Winter's Edge

  Toby dropped down beside her, lying in the damp spring grass. "I've never heard of such a thing happening. Such a total absence of memory. Usually there are threads, pieces of the past."

  "And what would you know about it?" She kept the edge out of her voice. "Are you a doctor?"

  "No. I was in premed, until illness forced me to drop out. But I remember enough to know that this is a highly unlikely scenario."

  "Whether amnesia happens this way or not, Toby, in my case it has," she said firmly. "I assume it will all come back eventually, but I'm not going to waste my time worrying about it. You shouldn't either." She smiled reassuringly. For some reason Toby seemed to bring out her maternal instincts, which was odd, since he appeared to be several years older than she was, perhaps more than that, if he was Patrick's contemporary. But added to those strong, maternal feelings was an obscure, cynical part of her that didn't quite trust his ingenuous charm—something about him didn't seem quite right. Something in the intensity of his gaze, in the faint edge to his voice.

  Her imagination had to be working overtime, she thought in disgust. She didn't have enough memories to fill her brain, so she was making things up to keep herself busy. Toby Pentick was harmless. Sweet, friendly, and far nicer than her soon to be ex-husband. So why was she looking for trouble where none existed?

  "And you're sure you really remember nothing?" Toby murmured with an intensity that seemed unnatural, and she stared at him in surprise.

  "Nothing," she said smoothly. "Do you?"

  He paled suddenly, and she realized she had struck a nerve. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean do you remember anything about that night? Were you here? Did you see anything?"

  He shook his head. "I was on the West Coast, visiting some friends. I had no idea anything had happened when I arrived back."

  There was no missing the sorrow or concern in his voice. Her memory might be gone, but her instincts were still strong. Toby cared about her. Perhaps too much.

  The next thought was sudden, inevitable, and devastating. Here was another man, a close friend. He might be the father of her child, and not her husband at all. "Toby?" she asked in an urgent voice. "Were we lovers?"

  He blushed. It astonished her, the deep, red color mottling his skin as he stared at her. "No," he said stiffly. "Pat's my friend. I wouldn't do that to him."

  Before she had the chance to probe further, he rose. "I'd better get back," he said in a strained voice. "I promised Pat I'd take a look at one of the mares. See you."

  "All right," she said in a gentle voice, taking pity on his obvious mortification. She wouldn't have thought a grown man would be quite so sensitive. "I think I'll stay here for a while. Could you take Beastie back with you?" she asked. "He's a little overwhelming for a playmate—I don't think I'm quite up to managing him yet."

  "Sure." He relaxed slightly. "Uh…don't stay out here alone too long, okay?"

  She caught the faintest trace of worry in his voice, and she stared at him sharply. "Why not?"

  He shook his head. "I just have the feeling that it's not particularly safe around here."

  Molly stiffened her back, trying to ignore the chill of foreboding she felt at his words. "For me or for everyone?"

  "For you," he said, and calling Beastie, he started down the road.

  She rose up on her knees, determined to call after him, demand an explanation, but he was moving so fast there was no way she could catch him, short of sprinting, and she'd used up her energy for the morning. And she wasn't quite sure if Toby would answer her questions no matter how persistent she was.

  Molly sank back in the damp brown grass and shut her eyes, trying to shut out the words of warning and bring back the feelings of peace and hope of a short while ago. But Toby's warning had done its job, and she sat up and looked around her nervously, wishing she hadn't banished Beastie. There were too many scorched and blackened trees around the ruins of the old barn, too much dark underbrush that could shield too many dangerous creatures. Dangerous creatures like Patrick, she wondered? She rose and moved closer to the barn, drawn to the blackened foundations and charred timbers, staring down at them. She had the eerie feeling that there were eyes on her, and she whirled suddenly, staring determinedly into the surrounding woods.

  Of course there was no one there. She felt like an idiot as she turned back and leaned over the precipice of the barn, trying to peer into the old stone cellar of the building. She thought she saw something bright down there, something metal and flashing. Moving closer still, she suddenly felt herself hurtling face forward into the fire-blackened pit.

