Unsanctioned Memories Page 4

  But she was noticing Sam O’Rourke.

  And it scared her. Scared her enough to tighten her fingers around the cold steel of Harry’s collar to steady herself. What was she thinking? Her therapist said when she started to heal, she’d begin to think of men in a sexual way again. That that was normal, and not to be afraid of the feelings.

  But when she thought of how much she’d been hurt, how humiliated she’d been, how degraded and stupid she’d felt at letting a man…

  No. You didn’t let him do anything, she chided herself. He attacked you. He used you. The scars on her fingers and neck, her wrists and ankles reminded her of how valiantly she’d fought. The fact she’d been naked and battered beneath a threadbare blanket when she’d hailed that cab proved she’d been in fear for her life.

  One man had done something unspeakable to her. One man.

  Not the entire male population.

  She loved her brothers and father. She could conduct business with men, carry on a conversation with them. She could look at—and even admire—them. That was all normal.

  But she’d be a suicidal idiot if she allowed herself to get close to another man. If she allowed herself to feel anything—even empathy or attraction—for a man.

  Not until she knew which man had stolen twenty-four hours from her memory and left her to die.

  “Jessie?”

  Jessica flinched, almost swinging out at the hand that grasped her shoulder. Harry growled in immediate response to her distress. Sheriff Hancock. Quickly orienting herself in the present and shutting off the vengeful commentary inside her head, she exhaled a calming breath.

  “Easy, Harry.” She smoothed the wiry hair atop his head, reassuring herself as much as the canine. Curtis Hancock didn’t know what she’d gone through six months ago in Chicago. No one did. Secrecy was a necessary byproduct of her shame. Even if she never felt it again, she had to at least act as if she was normal. She even dredged up a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry.”

  The sheriff held up his hands and shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Jessica shook aside his apology, moving on without offering any explanation. “I got my invitation to Trudy’s, but I’ll probably stay home. Since I’ve expanded my business onto the Internet, I’m having a hard time keeping up with orders.”

  “Is that why you hired the new man? What do you know about this new fella, anyway?”

  Ah. The real reason for the unannounced visit. Curtis Hancock knew just about everyone in the county, from retirement-home residents to newborn babies. A stranger from the East Coast was definitely worth checking out.

  Funny how a woman alone seemed to bring out the protective urges in every male. Except one. Sam O’Rourke seemed content to mind his own business and bury himself in his work. She could understand that need to lose himself in something long enough to forget the pain for a while. In the past months she’d treasured finding an escape like that—putting together her Web site to expand her five-year-old business, training Harry. Because the guilt and the pain never truly seemed to go away.

  She’d better put Sheriff Hancock’s concerns to rest before he took his questions any further and alerted her family. “Don’t worry. I checked him out. This morning I called his supervisor back in Boston. He said that Sam had taken a leave of absence for personal reasons, but that he’d always been reliable and above reproach.” She smiled and pretended complete confidence in her choice. “I wouldn’t hire some bum with a criminal record.”

  “I know you Taylors are a big deal in the city. But out here in the county I’m your first line of defense.” If Hancock could have puffed out his chest a little more when he said that, he’d have busted a button at the front of his shirt. “You won’t mind if I do a little checking on this guy myself?”

  “No.” She didn’t mind his interference as long as he didn’t make a big deal out of it. “Just tell me if you find out something, before you let anyone else know.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks.” She thumbed over her shoulder toward Sam. “Do you want to meet him?”

  A soft, guttural woof from Harry alerted her to the gray-and-white tabby cat tiptoeing through the grass toward relative safety beneath the porch. Harry didn’t much mind the cats who’d taken up residence in the barn and took care of the mice. He was more likely to go after the rodents and their larger cousins in the woods. But he was always careful to assert his dominance as chief pet.

  “Hey, kitty.” Sheriff Hancock’s portly face creased with a smile. “Here, baby.” He circled around Jessica and Harry and scooped up the willing feline in his arms. “Aren’t you a sweet thing,” he cooed, stroking the cat’s striped coat. “This one’s not full-grown yet. How many of these you have?”

