Snow flakes fell thick and fast as Luke Kirby stopped his 4x4 in front of the family cabin, just south of Estes Park. On a clear day, Longs Peak was visible from the cabin, but now his headlights had trouble penetrating more than a few yards ahead. The wind kicked up the falling snow, erasing not just the tracks his truck had made on the dirt road, but the place where sky and earth met, turning the world into a disorienting white tunnel. The storm hadn’t been bad when he left Denver but had turned nasty with the rise in altitude. If the storm hadn’t cut off his retreat, he might have turned back and faced a family determined to distract him from the significance of tomorrow–the anniversary of the death of his wife, Rosemary.
He rested his arms on the steering wheel, remembering a time when he couldn’t think the word “dead,” not about Rosemary, who had been so very much alive. He knew all the euphemisms and all the synonyms for death. None of them had changed the reality of being left alive, left alone in a world without her. How he’d hated it. He’d spent a lot of time dodging being alone, trying to stay too busy, too surrounded by people to face it. He’d loved the “ball and chain,” had relished being one half of a whole that included her.
A platitude, but true—time did heal. So gradually had time done its work that he’d hardly noticed at first. One day he’d realized he was above the shadows. Not happy, but no longer sad, finally able to feel whole—and be whole—all by himself.
If someone asked him why he was here on this bitter night instead of with his family, he could tell them it wasn’t because he was living in the past or because he begrudged his brothers their happiness. They’d earned their time with their women the hard way. Matt and Dani had saved each other from the jaws of death up on Longs Peak just over two years ago. Jake had saved his Phoebe’s butt, and now she regularly kicked his up over his ears. Luke could see that Jake didn’t mind, in fact, he seemed happy to bend over and present his backside for her boot. He had a tiger by the tail with that girl. Luke grinned. Even Matt had given in to the Phoebe juggernaut, after strong initial resistance, allowing her to stand as godmother to the first Kirby grandson. Young Mark had them all wrapped around his tiny pink finger. Even Phoebe was smitten. He expected her to enter the motherhood stakes any day now.
The only two people more amusing than his brothers were Bryn Bailey, Jake’s FBI partner-in-crime solving, and Dewey Hyatt, Phoebe’s former partner-in-crime committing. He just hoped he was there when Bryn realized she was in love with her pet criminal, though Jake had hinted she also had softer feelings for the elusive Phagan, who Dewey was supposed to be helping her hunt down. Luke had his own ideas about Phagan and Dewey, but it wasn’t his job to point out the obvious, not when it was so entertaining to let events play out on their own.
No, he wasn’t here because he couldn’t handle their happiness. In a way, their happiness had lifted him with them and had brought him here tonight. In the headlights, the cabin was dark. Empty of everything but years of memories not just of Rosemary, but his dad, killed in the line of duty. This was the first time he’d been here alone since Rosemary’s death. She’d loved the mountains, loved the cabin, even in a storm—if they were safe inside with a good fire.
With a start, he realized the cabin had almost disappeared into the storm. The warmth from the truck’s heater had faded and his exhaled breath turned into a white fog in the icy air. Snowflakes, lit by the headlights, swirled in a wind-driven frenzy. He’d better get moving. Didn’t want to spend the night in his truck. Good thing he’d brought plenty of supplies with him. If the weather report was right, he could be stuck up here for a couple of days. Looked like there’d be enough snow for some cross-country skiing when it cleared. Nothing like a brisk battle with nature to remind him that he was alive.
He left the headlights on while he unlocked the door, though the benefit was limited, and unloaded his supplies. Inside the cabin, he tested the silence and found it bearable—though not much warmer than outside. He turned on the refrigerator, wondering how long the power would stay on, while he stowed his perishables. Well, he’d used a snow bank for a fridge before, no reason he couldn’t do so again.
A gust of wind caught the window over the sink, lifting it, then dropping it with a bang. He caught it before it could lift again, making a mental note to tweak Jake about it when he got home. He and Phoebe had been the last ones to use the cabin. He noticed a bit of snow and some dried stuff on the counter under the window and brushed it into the sink. The air was chill, damp, and tainted with the smell of old fire and older food, but a new fire would soon burn it away. He didn’t turn on any lights besides the kitchen. He knew his way around, and besides, there was enough light spilling out from the kitchen until he got the fire going. Rosemary had liked the room lit by fire. Many a snowy night they’d huddled together under a pile of quilts and watched snow pile up in drifts against the windows.
