The Stranger She Married

Discomfort thickened, breaking through the room’s air-conditioned peace. They both started to speak at the same time.

“So—?”

“Why—?”

Both gestured toward the other. “You go first,” they said in stereo.

Matt nodded. “Ladies first.”

Rachel smiled, but it didn’t convince him that she was any happier.

Her voice confirmed his suspicions. “I’m not sure where to start. Should I tell you where I was born?”

“We’ve got a lot of time for the fine details. How about the last two years?”

That seemed to put her a little more at ease. Matt only wished he knew why.

She said, “I’d been working some ridiculous hours in the county hospital E.R. as a nurse.”

She paused, watching him. Matt shook his head, telling her that he didn’t remember.

Rachel continued. “After you left, I—I decided to spend more time at home. I’d always wanted to work with the horses more, and I was happy to volunteer at the Reno Center as their on-call nurse.” She flicked a gaze over his blank expression. “The Reno Center is a modern-day orphanage. Does the name Nick Cassidy ring any bells? He came back to Kane’s Crossing a couple years ago, played Robin Hood by buying out the town’s businesses from the rich people and giving those properties to the poor. Nick started the Reno Center because he was a foster child, too. Remember him from his brief stint at Spencer High School?”

Matt shrugged and tried to grin. This was like listening to a newscast in a foreign country.

“Anyway,” she added, “I still work at the center. And I make sure the farm is doing well, keeping the books, doing odd jobs—”

“Why wasn’t a hired worker fixing the fencing?” asked Matt. Even if he didn’t know Rachel, he didn’t enjoy seeing her breaking her back, doing work beyond her physical capacity.

“I can manage.” Rachel fluttered her long eyelashes at him while remaining stone-faced.

His body hardened. A lock of hair had escaped from her braid. It was an ash-brown shade, the color of dust from the path of a fallen angel.

Had she been with other men while he’d been lost? The thought pierced through him, a jealous stab.

The skin between his left ribs throbbed, and Matt fisted his hands, hating the reminder. The wound was a slim, pale secret he didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand unless he could find himself.

Matt said, “I’m not sure you’re telling me everything, Rachel. Is this farm solvent?”

Her full lips thinned to a line. “Not after you made off with most of our savings.”

Her tone and his damned pulsing scar made him shift on the couch. What kind of man had Matthew Shane been?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.” He paused. “I’ve wanted to come back to reclaim what’s mine, Rachel. And I’ll make up for that money.”

“You want the farm?”

She hadn’t included herself in the question. That stung his conscience, especially since he wasn’t so sure he wanted the family part.

He tried to remain unaffected by her apparent coldness. “Is this a healthy business?”

“In spite of you, we’re fine.” Rachel took a quick swig from her iced tea, capping the answer. Then, “Am I going to hear your story?”

Damn, his story. What there was of it.

He set down his beverage on a coaster. “It’s pretty simple, really. I woke up one morning in New Orleans with the mother of all hangovers. A wino was going through my pockets, but I didn’t have anything. No ID, no money. I suppose I’d been mugged. I don’t know.”

He left out one important detail. The blood on his shirt. Rachel didn’t need to know that yet. He’d been covered in the red matter on his left side, evidence of a knife wound that had sliced between his ribs. It’d been superficial, but enough to leave a slight scar.

But then there’d been the blood on the other side. The side with no wounds. There’d also been coagulated red liquid on his hands, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was someone else’s blood.

It’d kept him from going to the police to find his identity, from going to the hospital. What if he’d committed a crime? Should he have turned himself in?

He’d had no answers, had needed time to think the possibilities through, to listen to the word on the streets.

Rachel gasped at his news. “You don’t remember anything?” She paused while he shook his head.

“Damn,” she continued. “You obviously don’t know that your wallet was found a while ago. It was behind old crates in a New Orleans alley. Some random guy was using your remaining credit cards, so I doubt you were mugged for money.”

He couldn’t even feel relief at this news. He still had no idea about his past.

Rachel shot another question at him. “Why didn’t you get to a hospital?”

“Leave it to a nurse,” he said, trying to change the subject. “I only remember commonsense things, no details. Enough to get by in life. I took a job as a dishwasher, but I knew I could do something more. One night, these Texas ranchers came into the restaurant. I cleared the dishes from their table before they ordered after-dinner drinks. When I heard them talking about horses, something sparked inside me. I quit and went to Texas.”

Rachel held up a finger. “Well, you didn’t go for medical attention then but I still want you to go now, Matthew, to make sure you’re okay. Even if you’re stubborn as a mule.”

At least that hadn’t changed about him. “Do you want to hear my story, or not?”

She sat up like an attentive choir girl. “Yes.”

“Great.” His body tightened as he looked into her eyes. Eyes that reflected a man who’d obviously hurt this woman in the past. The thought didn’t sit well with him. “I got a job as a ranch hand near Houston. Menial stuff, mucking out stalls, exercising the stock. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t what I was cut out to do. My boss knew it, too, but I was a good worker.

“One day, this feisty gal—a P.I.—came into the foreman’s office, asking questions about a Matthew Shane. My boss suspected something, but he didn’t give any information. He came to my bunk that night and told me everything she’d said. The private detective left her card, and my boss gave it to me. Told me if I knew anything about this man to call.”

Matt didn’t add that he himself had done some checking about this Matthew Shane, just to see if he’d been the man who’d done something immoral to coat his hands with someone else’s blood. When Matthew’s record had turned out clean as a whistle, Matt had decided to return to Kane’s Crossing, facing his old life while remaining “Matt Jones,” the name he’d given his new identity. Even now, if he dropped the “Jones” part and adapted the last name “Shane,” he’d still be the man he’d become in Texas, resuming his former business—horse breeding—and reclaiming his sanity. Bottom line—he’d still be a nobody.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do about the wife part, though.

He looked over at her, sitting so primly and properly on the couch. She was playing with something on her finger.

A ring.

An image assaulted him, making his head swim. It was a flash of strumming guitars, bougainvillea, sultry nights spent walking down narrow streets with balconies looming overhead, the scent of saffron floating over seafood.

Then it was gone. Too insignificant to mention. But she must have seen the shock on his face.

“It’s my wedding ring,” she said, flushing as if she were embarrassed to be caught still wearing it. “Are you okay?”