Recovered Secrets Page 2

  Hollis scrutinized her. “You ready?”

  No. She was terrified. Either someone had mistaken her for someone she wasn’t. Or Grace had secrets that were so dark, she didn’t ever want to remember.

  * * *

  Hollis kept his emotions close to the vest. He didn’t want to cause further panic, didn’t want Grace to be even more afraid, and showing his concern would set her off. Calmly, he escorted her to his pickup and opened the door for her. “It’s going to be okay,” he reassured her again. When he’d found her two years ago during SAR dive drills in the river, she’d been roughed up and left for dead on the bank. She was seizing and frothing at the mouth. He feared the trauma had affected her brain and she’d never recover. By the time he got her to the hospital, she was unresponsive, but breathing, though shallow. Then she’d slipped into a coma. The Grace he knew today might not be the Grace she used to be.

  He rounded the truck and climbed in the cab. Grace wrung her slender hands—hands that had a few scars—and chewed on lips that should be kissed not tortured with worrisome gnawing. She was beautiful. Lightly bronzed skin—like the sun had kissed her—and hair as thick and black as night matching her eyes, and long lashes that reminded him of a Southern belle fan. She’d been extremely toned and sculpted when he’d found her, which told him she was a health nut, and the dress she’d been wearing exposed most of her back, revealing scars there as well.

  His friend and ER nurse, Daphne, had overstepped HIPAA and confirmed that Grace had past injuries. Broken bones. Two arms. A collarbone. Her right leg. Left ankle. Several fingers. Hollis immediately suspected domestic abuse, but no one came calling for her. He’d called in a favor with an old SEAL buddy who ran a private security company now, but his search hadn’t turned up anything. He had done a missing persons check to see if anyone of her description had vanished around the time Hollis had found Grace, but no one matching her physical appearance had. And without knowing her name, her birthdate or any information that would aid in a background check or missing person’s report, it made things practically impossible. With her scars and broken bones, Hollis and the sheriff had agreed it was best to search for her identity discreetly. If the person who had injured Grace resurfaced, and she didn’t know him or her—and neither did Hollis nor Sheriff Freeman—then Grace was a sitting duck. What quiet investigating and inquiry they had done all hit dead ends. It was as if Grace didn’t exist.

  Except she did and it was mind-boggling. Nothing but grace she survived. Day in and out Hollis came and sat at her bedside, talking with her even though she was unresponsive. He needed to call her something. Grace fit. Thackery was his great grandmother’s name. It wasn’t like he could call her Grace Montgomery. Then one day he was reading her a psalm and her eyelids flickered...once...twice and those coffee bean–colored eyes looked into his. For a split second it was like she knew him. Had heard every word he’d ever spoken or read to her. He thought she might even say his name, but then it registered she had no idea where she was or even who she was. Couldn’t recall a single thing and hysteria had set in.

  He quietly drove through the rain, waiting for her to speak now.

  Finally, she did. She told him in further detail what had happened. “Do you think I learned self-defense?”

  That was the rational woman he’d come to know and admire. He smirked. “Already tossed the ninja theory out? I kinda liked it.”

  Grace playfully frowned at his teasing. “I’m not quiet enough to be a ninja.”

  “I’ll attest. You barreled into my office and scared my socks off.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Just in case. “It’s possible you learned self-defense or martial arts.” Health nut and martial arts or kickboxing—both great exercises. Or she may have taken it up to protect herself from whoever inflicted those wounds and had broken her body. One theory was her husband or boyfriend discovered she was leaving and tracked her, gave her the beating of her life and left her for dead. But she was wearing a red dress and heels. Someone running away wouldn’t have been in that flimsy—and slightly provocative—dress. There were other theories, but they were darker and Hollis didn’t let his mind wander there.

  “What if I did kill them? What will happen?” she asked softly.

  “It was self-defense.” They approached Grace’s car—no other vehicle around.

  “The truck is gone!” Grace threw off her seat belt and bolted from the vehicle before it got good and stopped, darting toward her car, ignoring the drizzle. “No one is here!” Her voice held a measure of fear and relief. She hadn’t killed anyone. Good. But they were gone and that meant they could return. Not good. Hollis stood beside her and squatted, inspecting the tire.

  “It’s been punctured by a blade of some kind. They must have stabbed it before you left the inn this morning, then followed you waiting on it to blow.”

  “I don’t understand, Hollis. This makes no sense.”

  But it might if she had her memories. “If you gave them a solid whupping like you say you did—if that was a skill they were aware of—then they aren’t going to believe you have no memory.”

  “It’s retrograde amnesia!” she protested and Hollis snorted. “What? What is so amusing?”

  “I doubt two probable criminals care or know much about amnesia. All they know is you kicked their butts from here to Timbuktu, and they’ve gone to lick their injured pride.”

  Grace’s cheeks paled. “And when it’s been mended?”

  “They’ll return with new tactics.” Likely the kind that don’t involve getting too close. That triggered a new wave of panic through his chest, squeezing it tight.

  “Like the kind they can administer from a distance?”