He stopped for a moment as the memories caught up with him. Rosemary laughing as she pelted him with snowballs. Rosemary smiling up at him from the blanket as the mountain sun bathed her in its crystal light. Rosemary looking at the mountains and not at him when she told him she was dying and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Seven years. Like Jacob in the Bible, he’d served his time, done his duty and now it was time to move on. Not to forget, but to move out of the shadows and live again.
“Don’t mourn too long, Luke,” she’d said to him that last day, her voice the only part of her he still recognized. She’d never said what too long was, but he could almost see her standing in the light from the kitchen, tapping her watch the way she had when he’d been out on the mountain too long.
“I know, Rose,” he murmured. “I know.”
He checked the wood box and found it filled. Jake had also laid out logs in the fireplace. Only needed a match. That made up for the open window, Luke decided. In a short time, he had the fire started, putting out cheerful heat against the winter chill. When the power went, he’d be warm and have hot coffee. He could live without a lot of things, but hot coffee in the morning wasn’t one of them.
He’d sleep in front of the fire. It would be warmer and he could feed the hungry fire. He and Rosemary had slept downstairs the last time they were here. They’d made a bed for two on the floor. He’d use the couch. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done time on one. Life with Rosemary hadn’t been all smooth and easy. The Kirby men had a weakness for spirited women.
He did a quick run upstairs for a couple more quilts. There was a sturdy mega-sized lap quilt kept folded over the back of the couch, but it wasn’t enough on a night like this. He also grabbed some pillows to soften the hard arms on each end. Back downstairs, he noticed that the quilt wasn’t folded over the back, but spread across the seat. In the flickering light from the fire, it almost looked like there was someone under it. For a minute, chills snaked down his back, until common sense reasserted itself.
If someone was here, it was a squatter who’d likely used the unlatched window to get in. He bit back an expletive. Couldn’t kick a dog out on a night like this. So much for being alone. He dumped his blanket load on a chair. Odd that whoever it was hadn’t heard his noisy arrival and made their presence known. It was enough to make him uneasy, so he pulled his gun. As a cop, he’d learned to err on the side of caution. He knew which boards creaked and took care to avoid them as he approached the couch. Keeping the figure covered, he reached out and flipped the edge of the blanket back and saw—
Feet.
Or more precisely, a pair of hiking boots and blue-jean covered legs below the knees. Good boots. Not a squatter then. Maybe a hiker?
Luke felt a bit ridiculous and a little anxious about the lack of movement as he moved to the other end. Being alone with a body wasn’t what he had in mind either. This time when he flipped the blanket back, he saw hair. Lots of it. Tangled and blonde enough to make Marilyn Monroe jealous. The ends of most of it were hidden under the part of the blanket that still covered her middle, except for a bunch that hung over her face and off the edge of the couch, forming a question mark on the wood floor.
It seemed Goldilocks had come calling but found only one bear.
He stowed his gun and knelt down beside her. Bits of dried brush, brown grass and twigs were caught in the tousled strands of her hair. She had a thick fleece jacket on, with bits of dried brush stuck to it, too, and it had been torn in several places. One of her arms hung off the edge of the couch; the hand at the end of the arm was bare and badly scratched. A couple of her nails were broken, the edges ragged and torn.
“Who’s sleeping on my couch?” he muttered, as he gathered up the trailing strands of hair, icy cold and soft as silk, to expose her face. It was scratched, too, and there was a nasty looking bump just above her temple. A thin trail of dried blood disappeared into her hairline. The bones under the scratches were good, the kind that wear well over time. Her jaw was strong and determined. Laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes seemed at odds with a mouth that was full and rather sad. Her thick lashes lay in dark fans against her pale bruised skin, hiding her eyes. Equally dark brows arched over them.
It was hard to be sure because memory was so unreliable, and his memories of Rosemary as a young woman were buried under her last months of wasting away from ovarian cancer, but she kind of reminded him of a young Rosemary, or her sister, if Rosemary had had one. It was a bit eerie on a dark and stormy night. If her eyes were blue when she opened them, he might just have to join the X-Files fan club.
Luke felt along her neck. Her skin was cold, but he found a pulse—rapid and a bit shallow—but there. She wasn’t dead. Yet. Luke knew a bit of first aid—most of it about hypothermia, since he and his brothers spent so much time in the mountains. She needed to be warmed up fast. He grabbed the quilts he’d collected and piled them on top of her. When he knelt down to ease a pillow under her head, he realized she was looking at him, her eyes wide and puzzled.
