You Must Remember This

She nodded. “Too much to do, too little time. Are you waiting on someone?”

“You.”

Her gaze automatically shifted away, her smile trembled and disappeared, and a rush of nerves gave her a shiver. She waited until she was sure—or, at least, hopeful—her voice wouldn’t quiver, then asked, “Why?”

“I thought maybe we could get some dinner.”

She wanted to ask why again, but she already knew his answer. He hadn’t yet accepted that there was no help she could give him. He wanted to talk, wanted her to find some answers for him. It wasn’t the same as being wanted for herself, but, hey, it wasn’t as if she had any better offers to consider. “All right. Where would you like to go?”

“The Saloon is just down the street. The music’s kind of loud, but they have good greasy burgers.”

Greasy burgers did sound good. So did loud music to fill in the silence when conversation failed her, as it always did. “We can take my car—”

“I’d rather walk, if you don’t mind. It’s a nice night.”

She agreed. They walked a block or more in silence, giving her an opportunity to window-shop. Grand Springs had a lovely downtown with a hundred percent occupancy. Everything was closed now, but as summer drew nearer and tourists began using the town as a base for their mountain excursions, the shops would keep later hours.

“Busy day?”

She caught a glimpse of Martin’s reflection in the plate glass, staring straight ahead, presenting a handsome if less than perfect profile. His nose was crooked, and so was his jaw. In fact, there was a little asymmetry to his whole face, one side not quite matching the other, but it didn’t detract from his appearance. She’d been lusting after him for more than two weeks now, and she’d never noticed the flaws until the evening sun had highlighted them.

“Busy enough. The department’s network was outdated when they bought it—precisely why they got such a good deal on it—so I’m trying to get it upgraded, and I’ve got to get certified to use NCIC, so I’m working on that, and my clerk is years behind in entering data on the computer, so I’m helping her with that. I could use another clerk—”

“Or maybe just one who actually does her job.”

She smiled. “You know Mariellen.”

“She dots the i in her name with a little heart.”

“It’s a star now. How do you know her?”

“She asked me out.”

Juliet gave him a surprised look that made him laugh.

“I know. I don’t need to know how old I am to know that she’s way too young for me.”

“Some women prefer older men.” And all women liked some combination of sexy, handsome, tough, endearing, vulnerable, mysterious and lost. Martin scored on all counts.

“Mariellen got that job when she was dating a cop,” he said. “She thought working at the same place meant spending a lot of time together. Then they broke up and he moved off to take a job in Denver, and she kept the job. She’s not particularly good at it, but—”

“She’s young, pretty and sweet. You can’t help but like her and overlook her shortcomings.” Juliet had once been that young, and underneath all her shyness, she’d been sweet, too, but no one had ever been willing to overlook her failings—maybe because she hadn’t been pretty, too? Instead, she had worked extra hard at having no failings. She’d knocked herself out to be the best employee her boss could ever ask for. In the department, everyone was satisfied—herself included—if Mariellen showed up for work less than thirty minutes late.

“So you didn’t go out with Mariellen. Do you see anyone in particular?”

The look he gave her was long and chiding. “Would I be here with you if I did?”

She was saved from answering because they’d arrived at the Saloon. She puzzled over his response, though, as they made their way to the booth farthest from the door. What did a girlfriend have to do with his presence with her this evening? If this were a date, sure, she could see the conflict, but it wasn’t. They were here to discuss the problem of his missing identity and the possibility, however remote, that her computer skills could be of use to him.

Weren’t they?

She slid onto one bench, laid her purse aside and folded her hands together. She felt prim and stuffy, out of place in the dim lights, loud music and smoky atmosphere of the bar. Of course, her work clothes didn’t help any. At least with his jeans, boots and T-shirt, Martin fit right in. All he needed was a cowboy hat over that nice blond hair.

“Do you like country music?”

“I can take it or leave it.” Truthfully, she never listened to it—not always an easy feat to accomplish living in Dallas.

“What do you like?”

“A little rock, a little classical. The blues.”

“B. B. King, John Lee Hooker, Buddy Guy? ‘Stormy Monday’?”

“I love that song.” He grinned, and she found herself smiling back. “Maybe you’re from the South.”

“Because I like the blues?”

“Because when I came out of the office, you said ‘hey’ instead of ‘hi.’ Isn’t that a Southern thing?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have a Southern accent.”

“As far as I can tell, you don’t have any accent at all. Maybe you just lived there.”

Another shrug. “You have an accent. You sound Texan—lazy and sultry and—”

The waitress, dressed in a short little flirty denim skirt, a snug red cowboy shirt and red cowboy boots, interrupted with “What’ll you have?”

More of what he was saying, Juliet thought, both dreamy over his comment and disappointed that it’d been cut short. Sultry. No one had ever called her anything even remotely close.

She ordered pop, and so did Martin, and she followed his lead in ordering dinner: burger with cheese and spicy fries. When the waitress brought their drinks a moment later, Juliet scanned the room. Martin seemed to be the only man in the place without a long-necked beer clutched in one hand. Not that he needed beer to prove his masculinity. He could walk to the bar and order a glass of warm milk, and no one would have the nerve to say a word about it. “Do you drink?”

“Occasionally, but I have to be careful not to overdo. It’s too big a risk for me.”

“Do you think that, or do you know it?”

“I know it.” He didn’t offer an explanation of how he knew, just a grim, almost bleak look and the slow, unconscious stroking of his fingers over the scar on his left arm. Souvenir of a drunken barroom brawl? Maybe he’d been an alcoholic in his previous life, or someone else important in that life had had a drinking problem.

“What did you do this afternoon?” she asked, seeking any mundane topic of conversation that could chase away the sorrow in his eyes.

“I’m doing a little work at one of the churches—some stripping, painting, minor remodeling.”

“I thought you weren’t a carpenter.”

“I’m not, but I’m cheap, and the church doesn’t have much money. I just follow the pastor’s directions, and he prays for the best.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

The music went quiet as, across the room, a young man bent over a guitar and tuned the instrument. There were others on the bandstand with him, kids who looked too young to drink where they played. After a few minutes fiddling with the instruments, the band was ready. Without ado, the young man stepped up to the microphone and eased into the first song.