The Ranger and The Rescue. Sue Swift
in the morning.
She wanted him, but she could never have him. What good would it do? She’d freeze up, just like the other times.
He stared after her. What the hell had just happened? Generally, Serenity Clare resembled the name she’d picked for herself. She reflected a clear, calm joy in living that he found very compelling, even attractive.
Now, a crack appeared in her tranquil facade. Walking down the hall, he contemplated the door she’d slammed then locked behind her, as though she were hurt or afraid.
Fear he could understand. Without a memory, he was scared himself. He couldn’t intrude, not even to comfort her. Nor could he probe further about her strange behavior.
What did her extreme reaction to the card reading mean? She obviously believed in the message of the tarots. Dumb to think that pieces of paper could predict anything, but Serenity wasn’t a dumb woman.
She’d been truly distressed by the Knight of Swords and The Lovers, and hadn’t wanted him to touch her.
Skittish. Was she on the run?
Returning to the living room, he picked up the cards and studied the Knight of Swords. A fearsome figure clad in full armor, his lips were skinned back from his teeth in a feral grin. This warrior relished the battle. Sword upraised as if to strike, he rode a racing warhorse through a barren landscape topped by a wind-whipped, stormy sky.
He shuddered. If the tarots told the truth, he was a killer.
Was Serenity his prey? Had unknown masters sent him to murder her?
Unacceptable.
He dropped the card, then found The Lovers. Adam and Eve, naked, stood in a grassy garden planted with a flaming bush and a fruit tree entwined with a snake. Surmounted by a glorious angel, the card’s symbolism was clear.
He didn’t wear a wedding band and couldn’t see a dent or a tan line to reveal that one had ever circled his left ring finger. But that meant nothing. Many married men didn’t wear a ring. All the better to cheat. He grimaced. He hoped he wouldn’t discover that he was the kind of man who’d two-time his wife.
His wife. Did she exist? Who was she? If he’d had such a powerful love in his life, why couldn’t he remember her, or any children they had?
What kind of monster was he?
He picked up Justice, the last of the cards. “Mr. Justice,” she’d called him. He hoped the silly moniker wouldn’t stick. But if he were a hired killer, the name had an intriguing irony.
Later that day, Serenity exited the shower and rubbed her wet hair with a towel. Examining her blond roots in the mirror, she decided to tint them the next time she shampooed. Combing her short “do,” she smiled at the scant five seconds it took to complete the task.
After wrapping the towel around her body, she opened the window to let out the steam. She’d better get a move on. The Labor Day festival, which the Lost Creek New Age community had planned to jump-start the fall tourist season, was only a few days away. She needed to string more crystal necklaces and meditate to put herself in the right frame of mind.
Her new and returning customers would demand scores of tarot fortunes. Sometimes they’d bring their friends or tape record their sessions until she became hoarse and exhausted by the strain. But she couldn’t say no. Her fortune-telling income was crucial to her survival since she’d fled from Hank.
She leaned her elbows on the frame of the window, which faced east. Hank. The merest thought of her abusive ex-husband made her innards cramp. She breathed deeply of the crisp, clean wind, seeking inner peace.
Perhaps she’d jumped to conclusions. If the stranger came from Hank, Hank knew her address. But he would have come for her himself. Her darling ex-husband wouldn’t have deprived himself of the pleasure of beating her to a pulp.
Again.
On the other hand, maybe Hank was nearby, watching, torturing her with uncertainty and suspense. Her flesh shivered and chilled at the thought.
No. One of the hallmarks of her beloved ex-husband’s character was his complete lack of patience.
Sucking in another deep breath, she ruthlessly forced Hank out of her consciousness, then left the bathroom. On the way to her bedroom, she encountered the stranger in the hall. Her pulse jumped. Conscious of his semi-nude state, and hers, she wrapped her towel more closely around her body.
“Afternoon, Serenity.”
He was so courtly, so polite. Her heart melted. By his tone of voice, she knew that if it were proper to wear a hat inside the house, he would have tipped his Stetson for her. “H-hello, Justus.”
His eyebrows arched. “Feelin’ better?” Full of concern, his rich, brown eyes scanned her face.
“Yes. I’m…I’m sorry I blew up at you like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
He reached out, though not for her towel. One finger stroked her cheek. She tried to not flinch, but failed when he gently touched the scar on her forehead Hank had inflicted.
She remembered the occasion: their first fight. Six months into their marriage, he’d made mai tais and shoved pineapple rinds down their cheap garbage disposal. When she’d tried to stop him, he’d backhanded her across the face into a kitchen cabinet, and the sharp handle had cut her forehead.
Happy memories indeed.
“I can tell something’s troubling you.” Her cowboy’s Texas twang brought her back to the present.
Serenity flinched again.
“You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.”
“I know that.” She hated the defensiveness edging her voice. Serenity had worked hard to become someone other than Hank’s victim. She wanted to destroy the protective shell she’d developed, but couldn’t seem to grow beyond it.
“But I do want to talk.” His scrutiny shifted to the peach-colored towel cloaking her body.
Uh-huh. Talk. “Perhaps later.” Serenity retreated to her bedroom, clutching the towel around her.
Chapter Three
By late afternoon his jeans had dried, so Justus explored the streets of Lost Creek with Serenity at his side. Her wild grass fragrance mingled with the chaparral scent of the desert town. The sun slanted through dust motes, turning the wooden planks of the walk-ways to white-hot gold. Some of the buildings had hitching rails and false fronts that he remembered from Wild West shows. Part of the tourist attraction of the place, he supposed.
Strange that he recalled scenes from old movies but not his own name or life.
“Late in August, it’s pretty quiet here.” Serenity’s wide-brimmed straw hat shielded her face from the sun’s fury. “Too hot for tourists. We hope some will come back for the Labor Day weekend festival, but it isn’t until Samhain that the place really starts to rock and roll.”
“‘Samhain’?”
“What most people call Halloween.”
He blinked, taking that in.
“There’s the police station.” She pointed across Main Street.
He started across the dusty avenue without going to the corner or checking stoplights. He halted in the middle of the asphalt. Jaywalking felt…funny to him, as though he normally obeyed traffic signals without question. What had he been, a crossing guard?
He looked left, then right. Of course there was no traffic. Serenity was right. The August heat had turned Lost Creek into a ghost town.
The deserted police station reflected the general sleepiness of the place. Peering in a window, he tried to peek through battered Venetian blinds. He saw only a wooden counter behind which