Violet. He hadn’t expected that. Deep, pure violet. They brought the pale mask of her face to instant, vivid life and put a good bit of his unease to rest. Not Rosemary. He hadn’t really believed she was. It was just weird. Weird enough for his imagination to activate. Thank goodness neither of his brothers was here. Wouldn’t they get some mileage out of this situation if they ever found out?
He’d put her in her late twenties, but now, looking into her eyes, he upped that by a few years. Her eyes were wise, more aware than the average twenty-something, despite the confusion clouding their depths.
“Do I—know you?” she asked. Her voice was a thin thread of sound, but clear and crisp. It suited their mountainous surroundings, reminding him of a stream running over rocks on its way to the low lands.
“I don’t think so. Name’s Luke Kirby. My family owns this cabin.”
Her lashes closed for a moment. Her brows drew together in a frown. “Cabin?”
He reached past her, turned on a rustic styled lamp and gestured to their surroundings. “Cabin.”
Her lashes lifted higher, her gaze making a limited survey of her surroundings. “Oh.”
Despite this, he could tell the lights were still out inside her head. He waited for her to orient herself. Something had happened. A fall of some kind, he guessed, based on what he’d seen of her injuries. It sometimes took time to put the pieces of memory together in the right order after a shock.
“Would you like some soup and coffee?” he asked. “We need to get you warmed up, if you’re up to it.”
“I am hungry.” She sounded surprised. “Thank you.”
He left her for the kitchen, glad for the time away from her. He still felt a bit off balance by her resemblance to Rosemary, and, if he were honest with himself, her unexpected beauty. His body had taken in more input than his brain could process, but the main gist of it was basically, wow.
He put water in the coffeepot, started heat under it. Found a can of soup and dumped it in a pan. Maybe he should start dating again, just to let off some steam in his “wow” reflex.
He turned and found her standing in the doorway studying him with a seriousness that did nothing to relieve the pressure. She was taller than he’d expected from someone with so slight a build. She stood carefully, but with a grace and elegance that her discomfort couldn’t erase.
“Is there—” She stopped, color flooding her cheeks.
Luke found he could grin and felt better, more balanced and in control again. “Bathroom’s through there. Light’s on the right.”
It was odd, but kind of cute, that she was embarrassed to ask for the john. There was something a bit old-fashioned about her, despite her very modern clothes. He could see her behind a tea pot in a room full of antiques. In a dress that matched her eyes and had a bunch of white at the neck. Something like Katharine Hepburn would wear.
“Thank you.” She turned, wobbling a bit.
He fought back the urge to leap to her assistance. Partly because he didn’t want to scare her and mostly because he wasn’t sure he could leap. His body had surprised him a few times lately by not responding to his mental commands. A reminder that he wasn’t as young as he felt. Instead he asked, “Do you need help?”
She smiled. “Thank you, but no. I can manage. Stiffened up a bit while I was asleep.”
Her back straightened, her chin lifting as she made a determined beeline for the bathroom door.
Guts and beauty. Interesting. It wasn’t until Luke heard the door creak closed that he realized he still didn’t know her name. While he kept a watchful eye on the soup, he dug out the first aid kit and a flashlight. If she had a concussion, her eyes would show it. And if she did? Well, he’d deal with it then. He had his phone. He could call for advice.
The soup started to bubble. He lifted it off the heat, gave it a stir, and then poured it in a bowl. Grabbed some crackers and a cup of coffee and put it all on a tray. He heard the door creak open and found his thoughts bubbling like the soup. It was, he decided, like something out of a Raymond Chandler book. Snowed in with a mysterious woman, trapped in the mountains—with a woman who had probably missed her step, taken a tumble and then lost her way, he reminded himself. No mystery, just Mother Nature’s pointed reminder not to take her for granted.
She hadn’t just used the toilet, he saw. She’d washed the blood off her face and tidied her hair. Most of the bits of brush were gone and her hair was now pulled back into a sort of knotted ponytail that hung all the way down her back. Her face was white and she trembled from the effort. Luke jumped forward, surprised and pleased his body did as requested, and helped her back to the couch. He got her settled with a pillow behind her and blankets tucked around, then brought her the tray.
“Can you manage for yourself?” he asked.
She nodded, her smile grateful. She picked up the spoon using, Luke noted, her left hand. When it became apparent she wasn’t a southpaw, he folded back the blankets and found her right wrist swollen to twice its normal size. He probed it gently and heard her gasp.
“Sorry. Can you move your fingers?” She flexed them. “How about your wrist?”
