Forget Me Not by Elizabeth Lowell
Rafe’s voice was smooth and polished, steel hard, having no soft surfaces that might admit argument. His eyes were narrowed, watching Stan with the intensity of a cougar stalking deer.
Again, Stan hesitated before responding. Again, Stan nodded slightly, though his expression was as hard as Rafe’s.
Alana looked from one man to the other and then to Bob, whom she feared would be worried about the fate of his dreams for a dude ranch. If Stan Wilson had an awful vacation at the Broken Mountain Dude Ranch, he would hardly recommend the place to his wealthy clients.
Yet Bob didn’t look upset. He looked more like a man making bets with himself, and winning.
When Bob realized that Alana was watching him, he smiled at her.
“Some homecoming, sis,” Bob said, shaking his head.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Some homecoming.”
Yawning, Bob looked at the wristwatch he always wore.
“Well, there’s not much point in me going back to sleep,” Bob said, stretching. “I’ll start working on the pack string. Stan, you said you wanted to watch a real cowboy at work. Still game?”
The faint challenge in Bob’s voice brought a smile to Stan’s face.
Quickly Alana looked away. The smile was like an echo of Jack, charming and boyish. Stan was a very handsome man . . . and Alana’s skin crawled every time she looked at him.
It wasn’t rational or fair to Stan, but it wasn’t something she could control, either.
“I’ll be glad to help you,” drawled Stan, “seeing as how you’re such a puny thing.”
Bob looked startled, then laughed out loud. He clapped Stan on the shoulder and led him toward the kitchen. Bob’s voice drifted back as the two huge men left the room.
“Merry left some coffee warming. We’ll need it. And I’ve got a jacket that I think will fit you, seeing as how you’re such a puny thing, too.”
Listening, Alana realized that her brother liked Stan. That was different from before, from Jack. Bob hadn’t liked Jack at all. None of the Burdettes had.
Alana heard Stan’s laughter trailing back into the living room, laughter as charming as his smile. Yet, unlike the smile, Stan’s laughter didn’t remind Alana of Jack. Jack had rarely laughed, and never at himself.
Even so, she was glad that Stan was out of sight. It was unnerving to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, blond shades of Jack stalking behind her. She let out a long sigh as the kitchen door slammed, telling her that the two men were on the way to the barn.
“Okay?” asked Rafe, feeling the deep breath Alana had taken and let out, for her back was still pressed against his chest.
Alana nodded. “He—he’s nice, isn’t he?”
Rafe grunted, a sound that told her nothing.
“Bob likes him,” said Alana.
“They’re a lot alike,” Rafe said dryly. “Muscle and impulse in equal amounts and places.”
“Between their ears?” suggested Alana.
“Sometimes.” Rafe sighed. “Just sometimes.”
Alana shifted her weight slightly. The movement reminded her that she was standing very close to Rafe, all but leaning on him. The contact didn’t bother her. He wasn’t touching her. She was touching him.
The difference was both subtle and infinitely reassuring. The warmth of Rafe’s bare chest radiated through the flannel shirt and her damp silk nightshirt, a warmth as natural as the embers glowing in the living room hearth.
For an instant Alana wanted to turn and wrap herself in his warmth, chasing away the chill that had come the day they’d told her that Rafe was dead.
She shivered again, but not from cold.
“You should try to sleep a little more,” Rafe said. “You’re still on West Coast time.”
He was so close to Alana that she felt the vibration of his chest as he spoke, the subtle movement of his muscles as he bent slightly toward her, and the brush of his breath over her ear. She closed her eyes, savoring a tactile intimacy that demanded nothing from her.
“I feel safer here with you,” she said simply.
Alana felt Rafe’s quick, subdued breath and realized what she had said. She tensed, knowing that if Rafe accepted her unintended invitation and put his arms around her, she had only herself to blame.
The worst of it was that part of her very much wanted his arms around her.
And part of her panicked at the thought of being held.
