Dangerous Memories. Barbara Colley
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“You called me Hunter. Do you know me? Is that my name?”
Of course Leah knew him. How could she not know her own husband? Mixed feelings surged through her; then, suddenly, his face and the porch began to spin.
“You look like you’re about to pass out. Are you sick?” He reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to steady her. His touch was a jolt to her senses, and memories of all the other times he’d touched her assailed her.
For four, long, hellish months of agony she’d been sick with guilt and remorse. If it hadn’t been for her, he wouldn’t have gone out that night, wouldn’t have had the accident in the first place…. He wouldn’t have died.
But he hadn’t died.
How could he have died when he was standing next to her, talking to her, touching her?
Dangerous Memories
Barbara Colley
BARBARA COLLEY
is a native of Louisiana, a mother and a grandmother. She and her husband live in a small suburb of steamy New Orleans. Besides playing with her grandchildren, writing and sharing her stories, one of Barbara’s favorite pastimes is strolling through the New Orleans historic French Quarter and Garden District, both of which often inspire ideas and the settings for her books.
Barbara has always loved mystery, suspense and romance and, according to her mother, has always had a vivid imagination. Also writing under the name Anne Logan, Barbara has had books published in over sixteen foreign languages and has appeared on several bestseller lists. She has also been nominated for a Romantic Times magazine Reviewers Choice Award and is the recipient of the Oklahoma RWA National Readers’ Choice Award, the RWA Artemis Award and the Distinguished Artist Award, in honor of outstanding contributions to the literary arts in Louisiana. In addition to writing romantic suspense, Barbara is the author of an ongoing mystery series.
Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at: P.O. Box 290; Boutte, LA 70039 or visit her Web site: www.eclectics.com/barbaracolley-annelogan.
To my dear friends, Jessica Ferguson
and Rexanne Becnel.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
The sight of the sleeping man on Leah Davis’s front porch gave her a start. He was slumped in a heap of humanity near the steps. His back was to her, his face hidden in the crook of his arm. And just beyond where he lay, on the top step of the porch, was the newspaper, the reason she’d ventured out in the first place.
“That’s just great,” she grumbled, shoving a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Just what I need.” Between the August heat and humidity and the double shifts she’d been pulling at the hospital, not to mention the occasional bouts of nausea, she’d just about gone her limit. And now this.
Shading her eyes against the bright glare of morning sunlight that not even the deep porch of the old Victorian home could block, she stared hard at him.
At least this one appeared to be still breathing, she thought as she noted the slight rise and fall of his back. The last one she’d found on the porch had been dead, cancer and malnutrition according to the coroner’s report.
Still staring at the man, she slowly shook her head. The fact that they kept showing up amazed her. It was almost as if every bum in New Orleans had some kind of built-in radar that directed them to her front porch.
“Thanks a lot, Grandm’ere,” she muttered as she tightened the belt of her thin cotton robe more securely then stepped out onto the porch to get a closer look.
Almost a year had passed since her generous, softhearted grandmother had died, and still they came. Leah had inherited her grandmother’s house, but she had no intention of taking over her grandmother’s charity work as well. Even so, no matter how many times she called the police to come and haul away one of the unwelcome, indigent visitors, more kept showing up to take their place.
Most of them were harmless and simply there for a handout, but Leah had learned not to be as trusting as her grandmother had been.
“Enough’s enough,” she grumbled as she crossed her arms protectively around her slightly rounded abdomen and tapped her bare foot against the wooden floor of the porch. Unlike her grandmother, who had felt that it was her calling in life to help every hungry, homeless man who showed up on her doorstep, Leah didn’t feel that she could take such chances, especially now that she had her unborn baby to protect.
With her eyes still on the man and with every intention of returning inside to call the police, Leah took a step backward toward the door. Instead of going inside though, she hesitated.
Tilting her head and narrowing her eyes, she frowned. There was something different about this one, different from the normal run-of-the-mill bums who had showed up in the past.
For one thing, even though he could use a haircut, his thick, dark hair looked fairly clean and well kept instead of long, greasy and dirty. And instead of the usual sweat and dirt-crusted pants and shirt, this man was wearing what appeared to be hospital scrubs.
Hospital scrubs?
Leah’s frown deepened. Strange. Very strange indeed.
Even so, the hair and clothes had nothing to do with why he seemed different. Though it was probably a silly notion, she could swear there was something familiar about him. That she’d seen him before…somewhere.
Growing more puzzled with each passing moment, she continued staring at him. Was it possible that he was a former patient, someone she’d treated at Charity Hospital? Leah frowned. Now she was really getting paranoid. There was no way a former patient would know where she lived.
So why the nagging feeling of familiarity? Leah had no answer. Maybe if she saw his face, maybe then she’d know.
Just forget it. Go call the police and have his butt hauled off.
Leah glared at the man as indecision warred within her. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered. There was only one way to find out for sure, and though she was curious, she wasn’t careless. Her experiences working as a nurse at Charity Hospital had taught her to be cautious.
She reached just inside the doorway and grabbed the baseball bat that she kept propped there. Unlike her grandmother who, in Leah’s opinion, had always been far too trusting, Leah kept the bat handy, just in case of trouble.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she gripped the bat with both hands and eased over to within a couple of feet of the sleeping man. Using the tip of the bat, she poked him just below the shoulder blades.
“Hey, you!” she called out. “Wake up!”
The man groaned, but he didn’t budge.
Gripping