I didn’t think I could do it.”

“I knew you’d do it.” He held up a stopwatch. “I knew it when you beat my time. I can assemble this in twenty-four seconds. You did it in twenty-three, and that was with a slow start.”

She stared at the rifle, at the stopwatch, at the obliterated leaf. “Who am I?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

How could she remember assembling the gun and even the proper parts by name, but no memory of using it? How had she learned to do this and at such a fast rate? She must have been important in the military. “Wouldn’t the military be looking for me if I was still active?”

“They would.”

“Don’t you think they would have found me?” Her heart missed a beat as terror washed over the high she’d been on. “Why haven’t they? Unless...”

“You might not be military, Grace.”

She might be something sinister.

Hollis’s cell phone rang and he pulled it from his black fatigue pants. “It’s CCM.” He answered and put it on Speaker. “Hollis and Grace here.”

“Hey, guys. It’s Wilder.”

“And Wheezer,” the computer analyst piped in.

“And Wheezer,” Wilder said with a chuckle. “Since he’s itching to have a chat with y’all, I’ll let him give you the news.”

Finally, some news after ages of not having any.

“Wheezer here, again.”

Grace grinned at Hollis and he returned it.

“Here’s what we believe. The Dr. Sayer you’re searching for may be Patsy Mae Sayer. Sixty-one years old. Never been married. Works for the CDC but she disappeared two years ago when she worked overseas in Bogota, Colombia. She was researching yellow fever and malaria among refugees, and who knows what other top secret stuff.”

Hollis frowned. “Where was she before Bogota? Isn’t Atlanta where the CDC is based?”

“She’s spent decades in South America—mostly Bogota, but before that, yes. She’s from Illinois. Went to school at Yale. She’s a genius. PhD, Genetic bioengineer. It’s crazy how smart this woman is,” Wheezer said.

“I believe this is your doctor,” Wilder said. “For one, the timeline fits and no other Dr. Sayer is missing. Bogota may be the key link. If she was there and Latino men have come looking for her, then Colombians make sense. You may be connected to Bogota, Grace.”

Grace shivered. Why would she have been there? She couldn’t even remember where Colombia was, but she sure as the grass was green could assemble a sniper rifle. “Do you have the skills, Wheezer, to find out how many female snipers are in the military?”

Wheezer chuckled. “I am flattered that you would think that...and I don’t know...”

“Some things are off-limits, Wheezer,” Wilder said with a cautionary tone. “I don’t need the military getting a red flag they’ve been breached and descending on us.”

Right. True. Grace was desperate.

“And even if I could—which I might—it would take a long time to crack through the number of firewalls and encrypted security. Do you think you might be a sniper in the military?” he asked.

No. She was afraid she was a gun for hire or something equally as terrifying. But the Colombian men didn’t think the doctor was dead. Which meant Grace hadn’t been sent to kill her. Kidnap her? She needed a paper bag to breathe in.

“She put a Barrett M82A1 together in twenty-three seconds, and that was because she was hesitating at first.”

Wilder whistled. “Well done, lady.”

Yeah. She guessed so. “What about Peter Rainey?”

“That’s where things get fun,” Wilder said. “Peter Rainey doesn’t exist. At least no one who matched the photo you sent. We called the rental car company. They weren’t missing any vehicles but when they did a check at our insistence, they did find a tag stolen along with some rental papers. They checked their cameras and sent us footage, but this guy was good. No facial image. Nothing we could even use to ping off. But it’s pretty obvious this Peter Rainey did it.”

Grace’s head might explode. What did this mean?

“Anything else?” Hollis asked.

“We ran a check on the make and model of the car. We found one reported stolen from a used car lot about seventy miles from Cottonwood,” Wilder said.

Peter Rainey stole a car, stole a car tag and papers from a rental place which was pretty smart. If he was pulled over, he’d have the papers to match the license plate and the police would assume it was legit and not a stolen vehicle. “Thanks for all the help.”

“No prob. If you need anything else, we’re a phone call away.”

They hung up and Hollis stared into the wind. He rubbed the stubble on his chin.