She managed to bend at the wrist, but the effort drained more color out of her face.
“I don’t think it’s broken, but it should probably be strapped until it can be X-rayed. A hairline fracture and a sprain can both cause swelling.” He should know. He’d had both. He opened the first aid kit and rummaged through it until he’d found everything he needed.
“Are you a doctor?” A few bites of the soup put a slight flush in her cheeks.
“Actually, I’m a cop. And an all-too-frequent patient.” He grinned at her. “My mom claims most of her gray hairs are my fault, but my brothers did their share, believe me. Most of it from rock climbing.” While he talked, he helped her out of her jacket, a painful exercise, then applied a wrist splint and wrapped it with elastic bandage. When he was done, he touched the tips of her fingers. “Can you feel this?”
She nodded, relaxing back against the couch with a sigh of relief. “It feels a lot better.”
“Let me know if the tips of your fingers start to tingle and I’ll loosen it.” He frowned. “Normally I’d apply ice, but you’re still pretty chilled.”
“I feel wonderfully warm, but I’d rather avoid ice for now.” She ate most of her soup but only took one sip of the coffee. She stared into the cup, then looked at him. “I don’t think I drink coffee.” She looked startled. It did seem like something she should know about herself.
“I’ll get you some water, but first—” Luke set the tray aside, and picked up the flashlight.
“What now?” She sounded amused.
“Looks like you took a pretty nasty tumble, could have a mild concussion. I want to look at your pupils.” He tipped her head up and flashed the light in her eyes, watching her pupils react. “Did you lose consciousness?”
She smiled at the question. She'd lost more than consciousness. “Oh, yeah.”
“It’s not unusual for the noggin to be scrambled after a fall.”
He was a big man and strong, but his hands were warm and gentle cupping either side of her face. His face was close enough for her to see the texture of his skin as he probed her scalp for injuries. The words craggy and weather-beaten came to mind first. He looked like a man who lived much of his life outside. He wasn’t movie star handsome, but she felt an unexpected flicker of attraction flare where he touched her.
“Besides the bump on your temple, there’s another here, above your ear.”
“I’ve got one on the lower occipital, too,” she said, touching the base of her head with a wince. He looked surprised as he checked it out.
“That you do. I’d say you did a top over tail today.” He sat back, his hands dropping away.
To her annoyance, her skin felt cold, almost bereft without his touch. You know nothing about this man, she reminded herself. But that wasn’t the worst. She knew nothing about herself, except that she had an occipital. And a parietal, frontal and temporal. Very weird. It was as if she’d begun her existence when she opened her eyes a short time ago. She hadn’t even known what she looked like until she saw herself in the mirror. It was an odd feeling to meet herself for the first time. By most standards, even with the bumps and bruises, the face that had stared back at her would be considered beautiful. She’d felt no pride of ownership; no sense of I am a beautiful woman. No sense of herself at all. She’d fingered her clothes. They were of good fabric, but sturdy and serviceable, rather than glamorous. No perfume, cheap or expensive lingered on her skin. She’d sniffed herself twice and found soap. Just soap. And the smell of pine. Judging by the amount of pine needles she’d shaken out of her hair, the smell of pine was inevitable, rather than revealing.
Her hands, beneath the scratches, were cared for. Her fingers were long, the nails that weren’t torn were filed but unpolished. To her surprise, despite the signs she’d taken a very nasty tumble, she felt relieved, as if she’d laid down a burden. Beneath the uncertainty, she felt free. If she had no past, that left a future full of possibilities.
“What do you remember?” he asked.
A better question would be, what am I trying to forget? She shrugged, then wished she hadn’t. The movement upped the pain quota enough to make stars sashay across her view.
“Let’s start with something easy, like your name?”
Her name. Everyone had a name. She had an impulse to make one up. To write something onto the blank canvas in her head, but her mind refused to play. It didn’t cough up a single consonant, let alone a whole name. She pushed at the gray mist and it pushed back. It did open enough to let out a single emotion. Panic. It spilled through her like a tsunami, threatening to sweep her away. As if he sensed it, he grabbed her left hand, held it, a lifeline pulling her free of the dark undertow.
“You really did scramble your brains, didn’t you?” His voice was kind, as if not knowing her own name was no big deal. “How about I call you Goldie for now?”
“Goldie?” From the jumble of letters in her head, the name formed into a row. So she did know the alphabet, in addition to the parts of the head. That was something.
He curled a strand of her hair around his finger and held it up for her view.
