Winter''s Edge

  She got up quickly, with an air of decision. Before she could begin to fathom what was going on, she needed a shower and clean, dry clothes. Searching through the many drawers of the ugly-elegant dresser, she finally discovered one pair of ancient and faded jeans among all the silk. There was a warm turtleneck, and heavy cotton sweater, stuck at the back of the drawer, and she carted them into the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. The discarded suit went into the trash can. Never again would she wear one—those suits symbolized what surely must have been the most awful day of her life. If there were any worse in the lost past, she didn't want to remember them.

  It wasn't until she was scrubbing her hair that realization struck her. She had gone straight to the bathroom without a moment's hesitation. She had known where it was.

  Trembling slightly, she rinsed her hair and stepped out of the shower, no longer able to deny that she had been there before. No longer could she clutch at straws, hoping they'd mistaken her for someone else. She'd just wrecked that theory by coming straight to the pink-and-white bathroom that matched the fussy tastes of the sybaritic bedroom.

  She dressed quickly in the chill air, towelling her long hair dry. She grabbed a pair of heavy wool socks before she ran back down to the living room and that cozy fire, the only warm room in this vast house, it seemed. It must be the stone walls, she thought. Or perhaps her husband was a miser, or an energy freak. The temperature seemed a little extreme, even for that, but then, the lady of the pink-and-white bedroom was nothing if not pampered. Maybe the creature she used to be couldn't survive those temperatures, but the new woman she was determined to become could grin and bear it.

  Her hair was almost completely dry when she heard the back door slam. It took all her self-control not to jump up in panic, and she forced herself to stay still. Her elderly husband couldn't be bothered to drive to the hospital to pick her up. Well, he could at least make his way into the living room. She was damned if she was going to go to him.

  She leaned back, trying to still the sudden panicked racing of her heart. Her life was about to change. She knew it, with a bleak, desperate certainty. She heard a noise by the entrance, and she looked up, a deceptively cool expression on her face.

  Chapter Three

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  It wasn't who, or what, she'd been steeling herself for. A giant black animal ambled into the room. He stared at her from large, mournful eyes, and from the recesses of her memory she came up with a name. He was a Newfoundland dog, large and friendly. Though the look he gave her was just a bit wary.

  "Hello, boy," she said softly, holding out a hand for him to snuffle. He lumbered over, his dark eyes suspicious, and with great caution he allowed her to pat his massive, leonine head, going so far as to honor her with a lick from his large and lolling tongue.

  "So you're back." A high-pitched voice, soft and unfriendly, came from the door of the room, and she jumped guiltily. He was an indistinct, shadowy figure in the half light of the doorway, and she felt no pang of recognition. An older man. He could only be her husband.

  She couldn't imagine what to say to him, so she was silent. He moved into the room, his paunchy figure staggering slightly, his receding chin thrust out aggressively. He was middle-aged and flabby, with a few strands of orangeish hair combed carefully over his shiny pink scalp, and his mouth had a petulant, spoiled look about it. The nurse must have had a decidedly odd sense of humor to consider this man handsome.

  His eyes were small and shrewd and light-colored in his puffy red face, looking as if they could see through all her pretenses. She had no pretenses, she wanted to cry. But she never cried, she thought, staring at him silently.

  "What's this new act, Molly?" he said, lounging with what he obviously considered a lazy grace in one of the comfortable, overstuffed armchairs. She hoped, perversely, that it was still damp from her sojourn in it. "This country girl look isn't quite your style, is it? You've always been more Neiman Marcus than Eddie Bauer. Maybe you're hoping to appease Patrick with your newfound docility. It won't wash, my dear, I promise you that." There was an ill-concealed malice in his slurred voice, combined with an odd wariness on his part, a watchfulness just under the slightly drunken surface.

  She edged closer to the fire, away from him. "Patrick?" she questioned innocently. Her name was Molly, then. Not bad. At least it was better than Mary Magdalene.

  "Oh, come off it. You needn't play games with your old pal Willy. Haven't I always been on your side?"

  From the look of him she doubted it. "Who's Patrick?" Molly questioned again, stubbornly.

  Willy smirked. "Why don't you go into the kitchen and find out?" he suggested amiably. "I'm sure he's dying to see you after five long weeks."