Suddenly Alana wondered if Jack had been holding her when they fell, if that was why she froze at a man’s touch.
Does my mind equate the act of being embraced with falling and terror and death? Alana asked herself silently.
She stiffened, listening intently, hoping to hear an inner voice say yes or no, hoping to tear the veil of amnesia and look upon just a few minutes of those six missing days.
The only answer, if answer it was, came in the sudden coldness of her skin, nausea turning in her stomach, her heart beating quickly, erratically.
“What’s wrong?” asked Rafe, sensing the change in Alana. Then, sadly, “Does being close to me frighten you?”
“No, it’s not that. I was thinking of Jack.”
Behind Alana, Rafe’s expression changed, tightening in anger and defeat. But his voice was neutral when he spoke.
“Did you love him?”
Alana closed her eyes.
“No,” she said flatly. “I didn’t love him.”
“Then why did you marry him so fast? Not even two months after—”
Abruptly Rafe stopped speaking.
“They told me you were dead,” Alana said, her voice ragged. “Music was all that was left to me. And that meant Jack, a voice to make angels weep.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rafe, stepping backward. “I had no right to ask.”
Rafe’s voice was neutral, distant, and Alana’s back felt cold without his warmth. She spun around, suddenly angry, remembering the letter that had come back, Rafe’s own handwriting telling her that he didn’t want to say anything to her, not even good-bye.
“That’s correct,” Alana said tightly. “You have no right. You didn’t even open my letter.”
“You were another man’s woman.”
Rafe’s voice was as opaque as his eyes, his mouth a thin line of remembered anger beneath his dark mustache.
“I never belonged to Jack. Not like that.”
“You were his wife. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Yes,” Alana said harshly. “It meant you were dead!”
Tears spilled suddenly down her cheeks. She spun away, wanting only to be alone, not to be torn between a past she couldn’t change and a present that was trying to destroy her.
“Alana, please don’t turn away.”
Rafe’s voice was gentle, coaxing, making subtle music out of her name. She knew without turning around that he was holding his hand out to her, asking her for something she could not give.
Trust. Caring. Warmth. Passion. Love. All the things she needed but no longer believed in. Not really.
Those things had been taken away from her once too often. She had survived her mother’s death. She had survived her lover’s death. She had survived her husband’s death.
Now Alana was trying to survive a different kind of death, a shattering loss of belief in her own strength, her own mind, her music. Now she was trying not to ask herself if it was worth it, any of it, if there was no end to fear and loss and death.
“I’m sorry, wildflower. I shouldn’t have brought up the past. It’s too soon. You’re too close to what happened on Broken Mountain.”
Rafe walked to Alana, not stopping until he felt the cool, rough flannel he had draped around her shoulders rubbing against his chest. She sensed his arm moving and held her breath, anticipating his touch, not knowing whether she would run or scream or stand quietly.
It was agony not to know, not to be able to trust anything, most of all herself.
“No,” Alana said hoarsely, st
“Is it the letter? Is that what you can’t forgive me for?” Rafe asked sadly.
“No. It’s worse than the letter, although that was bad enough, losing you a second time . . .”
Alana’s voice died.
“If not the letter, what?” Rafe said softly, urgently. “What have I done? What are your memories?”
At first Alana thought she wasn’t going to tell him. Then words rushed out of her in a bittersweet torrent.
“After you, I couldn’t bear another man’s touch. God, how Jack hated you! You ruined me for any other man.”
Rafe’s face changed, all anger and urgency gone, only hunger remaining. He reached for Alana and could not help protesting when she flinched away.
“Alana. Don’t. Please.”
She turned and looked at Rafe with eyes that were wild and dark, shadows as deep as despair.
“Jack got even with me, though,” Alana whispered. “Somehow he ruined me for any man at all. Even you!”
Alana turned and fled up the stairs, not stopping even when Rafe called out her name in a voice hoarse with emotion, a cry out of her dreams and nightmares.