To her surprise, she felt a slight, mischievous smile curve her mouth at the edges. “I wonder if it’s the real thing or out of a bottle?”
He chuckled, drawing her attention to his broad, well-constructed chest. When he went for the first aid kit, she’d noticed he filled out his jeans well, too. He walked with a relaxed but determined stride, and he had kind eyes, with a hint of sad lurking in their depths. He was taller than her and had an air of calm competence. She’d never trusted handsome men, though she had no idea why that was.
“Even if it’s not natural,” he said with a grin, “you reminded me of Goldilocks when I found you sleeping on my couch.”
“Are you one of the three bears?” He was big and woolly enough. His hair was dark and unruly, with the shadow of a heavy beard on the lower half of his craggy face. At the base of his throat, where the collar of his flannel shirt exposed the strong column of his neck, she could see a tuft of thick dark chest hair. No question the sum of his parts had a distinct teddy bear quality. A teddy bear packing a gun, she reminded herself.
“I growl a little in the morning,” he admitted.
“Goldie does seem to fit.” She examined the name and found she didn’t mind it. At least there was no big bad wolf in the story. “It’s nice to meet you, Luke.”
“Nice to meet you, Goldie.” He held out his hand.
Without thinking, she reached out with her injured right arm, but felt such a stab of pain from the movement, everything went black for a few seconds. From a distance, she heard Luke ask, “What’s wrong? Is the wrap too tight?”
“No. Higher up, I think.” A few deep breaths cleared the haze, but the pain stayed, clinging to her arm like a pit bull. She saw a tear in the dark fabric of her tee shirt. Around the tear, the material was stiff with dried blood and stuck to her skin. She saw Luke holding a pair of scissors and covered the spot protectively.
“Going to have to cut the sleeve of your shirt.”
His steady gaze reassured her. She nodded and lowered her hand. She wanted to look away when he inserted the blade of the scissors under the edge of her sleeve and began snipping, folding the soft cotton back as more and more of her arm was exposed, but she couldn’t. Whether she liked it or not, it was another piece in the puzzle of who she was. Up past the elbow he ran into the stuck-on material and, to her relief, stopped.
“You’ve bled a fair bit,” Luke said. “You must have sliced your arm when you fell. Hang on.”
He returned with a pan of warm water. He wet the material until he’d bared her arm to the shoulder, exposing an angry gash in the flesh of her upper arm. There was something not right about the wound, something that stole the warmth from her body, replacing it with the chill of fear. She looked at Luke, hoping he’d reassure her, but his face was grim and worried. A cop’s face, she realized. He picked up her discarded jacket and examined the tear that matched the wound in her arm. She saw him sniff it, the worry in his face deepening.
“What?”
“It’s—” he stopped, then said, his voice as grim as his face. “It’s a bullet graze. I can still smell the gun powder.” He handed her the coat.
Eyes wide, Goldie took it and sniffed. Someone shot at her. Close range, if she could smell residue. In her head she could see the words, but they didn’t make sense. Nothing did. What kind of person got shot at? How did she know about residue? No wonder she didn’t want to remember.
“What do we…do?”
Luke looked toward the window. “Tonight? Nothing we can do. We’re completely shut off until the storm clears. When it does, my truck’s a four-wheel. I have a few contacts with the Estes Park cops.”
“But I don’t remember anything! What will I tell them?” Panic slipped its leash again. She could hear it in her voice but was too weary to do anything about controlling it.
Once again, Luke rescued her. He grabbed her uninjured hand and caught her gaze with his.
“We’ll figure it out in the morning. Your memory can come back at any time. At least, that’s what the TV doctors say.” He smiled. It was a nice smile. A safe smile, a confident smile, but also a sexy smile.
“Well, they must know.” She found herself smiling back as her body relaxed again. Something intimate and unsettling entered the space between them. She looked away, in the direction of her wound. Right now it was less scary than looking at Luke, so she studied it. “Looks like it plowed along the top of the epidermis. Shouldn’t need stitches. It should heal quickly if infection doesn’t set in.”
There was a moment of silence. She looked at Luke.
He grinned. “Maybe you’re a TV doc?”
Or a real one. She strained against the gray mist inside her head, but it resisted her with painful firmness.
“If I am, my brain isn’t giving it up. It’s like…” she stopped.
“Like what?” Luke’s attention was focused on wrapping the white bandage around her arm, but his voice invited her to go on.