After several long beats, Grace couldn’t stand it. Was he thinking the worst too? Would it change the way he felt about her—as a friend that is? Hollis didn’t think of Grace romantically. “I’m going to clean out the storage shed.” She rushed to the side of the building. Hollis didn’t follow. He was thinking the worst. His good friend, sweet Grace who rescued little girls from the woods, quilted with a group of senior ladies, baked cookies with Tish and drank chamomile tea probably blew heads off human beings for cash—if she wasn’t a sniper. But why would Colombians hunt down a military sniper? That made no sense. No... Grace had a sick feeling she wasn’t the good guy at all.

She hauled open the shed door and the smell of river water smacked into her senses. A tiny crack of light pushed its way through the filthy window. As she weaved through the equipment, kayaks, canoes and paddles hanging on the walls, she made her way to the back. She didn’t even know why she told Hollis she was coming to do this. The shed was in order and would never be spotless from dirt and cobwebs. She needed a minute to think. To process the information.

Hollis must have known that—or he was too overwhelmed and unable to find the words to come find her. It was a horrible situation and Grace might be a horrible person. Maybe she was overreacting. But if she’d been in a profession as docile as a kindergarten teacher, she wouldn’t be in Bogota or know how to assemble a rifle. She searched Bogota on her phone. Capital of Colombia. Terrorists! Drugs!

Hairs on her arms rose but before she could turn, a rowing oar came around her neck and strong arms used it to pull her backward, choking her with the wooden paddle. She elbowed the attacker and instead of trying to move forward, she pressed into him, giving her some room to breathe. Grace shoved him into the kayaks stacked against the wall.

“I wasn’t expecting too much of a fight,” he said.

Challenge accepted. That same crazy sensation rushed over her and without thought, she twisted around, but he shoved her forward and pulled a gun. “You’re going with me.”

She stared at the gun, her heart slamming into her rib cage, but a memory bobbed on the edge of her consciousness. She lurched forward, disarmed him in two moves and rendered him useless. She grabbed the ropes hanging on the wall and went to work. Whoever this man was, he was going to talk. No matter what she had to do.

* * *

Hollis heard the commotion in the shed. Grace probably knocked the kayaks over like dominoes again. He headed that way to help her but his mind wouldn’t let up on what he’d witnessed. She’d assembled that rifle like a pro. Like someone who had done it hundreds or thousands of times. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it unsettled him. Not to mention, she had a memory flash in her kitchen that she didn’t want to share, one she tried to switch subjects about with hopes he’d forget, but he hadn’t. He wouldn’t. But Hollis wasn’t one to press. He had memories he would rather not share too.

He heard another thud and picked up his pace. When he reached the shed, Grace had an oar to a man’s neck and he was bound to a rickety chair.

“Who are you?” she asked with more force than he’d heard from her before.

The man in the chair was about Hollis’s height. Two-eighty. Military haircut. Hardened ice-blue eyes and defiance all over his clean-shaven face. Maybe mid-to late-twenties.

“Grace?” When Grace turned her head, she had the look of a hungry wolf. Teeth bared, wild eyes. Who was this woman?

“What?” she demanded with an edge in her voice.

A soft answer turneth away wrath.

The proverb swept through his mind. “Hey,” he whispered. “I just want to know what’s going on. Are you all right?”

Suddenly it was like a fog cleared in her eyes. She dropped the paddle and backed away as if she’d terrified herself.

“Go ahead,” the man said. “Do what you do best, lapdog. You won’t get anything out of me.” He laughed and Hollis assessed him. He was breakable. Still young. Tough. But he could be forced to talk. Hollis had no plans to try it. This wasn’t war, but Grace’s life was at stake. Had Hollis not shown up when he had, Grace may have tried to break the man, and she probably would have succeeded.

“I—I have no... I don’t even—” Grace rushed from the shed, sprinting across the yard.

Hollis turned to Crewcut. “Why did you call Mad Max a lapdog? You know she does what she wants when she wants. Or are you the lapdog sent to fetch her? Never actually seen her up close have you?” Hollis grinned, hoping his acting skills worked. If he could use the nickname and pretend as if he knew who she was, then this guy might slip up and give him another clue. And if Crewcut knew she was a lapdog, and if doing what she did best implied—he swallowed—torture, then this kid had severely underestimated Grace, which made him stupid or he knew her only by reputation—Mad Max. Maybe.

“Max is as good as dead.”

So he knew her nickname. Was it just Peter who called her that? Did this guy know Peter—or Peter’s real identity? Had he been the one to kill him?