  He turned and displayed the cat in his arms as if he’d just picked up a new grandbaby. Jessica drifted back a step, responding to an unfamiliar impulse. “I don’t know. Ten? A dozen?”

  “Would you consider parting with one or two of them?” He buzzed his lips, imitating the cat’s purr. Jessica pressed her hand to her stomach, wondering at the sudden knot of nerves that clutched inside her. “I’d pay you a fair price,” he offered.

  Right now she was more creeped out by the cat he was petting than concerned about striking a business deal. Something toyed at the fringe of her subconscious mind. The cat. She was scarcely aware of the irregular pattern of her breathing now. “Take the cat.”

  “Are you sure?” the sheriff asked. “My wife’s been bummed out ever since we had to put her yellow tabby, Peanut Butter, to sleep. Lord, how she loved that cat. Had her sixteen years.”

  Jessica didn’t understand the panic that was sending intermittent shocks of terror through her system. She took a conscious step back, away from the cat. “Take however many cats you want. They’re free. Just take them. With my compliments.”

  “Why that’s right nice—”

  “Is everything all right, Miss Taylor?” A giant shadow fell across her, temporarily blocking out the sun and breaking the inexplicable spell that had seized her. Sam O’Rourke pulled off his work gloves and stuffed them into his back pocket, circling around the sheriff and stopping at a respectful distance beside her. “I saw the sheriff’s car parked—”

  “Just paying a friendly visit.” Sheriff Hancock angled his head to the side to mask how far he had to look up to see Sam’s face. “It’s my philosophy that the law needs to show up from time to time, even when there isn’t any trouble.” He shifted the cat to one arm and extended his free hand. “I’m Curtis Hancock, County Sheriff.”

  Sam’s pale eyes narrowed as they studied the proffered hand and the man it belonged to. He paused long enough for the silent duel of wills between the two men to overshadow her own discomfort. Then he wrapped one big paw around the sheriff’s and shook hands. “Sam O’Rourke. My car broke down outside of Lone Jack yesterday morning.”

  Sheriff Hancock pulled back, wise to Sam’s subtle effort at intimidation. But he was the one with the badge, and Jessica watched him reassert his authority. “That’s what Ralph Edmonds told me,” he said, informing Sam he’d already been watching him. “So you’re from Boston, huh?”

  “Born and raised there. My parents were immigrants from Belfast, Northern Ireland.” That explained to Jessica the hint of non-New England accent in his voice.

  “Were they caught up in the conflict there?” asked Hancock.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate.

  Like a fool, Jessica hadn’t even considered looking into Sam’s personal background. She’d checked one work reference and trusted her gut that he was a loner without much of a stake in anything beyond his grief. Maybe she’d just invited some sort of Irish rebel to live in her garage apartment. Very foolish. Her hand automatically slid to Harry’s collar.

  “I see.” Thankfully, Curtis’s attention had shifted from her to Sam. Though she wondered at the unexpected relief she felt at having her hired hand join the co
nversation. “Where you headed?”

  “San Diego,” Sam answered. His voice was as clipped and unrevealing as his answer. “Is there a problem with me working here, Sheriff?”

  The older man absorbed Sam’s dare with a good-ol’-boy smile. “There’s not a problem for me as long as there’s not a problem for Jessie.”

  Jessica felt rather than saw the icy gray gaze sweep over her. But the deep voice was surprisingly warm. “I don’t want to cause her any trouble.”

  Struck by the soothing tone of Sam’s low-pitched promise, Jessica tilted her head and caught a glimpse of shadow darkening his pale eyes. A glimpse of what? Regret? The gray eyes shuttered and he looked away before she did. What a crazy notion. It was probably just the terminal sorrow he seemed steeped in that gave a false impression of caring.

  As if she should trust her instincts about men, anyway.

  Needing to end this torture of doubts and suspicions and constantly being on guard, she tapped on the crystal of her watch. “Oh, Sheriff, look at the time.” She forced herself to smile. “You don’t want to keep Trudy waiting.”