She locked the bedroom door behind her and stared out the window until dawn came, bringing color and life to the black land. She watched the world change, born anew out of the empty night.
Just as the last star faded, she heard Bob’s voice.
“Sis? You awake?”
Alana realized she was shivering, her skin icy, roughened by gooseflesh. Every muscle ached with the tension that hadn’t left her since Broken Mountain. Now she faced another day like all the other days.
But not quite. This day would bring the exquisite torture of being close to the only man she had ever loved. So close and yet so very, very far away.
Dream and nightmare and nothing in between, no safety, no port in the unending, violent storm.
“Alana?”
“Yes,” she said tiredly. “I’m awake.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it,” teased Bob.
Alana tugged the flannel shirt more firmly around her, opened the door, and pulled her mouth into the semblance of a smile.
“Morning, little brother,” she said, grateful that her voice sounded better than she felt. “Is it time for me to cook breakfast?”
“Nope. Merry’s doing the honors this morning. I just came up to get your gear.”
Alana gestured toward the small duffel bag on the bed.
“Have at it,” she said.
“That’s all?”
“This is a pack trip, right? I don’t think the trees will care how I’m dressed,” Alana said, shrugging.
“Er, right.”
Bob gave his sister a sidelong glance, then asked softly, “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“What does that have to do with it?” asked Alana sardonically. “Ready or not, here life comes.”
She smiled to take the sting out of her words, but she could tell from Bob’s look that she hadn’t been very convincing.
“It’s okay, Bob. Not to worry. I’m doing fine. Just fine.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Like Dr. Gene says, Burdettes are survivors. And you’re the toughest Burdette of all, sis. You taught the rest of us how to survive after Mom died.”
Alana blinked back sudden tears.
“Would you mind very much if I hugged you?” she asked.
Bob looked startled, then pleased. Remembering Rafe’s blunt instructions, Bob kept his arms at his sides while Alana gave him a hard hug.
“You’re stronger than you feel,” said Bob, patting her slender shoulder.
Alana laughed strangely and shook her head.
“I hope so, baby brother. I hope so.”
“Are you—are you remembering anything now that you’re home?” asked Bob in a rush. Then, “Damn, there I go! Rafe will nail my dumb hide to the barn if he finds out.”
Alana stiffened at Rafe’s name. “What happens between me and my brother is none of Rafe’s business.”
Bob laughed. “Don’t you believe it, sis. That is one determined man. Makes a pack mule look positively wishy-washy.”
She looked narrowly at her brother.
“You don’t resent Rafe, though, do you?” Alana asked.
Surprised, Bob stared down at Alana. His dark eyes, so like her own, narrowed as he measured the emotion on her face.
“Rafe is quite a man. I don’t resent learning from him. Granted,” said Bob with a smile, “he’s a jealous son of a bitch. I thought he was going to fieldstrip Stan and feed him to the coyotes.”
Alana blinked, seeing the previous night through Bob’s eyes, a totally different view.
“Jealous?” she asked.
Bob snapped his fingers and waved his hands in front of her face.
“Wake up, sis. Stan wouldn’t have minded, er, soothing you. And Rafe has made it pretty plain that . . .”
Shrugging, Bob shut up, his caution for once getting the better of his tongue.
“Rafe cares about you,” Bob said, “and Stan is bigger, stronger, and better looking than Rafe. No surprise that Rafe’s jealous.”
“Stan’s bigger,” agreed Alana, “but it was Stan who ended up flat on his back. And there’s more to looks than blond hair, bulging muscles, and a big smile. A lot more.”
Bob grinned. “Does that mean you’ve forgiven Rafe for not opening your letter?”
Alana’s face changed, darkness and grief clear on her features. Bob swore.
“Goddamnit, sis. I’m sorry. I’ll never learn when to keep my big mouth shut.”