  She must have bounced off one of the fallen beams, for she felt a sharp pain in her side, and something tore at her arm as she plummeted downward into the murky cellar. She hit bottom after what seemed like an endless fall, and she lay there in the mud, her body aching from the various obstructions she had hit on her way down, the feel of someone's hands as they pushed her still strong on her back. Without moving she could see her arm, see the long, narrow gash that was welling with dark blood. Blood that was rapidly pooling beneath her.

  Her first thought was for the child that might or might not exist. Her entire body ached, but there was no worrisome cramping. The cut in her arm seemed by far the worst of her injuries, and she viewed it with sick fascination.

  I'm going to bleed to death, she thought numbly. It won't matter whether I'm pregnant or not—I'll be dead and no one will find me for years and years, and in the meantime Patrick will have all my money to spend on that woman.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, allowing her a few brief moments of misery and panic. And then she shot them open again. Life would be far too convenient if she just disappeared. She wasn't going to give them what they wanted again.

  She rolled onto her back, groaning. The sides of the old cellar were oozing springtime mud, the sun filtered through the remaining beams above her and the gash in her arm no longer seemed quite so desperate. She still felt sick and weak, but from somewhere in the back of her brain came the memory that blood usually had that effect on her. Especially her own.

  And then she heard the sound again, the low whine. "Beastie," she croaked weakly, but the sound was barely audible. "Beastie," she tried again, but it was useless.

  There was a great crashing of wood, and an old beam thundered down, missing her head by inches. "What the hell are you doing down there?" Patrick's angry voice demanded. Molly had never heard anything so annoyingly welcome in her entire life.

  "Taking a nap," she snapped. "What did you think?"

  But he was gone again, and she almost called after him. He couldn't have left her there, could he? But then, what did she really know about him? Maybe he wanted to finish what he started.

  And then she heard a crashing about at the far end of the structure, and she closed her eyes in relief. He hadn't left her. If he'd been the one to push her he would hardly have come to rescue her. In a moment he was beside her, his eyes dark with a fear and an anger that were both oddly comforting. "Are you all right?" he asked unnecessarily, poking at her arm.

  "I…I guess so," she stammered weakly. "I hurt my arm, but that's about it. I think."

  "You did, indeed," he said grimly, his hands gentle as he probed for possible damage. She didn't like it, the impersonal feel of his hands on her body, touching her with the same care and interest he might show a wounded horse. Perhaps less. "And it serves you right," he added. "What the hell do you mean, wandering around here? It's dangerous; any fool would know that! Did you have some incredible urge to return to the scene of the crime, to see how much damage you did? If it weren't for Beastie I might never have found you."

  During this tirade he managed to lift her up in his arms with a tenderness at amazing variance with the harshness in his voice, and he carried her out into the brilliant sunlight by the remaining flight of stone steps.

  "Are you always so angry?" she asked wearily, leaning her head against his shoulder, too weak and tired
to fight.

  "With you, yes," he answered grimly, stalking down the road and jarring her poor, bruised body with every step.

  "How did you happen to fall? Didn't you have enough sense to keep your distance from the edge? Or were you too fascinated by the ruins…?"

  "I didn't fall. I was pushed."

  The silence that followed was overwhelming, and she half expected him to drop her in the middle of the road. He didn't, but his expression grew even more grim.

  "Still dramatizing, Molly?" he drawled in an unpleasant voice. "I would have thought you'd get tired of being the center of attention all the time."

  "You don't believe me?" she demanded, fury wiping out the last of her shock and fear.

  "Not for a moment. No one else would either, so you might as well save your breath. Why would anyone want to shove you down in the cellar? If they were trying to kill you there are a lot more effective ways."