Goldie had a feeling he was always the good cop. The urge to confide was almost irresistible. But what if she was confiding herself into jail? Was she a good guy? And if she was, what was she afraid to remember?
“It’s like…” she hesitated again, but the need to put it out there, see if what she felt could sustain itself in the light of examination, overcame her qualms, “there’s two separate…issues.” That wasn’t the right word, but nothing better presented itself. “On the one side is this relief. An incredible lightness of being.” She smiled, wondering who she’d just plagiarized. “I’m new and the world is full of possibilities.”
“And on the other?” Luke finished his work and sat back, his gaze—sober and encouraging—fixed on her face.
“On the other is…dread. Confusion.” She closed her eyes and out of the mist heard angry voices—Who am I? And why did it feel like a question she’d asked before? She groped toward the voices, but they faded into the gray. She shook her head in frustration. “It’s gone.”
“Don’t try so hard. Memories like to be coaxed.”
“What if—” she clasped her hands together, “what if I’m mixed up in something illegal?”
“Do you think you’re that kind of person?” Luke asked, putting his hands over her clasped ones. His grip was warm and light. It gave comfort without confining.
“No!” The word burst out of her without a second’s thought. She probed deeper. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it felt like the dread came from the outside in, not that it emanated from inside her.
“I don’t know much about amnesia, but I do know about people. I see all kinds. The ones with character and the ones without. You’re all right, Goldie.”
She stared at him for a long moment as relief flooded through her, but felt compelled to ask, “What if you’re wrong?”
For just a moment, his eyes showed he’d asked himself that question. He seemed satisfied with his own answer, though, because he grinned. “I’m never wrong, though my brothers might disagree.” His gaze studied her face, then he added, “Relax. While this storm is controlling the board, trouble can’t find either of us.”
It was a happy thought. The knot in her stomach eased.
He stood up. “I’m going to see if I can find you something to change into. We need to check you for any other injuries.” He caught her chin and looked at her eyes again. Not like a man looking at a woman. “Headache?”
“It’s hard to isolate my aches to any single area.” She touched the sore area at the base of her neck. It felt bigger than the last time she’d touched it. “I think I will try some of that ice, though.”
He nodded, then made a beeline for the stairs. She watched him because she couldn’t help it and because it was a distraction. She had the weird sense that a guy in tight jeans was a rarity in her life. Maybe she was a nun? Her brain produced, “We are troubled on every side, but not in despair.”
Appropriate, but not exactly significant. And didn’t nuns have to cut their hair? Luke was almost out of sight, which seemed a pity.
“Luke?”
He paused, one foot on a stair and turned. “Yeah?”
That was better. “Where am I?”
“I told you. Our cabin—”
“No, where in the world am I?”
“Oh. Colorado. Not far from Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Ring any bells?”
“North American continent. Between forty-one and thirty-seven degrees north latitude and one hundred and two and one hundred and nine degrees west longitude. Thirty-eighth state—” She stopped the flood of words, though more minutiae hovered on the tip of her tongue. More about Colorado, plus the fact that Rocky Mountain National Park was founded in 1915 and was part of the front range of the Rocky Mountains. She also, apparently, knew that Estes Park was located at the east entrance to the park.
Despite the mini-flood of information, none of it gave her a sense of place, of where she was in the larger tapestry of life. Outside the storm raged against their beachhead of warmth. So far the cabin held its own against a wind that howled at the door and rattled windows that had frost building from the corners out of its panes. Away from civilization and city lights, the darkness was deep and impenetrable. She could be anywhere. Even on the moon, she realized, and she wouldn’t know it.
Goldie smiled weakly. “At least I know what continent I’m on.”
“I’ll say,” Luke said. He looked amused and bemused. “Maybe later we can play Trivial Pursuit, see what else you know.”
A name floated into the front of her brain. “Oh. I remember something else! Carmen Sandiego!”
Luke laughed. “It’s a game, Goldie. Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? I’ll bet you kick ass at it, too.”
He left her alone, feeling silly and frustrated. Why could she remember skin layers, streams of facts and games, but not her own name? And why the peculiar sense that she’d never known who she really was?
Unsettled, she padded over to the window and peered out. All she could see was the unfamiliar reflection staring back at her. She smiled, watching it appear on the stranger’s face in the window. Visibility was zero. Outside the window and inside her own head. She turned and looked at the stairs where Luke had vanished. Unbidden, against her wishes, a thought worked its way to the front of her head. What was he doing out here away from everyone?
All she knew was what he told her. The wind rose in a howl outside. A howl that sounded too much like mocking laughter.