  He jumped in his shoes as if he’d just gotten goosed. “Oh, Lordy, no. Here.” He thrust the gray tabby toward her. Jessica recoiled as if the furry creature had attacked. “Jessie?”

  “I—” Oh, God. A giant door slammed shut inside her head, triggering an instant headache. Nothing rational could escape, only a tidal wave of instant, all-consuming fear. “Get away from me!”

  She backed off, instinctively grabbing Harry and putting the big dog between her and the invisible threat that advanced on her.

  “Jessie?”

  “Miss Taylor?”

  “No.” She pummeled her way through the barriers inside her head. A flashback. Only she wasn’t remembering any details about the attack or the attacker. She was only remembering the fear. “Stop it.”

  “Jess!”

  Sam’s sharp tone was punctuated by a bark from Harry. Like an electric shock stopping the defibrillation of a heart, hearing the personal abbreviation of her name snapped her out of that emotional hallucination. The darkness inside her mind vanished as if the combination of Sam and Harry calling out had switched on a light.

  She was aware enough of her surroundings to see Sam’s hand reaching toward her and to feel the bunching of muscles in Harry’s shoulders as he prepared to defend her. “Down, boy. Harry, down.” She waved aside Sam’s attempt to help and commanded the dog to lie at her feet. “I’m all right.”

  “You don’t look it.” Sam dropped his hand to his side and retreated a step.

  She felt faint and embarrassed and completely confused. But she flashed a fake smile and said, “I’m fine. I guess Harry’s spoiled me. I’ve become such a dog person that I don’t like cats anymore.”

  It was such a pitiful excuse for her behavior that it seemed neither man had the heart to question her.

  Jessica studied the ground while both men studied her. Curtis Hancock was the first to break the awkward silence. “Well, I’d best not be late to Trudy’s.” He held out the cat, and she jerked away. Sensing the trigger of her discomfort this time, he set the cat down and shooed it back toward the barn. “I’ll bring a carrier out Sunday afternoon, if that’s all right? I’ll bring Millie with me so she can choose her own cat.”

  “That’s fine. Sunday’s fine.”

  “I hope to see you at the Kents’ tomorrow night. Jessie.” He tipped his hat to her, then nodded to Sam. “Mr. O’Rourke.”

  Jessica stared into the branches of the old elm tree that grew near the corner of her cabin. She concentrated on counting how many of its green leaves were turning gold instead of dealing with the post-traumatic stress flashback that had tried to take her back to that night she’d subconsciously blocked from her memory.

  Her therapist had told her that the memory would try to assert itself. It might come in bits and pieces or all at once. Something like the cat might trigger it, or it might come back when her mind was relaxed and focused on something else. Without any physical trauma to her brain, the only explanation for her selective amnesia was that her mind was trying to protect her from something.

  Something she desperately needed to remember.

  Something she was mortally afraid to.

  She heard the sheriff’s car door shut and the engine roar to life. Without really seeing the white car, she turned and waved as he drove off through her gate.

  “Jess—”

  “Miss Taylor.” Jessica held up one pointed finger to halt Sam O’Rourke’s polite concern and remind him that he was her employee, not a friend. She didn’t think she could handle making nice and keeping her distance right now. “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

  He propped his hands on his hips, hesitating for a moment, standing far too close for her peace of mind. “My apologies. I’ll get back to work.”

  But when he relaxed his stance and headed toward his wheelbarrow, her shoulders sagged. She felt inexplicably abandoned. For a few horrible moments she’d been plunged back into that horrible nightmare.

  But a deep, Irish-laced voice had pulled her free.

  She wouldn’t explain what had happened. But he didn’t deserve her censure. Jessica inhaled a cleansing breath and called after his wide, retreating back. “Find a stopping place and wash up. It won’t take me long to throw together some sandwiches for lunch.”

  He stopped and turned. “Sounds good.”

  Then he strode away, his long legs eating up the ground while she watched the casual, controlled grace with which he carried himself.

  Jessica shook her head and looked away. She had an eye for beauty, that was all. And the way Sam O’Rourke moved was a precise, powerful, beautiful thing.

