The Stranger She Married

He started to walk away and, as he neared Rachel, her skin cried out for him. It tingled with the remembered strokes of his fingers; it flushed with the need for a touch of reassurance.

“Matthew, wait.” She turned around. “This is so uncomfortable. So surreal.”

Their property glowed around him, gentle hills and rippling ponds, white-slatted buildings and forever-blue sky. He looked as if he didn’t belong: hands propped on lean, jeaned hips, worked-over cowboy boot leather eaten by the bluegrass, battered Stetson an eyesore against the pristine Kentucky landscape. If he truly was a part of this business he’d be wearing the typical uniform of jodhpurs tucked into English riding boots, a thoroughbred-set attitude.

But in between their last prime-rib meal together and this moment, he’d turned into a cowboy, and it suited him, bringing out his masculinity.

Rachel wondered if his current age—thirty-three—was too young for Matthew’s midlife crisis. She said, “If I tell you my story, will you tell me yours? No bull about it?”

That sexy half smile reappeared on his face.

“Yeah. There’s a lot I want to know,” he said.

“Well, there’s been a lot that happened while you were gone.”

Matthew took a step closer. Close enough so Rachel could smell saddle leather and soap.

“I need to know a little more than that, Rachel.”

She shook her head, not understanding.

He continued. “I need to know everything because, somewhere along the line, I lost myself.”

Rachel glanced sidelong at him. “What are you talking about?”

His smile was not only lacking in confidence, it was downright sheepish. “Amnesia. You’re looking at a walking case of the forget-me’s.”

Oh, this took the cake. “Right, Matthew. Tell me another one.”

His face never changed expression. He simply watched her with the patience of a cowboy leaning on his saddle horn and waiting out a sunset.

While fighting to remain calm, Rachel wondered if, somewhere in his travels, Matthew had improved on his poker face.

Because, right now, she could’ve sworn that he was telling the truth.

He was lost, all right.

After firing off a barrage of useless questions by the paddock, Rachel had finally led him to their house. At least, he thought it was theirs. More importantly, he wondered if, after the blank wasteland of his missing life, he still held claim to his home, his wife.

Losing your memory, and your life, was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy—if he knew who his enemies were.

He’d spent these past two years not knowing he had a family, not realizing that he actually belonged someplace on this big, empty globe of a world. One month ago, Matt had found out that a woman named Rachel Shane was looking for him, had sent out a private investigator to track him down, no less.

The hell of it was, it didn’t seem like Rachel Shane wanted him back. Not with the way she’d inspected him like a stud and just as summarily prodded him with her accusations. Matt didn’t know this woman from Eve, so he couldn’t help feeling a bit torqued.

He watched her as she walked up the path to the shingle-and-stone home. Her slim body, encased by beige jodhpurs and a sun-withered white shirt, had the libidinous appeal of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, sleek-of-limb and activity-toned. Even if his brain didn’t recognize her, his body sure did.

She was making him ache with need, heating him with an odd longing.

Rachel peeked over her shoulder, catching his perusal. A smoky yearning passed over her gray-green eyes, but she tried to cover it by looking away.

Well, baby, he thought, you’re not the only one suffering from the hots.

He wondered what it’d been like to feel her skin brush against his, to feel her body pressed against him. Wondered why she hadn’t smothered him with kisses when he first walked up that driveway today.

Rachel broke his concentration. “I feel strange, inviting my own husband into our home like this.”

Or someone who used to be her husband. Matt wondered what the old Matthew had been like, preamnesia. “Right. This isn’t exactly Leave It to Beaver domestic bliss.”

Though it was damned close. He took in her home’s white columns, the bay window, the stone chimney waiting for a good winter smoke. The Colonial serenity seemed foreign to him, surrounded by shrubbery, tickled by trees.

They stopped in front of the door. Rachel said, “I’m going to give you the third degree, Matthew, so you might as well cool down ahead of time with some iced tea.”

Matt was pretty sure she didn’t even need the ice to serve it. All this woman had to do was touch the damned glass. “Sounds fine.”

She opened the door. “I know, I know. We should’ve come in through the mudroom. If you’ve told me once…” Her voice faded.

“I don’t remember enough about this place to scold you.”

She stopped, sighed. “I have no idea what you remember, Matthew.”

He craned his neck, eager to catch a glimpse of his old home, of the place he was determined to reclaim. After discovering his identity and doing some detective work on his own, he’d traveled like lightning back to Kane’s Crossing. Back to a life he knew he had to confront.

Not that he was enjoying it one bit.

He took a gander at the furnishings. Gilded mirrors, ferns and shades of celadon met his curiosity. Nothing struck a chord. “We’ll talk. Work some things out.”

“Sure.” She shot him one last glance and started walking again.

They moved through the foyer. Matt noted the soft colors, tasteful rugs, polished antiques. How could he have lived in such a place? He was used to a bunkhouse, decorated by necessity with a bed, rough linens and a hardy night table. That’s all he’d needed, until his ranch foreman had told him about the private detective who’d come looking for a certain Matthew Shane. A P.I. who’d tracked him by using a casual statement he’d made to his employer in a New Orleans restaurant. “I’m quitting,” he’d said. “Going to Texas so I can lay my hands on what I know. Horses.”

Rachel ushered him into a room redolent with the smell of cedar, blackberry and sage. “I’ll get that drink.”

Her tone was laced with meaning, something he didn’t understand. When he nodded in agreement, she seemed half-relieved.

She left him to explore his former abode, making him feel like a traveler who’d just wandered into Frankenstein’s castle. Hell, might as well look around to see if anything kicked a memory into gear.

The bay window overlooked elm trees and the paddock with its stables fringing the grass. The ceiling spread upward, shaped like a wide cone, lined with beams. Cast-iron light fixtures lingered on the granite walls, giving the room a slightly monastic flavor. Overstuffed couches choked with heavy pillows capped a limestone floor.

Matt couldn’t find the slightest trace of himself anywhere. Not that he knew who the hell he was in the first place.

Frankly, he’d been half hoping to see a reflection of the old Matthew Shane’s identity in the books on the shelves, in the turtle shells and crystal goblets set so deliberately on the walnut desk.

Not likely. If this was any indication of the old Matthew, he didn’t want anything to do with it. Too poufy for his tastes.

“Have a seat,” she said, carrying their beverages in sweating glasses. Ice cubes clinked as he took his glass from her. The hollow sound increased the tension, underlining the emptiness between them.

They sat across the room from each other, each taking tentative sips from their drinks.