  Too perceptive. He kinda dug it. “I wasn’t going to say that but...yeah.” He changed her tire and wiped his wet, dirty hands on his jeans. “It’ll be okay, though, Grace. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

  “Gonna be on me like blue on sky.”

  He chuckled and opened her driver’s-side door for her. “Something like that.”

  “You know,” she said wistfully, “I’m handy with a needle and thread, and that time Dennis fell into the ravine I knew how to splint his arm. If these guys are looking for a doctor... I could be a doctor or in the medical field too.”

  “Anything is possible. I’ll follow you to the inn. Drive slow on the spare. I’ll have it fixed later today.”

  She nodded and cranked her engine. A doctor? Hmm...doubtful, but for now he’d keep his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t sure he liked where they were going.

  * * *

  Inside the inn, Grace snagged a leftover cinnamon roll. She deserved it. She also deserved to get clean. Her face was a mess, muddy and streaked from the battle a little over an hour ago.

  “Hollis, I’m going to take care of all this filth. When I’m done, we can get back to the facility. I need to look at the weather satellites, and I know you want to ride out and inspect the waters around the levee.”

  Hollis finished off his roll and nodded. “You really should. You smell.”

  “I do not!”

  Laughing, he held his mug up in a salute and winked. “Maybe not, but you do look like you wallowed in mud.”

  She shuddered. She had and not by choice.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His eyes held concern.

  “You didn’t. I need to clear the gunk off my face.” She headed for the kitchen door.

  “Holler if you need anything.”

  Her place from the kitchen was about fifteen to twenty feet. Grace waved and made her way out the door and along the sidewalk lined with flower pots—the flowers wilting at the merciless and unending rain. It was overcast but warm. After unlocking her door, she stepped inside and tensed.

  Something wasn’t right. Pausing in the entry, she grabbed an umbrella from the wicker basket. Nothing appeared out of sorts. But the eerie sensation skittered across her skin. Everything inside her screamed a warning. Should she call for Hollis? The window in the inn’s kitchen was open. He’d hear. Grace surveyed the open floor plan. To the left of the kitchenette was her bedroom and bathroom. Inching toward her room, her heart galloped. Was she being ridiculous?

  She toed her bedroom door farther open and stepped inside, caught a whiff of musk. The smell zinged along her memory pulling something familiar forward, but it was blurry. She inched into the bathroom, switched on the light and felt a presence behind her.

  Turning, a figure loomed. Throat constricting, adrenaline racing, she didn’t wait for him to tackle her. She went on the offensive and rushed him, but he dodged her. She swung around and his back was to her. Grace instinctively thrust out the umbrella—the hook catching around his neck like a noose. She yanked—choking him—forcing him backward and toward her.

  “You...always...knew how...to make...an entrance...” he sputtered and held his arms out to his side. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “Then what are you here for? My valuables? I’ll give you a hint. I don’t have any.” Where on earth did that bravado and snark come from or her instincts to use that umbrella as a weapon?

  “I’m turning around.”

  She recognized his voice now that her ears weren’t buzzing, but her heart was going wild and she itched to run. Run fast and hard.

  With hands raised, Peter Rainey from breakfast faced her. “You can put the umbrella down. Really.”

  She lowered it.

  “I thought you were dead.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “But then three weeks ago I saw you on the national news. In the background while the SAR chief told the world they’d found the little girl their tea
m had been searching for. It was covered almost nightly. I was in shock. Then confused.”

  He was confused? How had he seen her on TV? Hollis had made sure to steer her clear from the media during that hunt for their pastor’s little girl—her scars kept him protective of her, and she appreciated that. She hadn’t found the child for the recognition anyway.

  “Why did you settle down in this Podunk town? Why did you pretend not to know me earlier? And why are you volunteering with Search and Rescue and living under a tin roof?”

  “Why are you under my tin roof? I don’t have any cinnamon rolls here.” Now probably wasn’t the time to go comedic and dry, but a memory teetered on the edge of her mind—she used this kind of banter to do something...what?

  He chuckled. “Always loved that snark. I know you hate me.”

  She did?

  “I’m here to make amends, Max, even though you have every right to stomp me into the ground for betraying you. I should have known better but...”

  Max! Was that her name? Short for Maxine or something? She glanced at the door and her hands shook.

  Peter spotted it. “Are...are you afraid?”

  She was working hard to conceal it; should she not be? “Well, you did betray me.” If she told him her brain had deflated like a balloon and she was at a loss for memory, he might try to hurt her or clam up. He’d asked why she pretended not to know him. Well, he hadn’t acted like he knew her either, so he was hiding something. He was her only link to her past. She had to play the game for as long as she could.

  “Look, I’ll tell you everything, but I may not be the only one who knows you’re alive.”

  Oh so true. She had two creeps coming for her already.

  Peter sighed. “I can help you. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I’m telling you the truth. Where is Dr. Sayer? I can help her too.”

  Her! The doctor had a name and gender. Good, she could work with this. But could she work with this man? What if he tried to betray her again? How did he betray her before? By beating her up and leaving her for dead? Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she bit down on her lip to hide the tremble. What if she didn’t know any more self-defense moves?