“Sure you will,” said Rafe from the doorway, “even if I have to pound the lessons into your thick skull one by one with a twenty-pound sledgehammer.”
Alana spun around and saw Rafe lounging against the door frame, his rich brown hair alive with sunlight, his mouth hard and yet oddly sensual, his face expressionless except for the whiskey eyes burning with suppressed emotion.
Distantly she wondered how Bob could think that Stan was better looking than the utterly male Rafe.
And then Alana wondered how much of the conversation Rafe had overheard.
“Morning, Rafe,” said Bob with a cheerful grin.
He turned and grabbed Alana’s duffel off the bed, ignoring both of them.
Rafe simply looked at Alana. The flannel shirt she still wore was in shades of russet and orange and chocolate brown. The long tails came nearly to her knees, and the sleeve cuffs lapped over her fingertips, making her look very small, very fragile. Only in her face and in her movements did her strength show, a woman’s strength made of grace and endurance.
A wildflower with pale cheeks and haunted eyes, watching him.
The sound of Bob unzipping Alana’s duffel bag seemed very loud in the silence. He rummaged for a few seconds, muttered under his breath, and went to the closet where she had left her clothes after the last disastrous visit.
Bob ran a critical eye over the contents of the closet, then began pulling bright blouses and slacks off hangers. He hesitated between a scarlet dress and a floor-length indigo wraparound that was shot through with metallic gold threads.
“Which one of these travels best?” asked Bob, looking over his shoulder at Alana.
With a start, Alana pulled her attention away from Rafe. She saw Bob in front of her closet, his arms overflowing with color and silk. In his large hands, the clothes looked exquisitely feminine, as intimate as French lingerie.
“What are you doing?” asked Alana.
“Packing for my big sister,” Bob said patiently. “As cute as you look in Rafe’s flannel shirt, that wasn’t what I had in mind when I told the dudes we dressed for dinner. This is a classy operation, remember?”
Alana looked down at the big flannel shirt folded around her like a warm blanket.
Rafe’s shirt.
The thought disturbed Alana. She had assumed that the shirt belonged to
“Sis? Anybody home?”
“Oh. Um, the dark blue one packs best.”
Bob began folding the wraparound with more determination than expertise.
Alana started to object, then shrugged. Whatever Bob did to the silk could be steamed out at the other end. But when he went back to the closet for more clothes, and then more, she finally protested.
“How long are we staying on Broken Mountain?” she asked.
“As long as it takes,” Bob said laconically, folding bright clothes.
“As long as what takes?”
“Finding out what—”
Abruptly Rafe’s voice cut across Bob’s.
“As long as it takes to convince the dudes that Broken Mountain is a good place to send clients. Right, Burdette?”
Bob gritted his teeth.
“Right,” he said, folding clothes industriously. “I’m counting on your cooking to win them over, sis.”
“But—” began Alana.
“But nothing,” Bob said suddenly.
His dark eyes looked at Alana with a combination of affection and maturity that was new to him.
“You signed on for the duration, sis. Get used to the idea. No running out this time, no matter what happens. We’ll come after you if you do. Right, Rafe?”
“Right,” said Rafe, looking narrowly at Bob. “You’re learning, Burdette.”
“And not a sledgehammer in sight,” pointed out Bob, smiling widely.
Rafe glanced at Alana and saw her baffled look.
“Better get dressed,” Rafe said as he went back into the hallway. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
Bob zipped up Alana’s bag and left her standing in the room with a bemused look on her face.
“Hurry up, sis. Like Dad always used to say, ‘You can’t keep the mountain waiting.’ “
The phrase from her childhood gave Alana a dizzying sense of déjà vu. She remembered her first pack trip up Broken Mountain. She had been only nine and wild with pride that her father was taking her on a fishing expedition, just the two of them together. It had been a wonderful time, full of campfires and long conversations while stars moved in slow motion overhead like a silent, glittering symphony.
It hadn’t been like that the last time, when she and Jack had gone up the mountain.