  She didn’t need to be thinking of him as sexy. And she certainly didn’t expect him to be her savior. Sam O’Rourke was just the hired hand. He had his own problems to deal with.

  Harry whimpered, drawing her out of her depressing funk. She clicked her tongue and urged him to his feet, kneeling down and hugging him tight around his sturdy neck, finding strength in his unwavering loyalty. Finding comfort in the one male she’d let herself trust.

  “I bet I can find a slice of turkey with your name on it in the fridge.” She stood up and rubbed her nose against his damp one. “Shall we go inside?”

  The dog’s ears pricked up with excitement at the teasing tone in her voice. He ambled along beside her as she headed up the steps and into the house.

  She tried to latch on to the dog’s joy at a potential treat and ignore her lingering thoughts.

  Sam O’Rourke wasn’t looking for a relationship and neither was she. Besides, if he could dredge up one ounce of charm to go with that body of his, he could have any woman he wanted.

  And he wouldn’t give a skittish recluse of a woman like her a second glance.

  Chapter Three

  Jess. The name had slipped out as naturally and familiarly as if he’d known her for years instead of fewer than twenty-four hours. He’d shouted the word as if he had the right to personalize a nickname for her, a right to care about the deathly pallor and stark terror he’d seen etched across her face.

  Sam breathed a sigh that did little to ease his frustration and guilt.

  Jess Taylor was afraid of cats.

  Interesting.

  Not that she’d admit it, and it wasn’t terribly helpful to his mission, but it was an interesting tidbit of information to add to her file.

  Sam rolled the dusty, grit-filled wheelbarrow over to the hose and spigot at the west side of the cabin and turned on the water, letting it run until the sun-warmed water ran cold. He was starting to learn all kinds of interesting things about his eccentric employer, few of which were any help in tracking down Kerry’s killer. But he took note of them, all the same.

  Like the fact she cooked food as if she was feeding an army of gourmands. Her idea of throwing together sandwiches for lunch had been a mouthwatering, deli-style feast, complete with
homemade sourdough bread, deviled eggs and pecan pie.

  He’d also learned that her legs were about a mile long, and she’d dangled them off the edge of the porch with an abandon that left him fantasizing about what they’d look like in something besides a ratty pair of work jeans. Something short. Covered in shimmery stockings. Or in nothing at all.

  “Damn.” Sam shook his head to dispel the image of long, shapely legs waltzing through his weary imagination. He squirted the hose into the air and let the cold water spritz across the sticky bare skin of his back and shoulders, easing the ill-advised heat that had been building inside him all afternoon. The unseasonable seventy-eight-degree weather and demanding physical labor weren’t the only things that had him all fired up.

  His fingers had itched inside his work gloves, longing to sift through the casual curls of Jess’s hair to see if it was as light and silky as it looked. And her own hands were part earth mother, part artist. Long, strong fingers that moved with elegant ease through whatever task she undertook. The thought of her touching him with the same fine-tuned confidence with which she stroked her dog or curled them around the trigger of a shotgun had him breathing deeply and praying for a break in the muggy heat even now.

  But despite his body’s stirring interest in her long, leanly curved shape and soft blue eyes, Jessica Taylor was a woman who required a patience and expertise he didn’t possess. Not in the relationship department, at any rate. He hadn’t been with a woman since before Kerry’s death. He hadn’t even gone on a date. He’d lost his ability to connect with his heart that night he’d ID’ed his sister’s body at the morgue.

  The only emotions he’d been able to feel with any conviction were anger, sorrow and guilt.

  Tenderness and compassion were foreign to him now.

  The victim of a brutal rape would need both in abundant supply.

  Sam sprayed the water across his shoulders again and tried to get a decent drink from the end of the nozzle. He had no business thinking personal thoughts about his new boss. She wouldn’t be interested in any kind of intimacy with him—with any man—right now. And as much as he would love to hear that hot, steamy voice of hers couched in a seductive whisper, he wasn’t the man with the skills to make it happen. He couldn’t afford the distraction from his real purpose. His only purpose.