  She shoved at him, desperate to break his hold on her, but she'd forgotten how strong he was. He simply tightened his grip, almost painfully, as he stalked toward the house, and she gave up her fruitless struggle as a belated, comforting thought hit her. His anger at her story, his disbelief, was honest. If he refused to believe she'd been pushed, then he couldn't be the one who'd pushed her. The true culprit would have lied to cover for himself, or tried to throw suspicion on someone else. Her enemy, her nemesis, had to be someone else.

  She was almost smiling by the time they reached the house. She sat in the kitchen, watching her husband glower at her, while Mrs. Morse clucked and moaned in distress and Uncle Willy, who was already slightly the worse for alcohol at such an early hour, kept his pale, watery eyes averted from the steadily oozing blood as he tried to make encouraging noises.

  Dr. Turner arrived, a grumpy, middle-age woman who seemed annoyed at being bothered. She poked at Molly, with even less care than Patrick had evinced, bandaged her up, and pronounced her none the worse for a little shock, all with an audience of interested bystanders. "But you should be more careful, Mrs. Winters," she said gravely, snapping her battered case shut. "All you'll feel is a little stiffness. It could have been a lot worse. You could have hit your head again, and then we'd have to put you in the hospital for observation. I imagine you've had enough of hospitals for the time being."

  "Yes, Dr. Turner," she murmured in a docile voice, thoughts racing through her head. She could have been killed. And someone had pushed her, she knew it as well as she… Well, she didn't know anything about herself too well, but she knew that she'd been pushed. Patrick had already made it clear that no one would believe her, and she didn't bother trying to explain. If no one would listen, why should she waste her breath?

  Except that Patrick was watching her with an odd expression behind the annoyance in those blue, blue eyes. Maybe he believed her after all. Maybe he knew she'd been pushed because he was the one who'd pushed her, and he'd been afraid to finish her off for fear Toby would return and see him.

  Dr. Turner was already heading for the door. Molly racked her brain, trying to think of a discreet way to call her back. Finally, Mrs. Morse spoke up.

  "Wasn't there something you wanted to ask Dr. Turner about, Molly?"

  Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at her, with Patrick's being the most suspicious.

  "Well, young lady?" Dr. Turner demanded when Molly didn't say anything. "Is this an emergency?"

  "Er…no."

  "Then call my office and make an appointment like everyone else. I've already been here too long as it is. Next time, Patrick, you take her to the emergency room."

  "There isn't going to be a next time," Patrick said in a quiet voice. And Molly wasn't sure whether to be pleased or terrified.

  "I think you'd better spend the rest of the day in bed," Patrick announced after Dr. Turner had left. "And from now on you aren't allowed out unless someone goes with you."

  "But why?" she demanded, then winced in pain. She lowered her voice. "This was just an accident—it won't happen again."

  "You go out with someone or you don't go out at all," he said in the kind of voice that brooked no arguments. "And if you disobey me I'll lock you in."

  "Disobey you?" she echoed in a tight little voice. "Who the hell do you think you are, my father? You can't tell me what to do."

  "I doubt even your father told you what to do," he said sourly, and without another word he stormed out of the house, leaving Molly in a state of stomach-churning rage.

  "Well," said Mrs. Morse after a moment, "who would have thought he'd get so worked up?" She shook her head, but there was an oddly hopeful expression in her eyes. "Don't you worry, Molly. I'll fix you some nice hot soup and ham sandwiches, and some of my chocolate cake. How would you like that?"

  She was hungry again. If she had been pregnant in the morning, she obviously still was. "I'd love it. Will you join me, Uncle Willy?" she asked politely of the silent figure in the corner.

  He shook his head in faint disgust, the neat orange strands carefully combed over that pink and shining skull. "No, thank you, my dear. I always partake of only the lightest meal when I first wake up." He rose and wandered out of the kitchen, looking oddly disturbed about something. He hardly seemed sensitive enough to be worried about her well-being, and Molly watched his retreating figure with vague, shapeless suspicions.

  "All right, Molly," Mrs. Morse said, coming to stand in front of her with arms planted on her ample hips. "What's going on?"