  Molly rose, reluctantly, and headed out to the hall, keeping well out of old friend Willy's reach. He looked like the type who pinches. The dog lumbered after her, obviously preferring her company to Willy's. Dogs are more discerning than humans, she thought.

  She found the kitchen after only one false foray into a clothes closet. The room was huge and dark, and reaching out, she switched on the light. And then realized that although she hadn't known where the room was, she'd found the light switch without the slightest hesitation.

  He'd just come in the door. He stood there, staring at her, cold, implacable anger emanating from him. The dog sensed something in the air, and he whined and moved closer to Molly, nearly knocking her over in the process. She looked up at the man across the room, and felt those familiar-unfamiliar emotions rushing through her. Longing. And fear.

  He was the man from her dreams, her brief flashes of memory. Now she could see him clearly, without the fog of time, and she wasn't sure she liked what she saw.

  He was handsome enough, despite his unfriendly expression. He was dressed in faded jeans and an old, torn sweater. His cold blue eyes were bitter, his mouth tight-lipped and angry. He wore his black hair long, tied at the back to get it out of his way, and drops of rain glittered in the dark mane. He looked to be in his midthirties, about ten years older than she purportedly was, and he stared at her out of those wintry eyes, an angry, beautiful man. Despite his animosity she felt a stirring inside her, a stirring she knew she hadn't felt for many men. She knew who he had to be. But she wasn't ready to accept the disturbing truth.

  "So you're back," he said, echoing the words of Willy. "I never thought my wife would care to grace this—now what did you call it?—this miserable old pile of stone again."

  "Your wife?" Molly echoed faintly. The word was spoken—there was no way she could avoid it any longer.

  "My wife," he said, his voice like ice, cold and hard. He moved closer to her with a totally unconscious grace that was somehow sinuous and unnerving at the same time. "I gather you didn't save me the trouble and get a quickie divorce during your… vacation."

  He was quite close to her by now, towering over her, and she clamped down the sudden spurt of nervousness. She was afraid of this man, and she couldn't remember why. "I…I don't know," she said, determined not to back away.

  His black eyebrows shot up in disbelief, giving his cool, handsome face a harsh look. "No," he said shortly. "You would have sent the decree off to me as fast as you could. I guess you'll have to cool your heels around here until we can do something about ending this ridiculous farce of a marriage." His eyes flicked over her body contemptuously. "Why have you got those clothes on?"

  "I…I was cold." She controlled the chattering of her teeth with an extreme effort, knowing that her shivering was caused by nerves as much as the chill in the air. The man in front of her, her dearly beloved husband, terrified her. And that knowledge made her angry.

  "You always are," he mocked, and there was no missing the double meaning. "Why didn't you turn up the thermostat?"

  "I didn't know where it was."

  Those cold blue eyes looked askance at that. "You've lived in this house for seven years, dear Molly. You should have learned where it is by now."

/>   "Seven years?" she echoed, shocked. "Have we been married that long?" It was out before she could stop it. She hadn't looked old enough to have been married for so long, but then, with all those creams and potions on her dresser upstairs, maybe she was simply extraordinarily well preserved.

  His eyes narrowed in surprise for a moment. "That's right, I forgot you were playing the amnesiac. No, we have not been married for seven years. I would have killed you long ago if we had. We've been married ten months, almost to the day."

  "Then why did I live here?"

  "You know as well as I do," he snapped, moving away from her as if he couldn't bear to be that close. "My father adopted you when you were sixteen. He always had a habit of picking up stray relatives like you and Willy. He found his only child a major annoyance. I'd never do what he wanted, so he had to settle for other people he could control."

  "We're related?" She wasn't sure that made the whole situation any more palatable.

  "We're fifth cousins, something like that." He dismissed it. "Look, I'm not really interested in playing games with you tonight, Molly. It's Mrs. Morse's day off and I've got to get dinner. Why don't you go back into the living room until it's ready? Keep Willy company—you'd like that, I'm sure."

  That was just about the last thing she wanted to do. She took a deep breath, deciding an attempt at cordiality might not be a bad idea. "Wouldn't you like some help with dinner?" she offered tentatively.

