Father Found. Muriel Jensen
no time.”
She drew away from him, a frown replacing the smile. “But that’s so little. No face, no last name, just hair and a hand raised in the air.”
He rubbed her shoulder gently. “It is just a little, but if you don’t try to force it, it’ll come when you’re ready.”
She made a face at him. “I’m ready now.”
That was so her. “Your heart is, but your mind apparently isn’t. Let it take the time it needs.”
She slumped unhappily, absently patting the baby as though certain it must share her disappointment. If he hadn’t loved her before, that gesture would have done it for him.
“Am I usually patient?” she asked
“Yes,” he replied. “You teach little children. You have boundless patience.”
“Am I patient with you?”
“You don’t have to be. I’m the perfect husband.” He said it with a straight face.
He thought it might bring a smile to her troubled expression, but it brought a deeper seriousness instead. She studied him closely and he could almost hear her trying to remember something…anything.
“Are you patient with me?” she asked finally.
“Yes. I’m the perfect husband.” He couldn’t deliver that line twice without cracking a smile.
He was relieved when it finally made her smile.
“Okay, you are very patient with me, though we’re basically very different. And I try—”
“How are we different?” she interrupted.
He had to be grateful for at least one question that was easy to answer. “I had a childhood that forced me to grow up with few illusions,” he said. “And then I was a cop, then a soldier and then a spy. I saw the underside and the back of a lot of things that don’t even look good from the front. I’m cynical and hard-nosed with a real preference for things done my way.”
She looked genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t gotten that impression at all. Except for the things-done-your-way part.” She added the last with a grin.
“I’ve been on my best behavior.” That was true. If she caught a glimpse of the real Bram Bishop, it might trigger the return of her memory sooner rather than later and he’d be dead in the water. “You, however, are gentle and kind, trusting, optimistic, a Pollyanna for the new millennium.”
She winced. “It’s generous of you to exaggerate my good qualities. I’m sure I have some bad habits.”
He shrugged. “You love to argue with me.”
That seemed to deepen her amusement. “Maybe that’s a good quality, too. Maybe it’s a way to defend myself against your need to control. Even if I love you, maybe I don’t want to be taken over by you.”
“I don’t want to take you over,” he insisted. “I just want to keep you safe and happy.”
“Maybe what you want for me isn’t the same thing I want for myself.”
She knew that was it. She saw it in his face, though he averted it instantly to retrieve the afghan that had fallen to the floor when she’d sat up. They were at odds somehow, in some way he didn’t seem to want to explain at this point in time.
She wished she knew what it was.
“All I want for you,” he said gently, pushing her back to the pillow and covering her again, “is for you to stay safe and deliver a healthy baby while remaining healthy yourself.”
“And what do you want for you?” she asked.
He patted her cheek and then her tummy. “I’ve got it right here. Rest while I finish the dishes.”
With his touch lingering on her, she closed her eyes, trying to remember what the obstacle was between them.
Whatever it was, she’d be willing to bet that it was a problem he had with her and not the other way around. She couldn’t remember their past together, but she was falling in love all over again.
Chapter Three
Gusty stared at the small travel alarm on her nightstand. Illuminated green letters read 3:06 a.m. She was wide-awake.
She’d napped last night while Bram tidied the kitchen, then slept off and on while he replenished the fire and made notes in a leather folder he said held some of his detective agency’s paperwork. She’d awakened an hour ago safely tucked in bed, and had been unable to fall asleep again.
She struggled out of bed, pulled on a flannel shirt Bram had given her to keep her warm during the cool evenings, then waddled quietly into the kitchen. She turned on the light over the stove, put the kettle on to boil, then pulled sandwich-makings out of the refrigerator. She slathered cranberry sauce on bread, added chunky pieces of game hen and a generous portion of dressing. She had to push down on the sandwich to make sure it held together, then carried it into the living room.
She settled into the scratchy old upholstery of Bram’s chair and turned on the parchment-shade lamp on the table beside her. A little pool of light fell on her, the only bright space in the dark house.
It felt strange, she thought, to be all alone with herself when she didn’t know who she was. So far, she’d defined herself by things Bram had told her, but certainly the true reality of a person could never be understood by someone else, even someone as close as a husband.
She imagined herself in a classroom talking to third-graders about wildflowers. She closed her eyes and tried to picture herself at a chalkboard, eager little faces watching her.
Leanne watching her.
Leanne with lots of blond hair but no face.
On her head was a cardboard crown with gold stars all over it. Gold stars. Gusty struggled to focus, wondering if the crown was something she remembered, or something her tired mind had simply put there.
Perhaps the crowns were a way she’d developed of scoring achievement. Maybe each star indicated something accomplished.
But she didn’t know. She was only guessing. It might mean nothing at all.
In her mind, her eyes panned to the other children. Something reacted inside her. She felt happy. She liked children. She loved them.
She ran a hand over her baby and closed her eyes against her classroom, frustrated at her inability to remember.
But her baby was ever-present. She didn’t have to remember. Every day her belly swelled a little more as though trying to help her prove her own existence. I’m here! it seemed to say. Even if I don’t know who I am!
The baby moved subtly as Gusty rubbed. She wished she could remember his conception. She was beginning to think of it as a boy because of his swift and sudden movements, his determination to keep her up nights with wild dancing, his tendency to push against her spinal column as he took up more and more space.
She wondered if he’d begun as the happy aftermath of a party, the warm afterglow of an intimate dinner or a spontaneous response to the passion in Bram’s eyes—or his reaction to hers.
However it had happened, she thought, giving the baby another pat, she hoped he could be delivered in safety. The threat to her life seemed unreal—probably because she couldn’t remember the incident that had prompted it—but when she considered the threat to her baby’s life, the whole thing took on a terrifyingly real aspect.
Her sandwich half-finished, she put the plate aside and dropped her arm over the side of the chair, as she leaned back, trying to get comfortable. The baby seemed to resent her sending food down to take up his already cramped space. It felt as though he was stretching, feet braced against her spine, hands pushing at her ribs.