  "What do you mean? I must have tripped…"

  "I'm not talking about your fall. Assuming it really was a fall, though it seems to me Patrick's right about your being more careful. No, I want to know why you wanted to see Dr. Turner in private. And don't tell me some story about you needing birth control, because I don't believe it."

  She looked up at her. When it came right down to it, she had to trust someone. "I think I'm pregnant."

  "Sweet heavens!" Mrs. Morse said. "Have you told Patrick yet?"

  "Not until I'm certain. What if it's not his?"

  Mrs. Morse's face fell. "I hadn't thought of that. You couldn't be very far along—they would have caught it in the hospital after your accident."

  "And since I haven't been home in five weeks that would mean that Patrick…"

  "Wasn't the father," Mrs. Morse finished for her. "Why don't you ask him?"

  "Not until I have to. Not until I see Dr. Turner and get the proof. She should know how far along l am."

  "Molly, dearest," she said in a gentler voice, "there's no need to be scared of Pat. I don't know what's gone on between the two of you, but for all his bluster he's a caring, decent man."

  "Sure," Molly said with just a trace of bitterness. "He cares about Lisa Canning."

  "He cares about you, missy."

  Molly shook her head, unwilling to accept the notion. "You're not to say anything until I find out. In the meantime I suppose I need to get an appointment."

  "I'll call for you," Mrs. Morse said firmly. "No one needs to know anything about it—we'll just tell anyone who asks that you were feeling dizzy after your fall."

  "You don't suppose that I…did anything to it?"

  She shook her head, an ancient sorrow shadowing the eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses. "You'd feel it if you did bring on a miscarriage, believe me. I had six of them myself, before the doctor told me to stop trying, and there's no ignoring the symptoms, no matter how early along you are. No, if you're pregnant then nothing's happened to it yet." She rose. "Should I call her office?"

  Molly nodded numbly.

  She was lost in thought when Mrs. Morse returned a few minutes later. "Damned receptionist. You'd think Dr. Turner was the Queen of England and not some small-town family practitioner. She can't see you till the day after tomorrow, unless it's an emergency. In the meantime the best thing for you to do is go upstairs and lie down and try not to think about it. Find yourself a good book or something."

  "I've read them all," she said morosely, rising slowly from th
e hard chair. "Maybe I'll explore the house."

  "Whatever for?"

  "Because I don't remember it," she said simply. "And I'm not at all tired."

  "Well, you be careful if you go in the attics. There's a lot of junk stored up there," she warned. "I'd come with you but your Aunt Ermy is coming in on the 5:47 train tonight and the Lord knows I'd better have an elegant enough supper to suit her palate. You go on ahead and come down here for some brownies and tea later on if you feel like it"

  "I will," she promised, setting off.

  Another mistake. Another botched attempt. All she'd ended up with was a gashed arm. Things were not going according to plan, not in the slightest, and it was getting more than frustrating.

  Sooner or later someone was going to start getting suspicious at all her mishaps. It wouldn't matter if Molly suspected something—her credibility was in the toilet already. No one would listen to her.

  The local police didn't give a damn. Stroup wanted to get into her pants and nothing more, and Ryker was so far off base there was nothing to worry about. Not yet.

  But there couldn't be any more mistakes. Sooner or later it was going to come back to her. She didn't remember—there was no longer any doubt of that Her green-blue eyes were totally guileless; she hadn't the faintest idea whom she could trust.

  But that happy state of affairs wouldn't last forever. Next time they were going to do it right. Get it right.

  Get her dead. And silent.

  Chapter Eight

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  Molly couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was Alice in Wonderland, or Dorothy in Oz. The house had grown increasingly familiar over the last two days—the beautifully comfortable living room, the formal dining room, the kitchen, the neat and uninspiring little office under the stairs where Patrick did his accounts and hid from his wife.

  But upstairs was a different matter. Patrick's Closed door was an enticing Pandora's box, but even Molly's courage had limits. She could explore it later, when she was sure he was nowhere around. Perhaps even tonight, while he was out picking up the mysterious Aunt Ermy from the train station.