“Cubby Hawker is the local sheriff?”
“And a mighty fine one.”
“Wow?” She tried to picture the little tubby red-haired boy she’d known as an authority figure and came up short.
“You do realize that you have a head injury, right?”
“I’m fine, McBride. Go home and tell your mother that.” Branna picked up her suitcase, then let out a yelp as two hands lifted her off her feet. Suddenly she was heading toward the house with her feet dangling off the ground.
“Put me down!”
He did, in a chair and then knelt before her so their eyes were level, and Branna’s throat went suddenly dry at the anger that pinned her back in the seat.
“I read a study on head injuries when I was in med school, and that was after I saw a student hit his head from a fall. The same day, he hit it again, this time playing ball with his friends. Two days later, he was dead and I wanted to know why. Turns out, he had a brain bleed.”
“Jake, there’s no need for this. Truly, I’m fine.”
“Recite the high school pledge for me.”
Branna smiled, she knew that off by heart, as they’d had to say it every day before class. Opening her mouth, she tried to speak, but nothing came out, because she couldn’t pull the words from her head.
“How about naming three of your teachers in our final year?” he asked.
Branna literally drew a blank, and was stunned that she couldn’t remember because she remembered everything. It was her curse. Her brain refused to reject things. It stored and catalogued and she could recall any fact, no matter how much she wanted to forget it.
“The thing about head injuries, Branna, is they come back and bite you in the ass if you don’t take the proper precautions. Now, while it’s my opinion that, because you’re an adult, it’s your right to make dumb decisions and go to hell your own way. That’s not my mother’s philosophy. Unfortunately, she does care about the choices you make, and she’s one of the few people I give a damn about, so I’m not having her beating herself up because some thick-headed Irish idiot won’t do as she’s told.”
“B-but I feel all right.” She was shocked that she couldn’t remember those things, and trying to find them inside her head was making it hurt.
“Well, obviously, you’re not.” Standing, he went out the door, and she wondered if he was leaving now that he’d made his point, but he was simply collecting the suitcase she’d left outside, as he reappeared seconds later.
“You don’t have to—” He ignored her and stomped up the stairs to drop her case in the bedroom. Over the next thirty minutes, she watched him unload every item in her van. She tried to stop him, but he just carried right on, and Branna was too tired to fight him. Truth be told, she was shocked over her failing memory. That, above all things, had stopped her from leaving the chair.
“Where does this go?” He held a large leafy plant that was as tall as him, which made him have to speak to her through the fat, shiny leaves.
“In here, please.”
He placed it in the corner, and Branna admired his tight muscled butt as he bent to put it down. He really was a fine-looking man, if a really angry one. She’d been without one so long that it was hardly surprising she was enjoying the view. After all, she was breathing, and pretty much any girl with a pulse would appreciate the man before her.
“That’s it. Now you don’t move from this house. You don’t lift anything or watch too much TV.” His dark brows had drawn together as he glared down at her. He wasn’t even breathing heavy from all that lifting and no sweat slicked his brow. “No driving either. I don’t want the citizens of Howling hurt.”
“No driving?” Branna queried.
“No, if you need anything, call someone.”
She wasn’t about to point out that she didn’t have anyone to call here in Howling, except maybe Annabelle, and she wasn’t really sure where they stood, which was pretty pathetic, considering she’d lived here for three years.
“Where’s your phone?” One large hand extended toward her, and Branna was fairly certain he’d pat her down if she didn’t pull it out of her back pocket and hand it to him, so she did. Handing it back to her minutes later, he then turned on his heel and left. No good-bye, no raised hand, no see you around. He just left, started that big green pickup, and rolled out of her driveway.
Looking through her phone, she saw he’d put the clinic number in it, but not his. What had happened to the Jake McBride she’d known all those years ago? The man who now carried his name seemed angry. Visions of yesterday filtered into her head—the way he had carried her, the hand that had run down her back, and the feel of her fingers in his. Those were the actions of the boy she’d once known, so he was obviously still in there. But something had made him change so that now his smile wasn’t as bright.
Resting her head, Branna let her eyes sweep the room. Georgie and her husband Dan, plus Annabelle, had been the only ones in the three years she spent in Howling who’d seen through the surly young girl she’d been, and it had been with them that she’d finally found peace. It had broken her heart when Dan had died while she was here. After the death of her mother, to lose him had nearly destroyed Branna, as it had Georgie, but they had clung to each other, and through that found the strength to go on.
The little house was still full of their things. Georgie’s clothes had gone, but everything else was still here. The chairs she and Dan had sat in were still in the same place with the little lace head covers. Georgie had made those and tried to teach Branna to stitch some herself, but after much scolding and hilarity, she’d failed. Instead, she’d brought out the knitting needles, and Branna, surprisingly, had been good at that and still knitted today.
Climbing out of the chair, she made her way to the sofa, where she pulled the cream knitted blanket she’d made Georgie off the arm, then curled up and let her mind drift and the memories settle around her.
The sound of a car woke Branna. Sitting upright, she rubbed her eyes. Her head felt better, steadier. Searching her memory for the high school pledge, she still drew a blank, however, which was unsettling.