“You hear me, dead. Whether or not she gives us the doctor.”

The temptation to throttle this guy was intense. He kept threatening Grace and no one was going to touch her. To keep his civility—even though this guy deserved a beating—Hollis exited the shed and chased after Grace. Then they’d figure out what to do with this guy. He wasn’t going anywhere, considering Grace’s skill with knots.

She stood by the water’s edge at the creek, her arms folded as she rubbed her upper arms. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was terrified and fighting for my life and then it’s like everything went dark. A switch flipped and before I realized it, I had him tied to a chair. I have no idea what I would have done had you not shown up.” She faced him, tears in her eyes. “I think I’m a really bad person who’s done unspeakable things.”

Hollis closed the distance between them in three strides, pulling her to him in an embrace. “Grace, you don’t know anything for sure and no matter what you did in the past, that’s not who you are now. You’re that new creation, remember? In Christ. I see the way you care about people and are kind. Whatever happened back there...that isn’t who you are.” But when her memories surfaced, she might want more than this simple small-town life regardless of who she’d been. She might have loved ones—a romantic loved one—who had been searching for her.

“I know who I feel like most days, but lately... I’m scared, Hollis. For my life. For what my past holds. I’m afraid for you. You didn’t ask to be thrown into this. Your life is in danger by being associated with me. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

Warmth flooded him. Grace cared about him and his safety. That concern... He couldn’t even remember the last time someone cared for him so tenderly. Not since Mom died. Tish—she was like a mom, but it wasn’t the same. Grace... He couldn’t go there. “You’re a good friend, Grace. And friends help one another.”

She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her long-sleeve T-shirt. “Yeah. Friends.” She sniffed and pointed toward the shed. “What do we do with him? He isn’t going to talk.”

“He would. Eventually. If we did what it would take. But I’m not going to. And neither are you. Let’s call Sheriff Freeman and he can decide.” Cord would be more curious about how a woman who was five foot six and didn’t come close to Crewcut’s weight class had subdued the hefty dude. Hollis was frightened of her capabilities, and thoroughly impressed.

They entered the shed. Crewcut was gone. Somehow he’d gotten out of the ropes. Hollis’s pulse pounded. “Get inside.” They had no idea where he was or if he had weapons stashed nearby. Hollis pulled his weapon from his ankle holster and covering Grace, they sprinted inside the training facility. Grace paced Hollis’s office.

“Do you think he’s the guy who shot Peter? Who shot at us at the river?” She gnawed her thumbnail. She was an absolute mess.

“Maybe. I can’t say for sure. But he didn’t bat an eye when I called you Mad Max.” Hollis told her his conversation. “Which means he has some connection with Peter. I don’t believe he’s ever had personal contact with you before now. I wish I knew how the pieces fit.” He’d give it another try. Hope she’d open up to him. Hollis couldn’t blame her if she wanted to keep some of her memories private, but... “Grace, would you tell me about the memory you had when you dropped the coffee pot? It could be relevant.”

She halted pacing and faced away from him. “I was with Peter. I think we may have been at a special event. He...he kissed me, and I was wearing an engagement ring.”

Hollis’s gut twisted. Grace and Peter more than likely had been a couple. Possibly engaged or married. All this time he’d been afraid she belonged to someone. Looked like to Peter. And she’d witnessed his murder. When her memories returned there would be grief even if Peter had betrayed her. “Do you know where you were in the memory?”

She refused to face him. Hollis slowly rounded his desk and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Grace, you are beautiful and bright. You were bound to have been in a relationship. I’m sorry you can’t remember it, and I’m sorry you had to see him like that.”

She finally turned. “You always know what to say. Always kind and thinking of others first. I wish I were that person.”

He cradled her cheeks. “You are.”

“I don’t know, Hollis. What if I become that awful person again? What if I want to when—if—my memory comes back?” She covered her eyes with the heel of her hands. “What if I can’t deal with everything I’ve done?”

He held her close and kissed the top of her head. “You can choose who you want to be. And we don’t know that you were a bad person. You could be a US Marshal. A soldier. A former soldier.”

“Or I could be an assassin.”

There was also that. But Hollis didn’t want to go down that road or what it would mean when she had total recall. Because that would make her a criminal. A murderer.

And that would mean she’d have to go to prison.

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