“You doing okay?” Belinda flopped next to her, drawing her attention from Hank.
“Fine,” Colette answered, flashing her sister a quick smile. “The guests look like they’re having a good time,” she observed.
“Yeah, the Friday night hayrides and barbecues are one of the most popular things we do. Wait until Abby starts telling some of her ghost stories. You’ll realize our big sister missed her calling as an actress.”
Colette laughed. “I can’t wait.”
Belinda stood. “I’d better get the steaks on. Abby appointed me the official steak cook for the night.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Colette asked.
Belinda shook her head. “The best thing you can do is relax and enjoy the fun.”
Within minutes the air filled with the scent of beef cooking over open flames. Ice-cold beverages were passed out from coolers and foil-wrapped potatoes snuggled next to the hot embers at the edge of the fire.
Colette drank her soda, isolated and separate from the rest of the group. She hadn’t realized before how a lack of memory made small talk difficult. She had no past experiences to draw from, no funny little anecdotes to share. She had little else but the here and now and a myriad of confusing, indistinct half memories and emotions.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Hank observed softly as he eased down next to her after they’d eaten, his thigh once again a warm intimacy against hers.
“I haven’t noticed you being Mr. Sociable, either.” She tossed her empty paper cup into the fire.
He shrugged. “Sharing little details of my life with strangers has never been my idea of fun.”
She had a feeling sharing little details of his life with anyone was difficult for him. He struck her as somebody self-contained, a man who wouldn’t need to talk to or share with anyone. “I’ve heard from a lot of people at the ranch that you’re very talented with the horses. Have you always worked with horses?”
“I could ride a horse before I could walk. At least, that’s what my mother used to tell me. She ate, drank and lived horses, so they were a big part of my life when I was growing up.” He fell silent, his gaze directed at the fire. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed this kind of work until I came here and found myself this job.”
“What kind of work were you doing before?” she asked.
He turned and looked at her. For a long moment his gaze held hers and in the depths of his eyes she saw secrets, haunting secrets that again evoked in her a subtle fear…and the mysterious thrill of déjà vu. “This and that,” he finally said, returning his gaze to the flames.
She leaned toward the fire, chilled by the answer that gave away nothing. He’d given the same kind of response when she’d asked where he was from. “Here and there…this and that.” A kind of double-talk that kept his secrets.
Who was Hank Cooper? And why did his mere closeness cause the blood inside her to race, her heart to thud a little faster? What secrets did he hold and why did she have the feeling that somehow his secrets were her own?
She cast him a surreptitious glance, noting the chiseled cut of his jawline, the faint growth of dark whiskers and the taut line of his mouth. He was a man who appeared to invite nothing and nobody into his world, and yet there was something undefinable, an almost primal pull that drew her to him as effectively as the cattle herd drew the coyotes.
His nearness suddenly seemed suffocating. As Abby began gathering trash from the meal, Colette jumped up to help. She needed some distance from Hank Cooper, needed some space from the heady sensations his closeness provoked.
After cleanup, everyone huddled around the fire as Abby began telling ghost stories. Colette stood to the side of the group for a little while, then drifted away,deciding there was enough horror in her own lack of memories to warrant not listening to Abby’s tales of the dark side.
The cool night air embraced her, making her grateful she’d worn a sweater as she leaned against a tree trunk and gazed up to where the stars hung like jewels on the velvety night sky.
The beauty of the stars made her ache inside, an ache of isolation, the pain of loneliness. Had there ever been a man in her life who cared for her? Someplace on earth was Brook’s father wondering what had happened to Colette, worried about their welfare? Or had Brook been the product of a single night of violation, a mistaken conception formed in violence?
It didn’t matter. Nothing changed the love Colette had for her baby girl. No memories of violence could break the bond of love Colette felt for Brook.
“Don’t like ghost stories?” Hank’s voice came from the darkness near where Colette stood. He stepped closer, his features barely visible in the dappled moonlight that shone through the tree leaves.
She shrugged. “I’m just not in the mood for them.”
“You shouldn’t wander too far away from the group. There are dangers out here.” As if on cue a coyote howled its eerie cry. Hank grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “See?”
“I’m not afraid of the coyotes,” Colette replied. It was the unknown that frightened her, confused her. A lifetime gone in the blink of an eye, all experiences of love, of pain, of joy…gone, leaving behind only an inexplicable fear.
Hank moved closer, stopping just in front of Colette. With the tree at her back and him standing so close, Colette’s heart began a quick rhythm. He leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “What does make you afraid, Colette?”
His warm fingers evoked a heat in her as they trailed from her forehead to the side of her jaw and across the hollow of her throat. Unlike Billy Sims’s closeness and touch, which had caused repugnance and fear, Hank’s touch electrified her with excitement.