  “I didn’t—” He paused, cocked his head and surveyed her. It gave her the shivers but she tried to hold fast. Still, her fingers jittered, causing the umbrella to bounce. He watched it then let his gaze slowly roll over her face and locked onto her eyes again.

  “What’s my name?” He was on to her somehow. The fear. The fear was tipping him off that something was wrong.

  “Peter.”

  He narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. She took a step back and he paused, tipped his head to the side. “What’s your name?”

  Busted. Would he kill her now?

  “Why do you ask?” She tossed a glance at the open door and took another step toward it.

  Peter matched a step forward for every one she took in retreat, surprise in his eyes. “I thought you were toying with me this morning somehow so I didn’t say anything, played the game. But you weren’t up to anything sneaky. You don’t know me. And you don’t know you either. I’m so sorry, Max.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything. It was all lies.”

  “What was all lies? Is my name Max?” she asked, her head spinning. Did she try to run or did she trust this man who admitted to betraying her?

  He glanced out the window and shook his head; he seemed concerned. “No. It’s a nickname. Mad Max.”

  Mad Max? “Am I crazy or something? If you’re not here to hurt me...then tell me who I am.”

  “Max,” he whispered. “Your real name is—”

  Glass shattered and Peter fell to the ground dead. Grace stared at him frozen and stunned, then another bullet slammed into the wall by her head. “Hollis!” she screamed and hit the floor.

  TWO

  Hollis hit the door running when the first shot cracked through the air and was at Grace’s front door as she screamed for him. “I’m here,” he called and slid across the floor to her. “Stay low.” He glanced into her bedroom and did a double take. A body lay on the floor. “Who is that?”

  “Peter Rainey,” she breathed, her face deathly pale.

  “You remember?” Had memories surfaced in the last ten minutes? Questions would have to wait. He needed to get Grace to safety. Hopefully, the shooter wouldn’t open fire on people in a public place. It was his only chance. Once she was out of danger, he would inspect the woods, then find out who the dead guy was in her bedroom. They huddled on the floor for several moments. The gunfire had ceased. The shooter could be changing positions, windows. Getting a better line of fire. Was it one of those men from earlier or someone new?

  The woods covered the south of her house. North was the inn. No decent place there to find accurate cover or to get a good shot. “We’re going out the front door and making a dash to the inn. You ready?”

  “Not really,” she groused. “But let’s go.”

  “One, two, three!” He hauled her up but kept her hunched as he shielded her with his body. They sprinted across the wet walkway to the inn. Inside he slammed the door and kicked a kitchen chair into the corner. No windows. No easy target. He lowered her into the chair. Grace’s face retained the muddy streaks from earlier and strands of dark hair had come loose from its bun, sticking to her neck.

  “I want you to stay here. I’ll be right back.” Hollis gripped Grace’s shoulders. “Promise me.”

  She nodded as Tish entered the kitchen. “What in the world is going on? I heard the door slam and a ruckus in here...”

  “Grace is in danger, Tish.” He gave her the short version, and with every word her face blanched even further until she looked like a walking snowdrift. “I believe she’ll be okay since the inn is full of people—though I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but still...keep an eye out.” He looked at Grace. “Call the sheriff. Chances are no one paid attention to the shots.” Gunfire wasn’t unfamiliar in the South, in this town—even Tish hadn’t been drawn into the kitchen from the gunfire, but from their commotion. “I’ll be back.” Hollis wanted his own time to search and he’d have it if he moved fast. Probably the SEAL in him, but he wanted dibs on any clues that might give them more information on the deceased and Grace’s identity.

  Grace nodded.

  “We’ll be fine.” Tish headed for the cherry-red tea kettle on the stove.

  Tish had mettle and Hollis loved her for it. He retrieved his ankle weapon and slipped outside into the woods. After about five minutes, he found one man’s footprints in the mud. Fairly large. Hollis aimed his Glock toward the garden house. Perfect angle. Clean shot. Good distance away. No casings. Looked like the shooter had collected the brass, meaning he might be and probably was a professional.

  He followed the prints about a mile until they tracked to an old back road. The shooter either cased the place for a few days, finding the best way to enter and escape undetected, or he was familiar with the area—a local or someone who frequented Cottonwood. The inn was rife with businessmen and women who’d rather stay in a cozy home for a week than an impersonal hotel. But why would a local want to hurt Grace or kill Peter Rainey? And who?

  He hurried to Grace’s, wiping his muddy boots on her mat, then he entered. Under her sink he found a pair of yellow cleaning gloves and slid his hands into them, then he strode into the bedroom. He studied the scene. The last thing Hollis wanted to do was move the body, but he needed to inspect the wound. The air smelled like iron and Grace’s vanilla candles. Appeared to be a rifle shot. A possible sniper.

  He carefully rummaged through pockets, searching for identification, credit cards, anything. The only thing on the man was a wallet with two hundred bucks and a single peppermint in his right jean pocket. Who traveled with no identification?

  Someone who didn’t want to reveal their identity.

  What had Grace been immersed in? He’d suspected an abusive relationship, and that was still a possibility, though it seemed much slimmer with the earlier attack and now this.