  He stared at her with amazement. "You hate to cook," he responded flatly. "Now get out of here and leave me alone."

  There was no way she could refute his statement. For all she knew she could be the worst cook in the world, so she simply left him without another word. There had to be a reason behind his rampant hostility, just as there had to be a reason why he frightened her. He didn't look as if he were in the mood to answer her questions, and she wasn't in the mood to ask.

  The Newfoundland followed her back into the cozy living room, deserting his taciturn master. To her relief, Willy had departed, and she seated herself on the floor by the fireplace with the huge dog beside her, her brain whirling. Nowhere had she found any sense of recognition, any feeling of familiarity. Not to mention any sense of welcome. She almost wished she hadn't had those two moments of knowledge, when she'd found the bathroom and the light switch without conscious effort. It seemed to be no more than a vain hope that everyone was mistaken, that she didn't belong with that angry man in the kitchen, with the leering Willy.

  She leaned back against the seat of the chair and sighed. At least she was happy in this room. She was Molly Winters, age about twenty-three. She sighed, and the dog moved closer, nuzzling his lion's head under her unresisting hand. Ringless, she noticed absently, shutting her eyes.

  If only she could just relax, let things come out on their own accord. But she couldn't. There was danger all around. Paranoia, she thought again, trying to dismiss the fear that clawed away at her. But it clung with iron talons.

  She didn't know much about her life, but she knew one thing. She really was in danger.

  And she needed answers. Fast.

  She must have dozed off. The next thing she knew she was being called for dinner, and she awoke with a start, disoriented, suddenly panicked. When full consciousness came it wasn't much of an improvement, and she rose from her uncomfortable position on the floor, hurrying out to the kitchen. Her stranger-husband glowered at her from his place at the kitchen table. He gestured to a seat opposite him and the plate of unappetizing, overcooked beef.

  "Willy's gone into town for dinner," he offered shortly, sawing away at his overdone steak with a vengeance. She toyed with some lumpy mashed potatoes, obviously instant from the paper taste of them, and she nearly muttered that she didn't blame him. The vegetables were bland and tasteless, the company was hostile, and she had to force herself to eat. If this was Patrick's idea of cooking she would clearly have to remedy the lack in her education. Maybe she wasn't quite as disinterested a cook as he thought.

  The silence stretched and grew, while he ate and she watched. When he was finished he got up, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the back of the stove before he stalked out of the room. She stared after his tall, lean form for a long, thoughtful moment. Either her husband was an incredible pig, or she'd done something totally unforgivable. She didn't remember whether he was the forgiving type, but she wasn't sure she was ready to find out.

  She cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and poured herself a cup of coffee that resembled black sludge. For a moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to drink it in the safe, solitary confines of the kitchen or brave the lion in his den. She was learning a lot about herself fast, and one thing she'd discovered for certain—she wasn't a coward. She followed Patrick into the living room.

  He was staring moodily into the fire, one tanned, long-fingered hand stroking the dog's head, the other wrapped around his empty coffee cup. He barely glanced up when she entered, and paid no attention when she sat down in the chair opposite him.

  She took a sip and shuddered, then felt his eyes on her.

  "You take milk and sugar in your coffee," he said in a bored voice.

  "I don't know if it would help. This coffee is a lost cause."

  "Maybe you could learn to make something other than instant," he snapped back at her.

  She bit back her annoyed response. "Maybe I could," she said in a neutral voice. "What's the dog's name?"

  "Beastie," her husband answered, staring into the fire. Upon hearing his name the dog raised his head and looked at Molly from his soulful eyes for a moment before dropping back down with a deep, doggy sigh.

  She sat back in silence, sipping on the rancid brew, before making another attempt at polite conversation. "Patrick."

  He looked up, startled. "Why did you call me that?" he demanded. "You usually call me Pat. When you aren't using nastier terms."

  "Do I?" she murmured absently, determined not to let him goad her. "Well, if you prefer it, I'll call you Pat."

  "No, I don't prefer it." He gave her his full attention. "Listen, I think we'd better come to an understanding if we're forced to share each other's company for the next few months."

  "Few months?" she echoed in a hollow voice.

  He nodded grimly. "It will take that long for our divorce to go through, and I promised the police I'd be responsible for you till then. I'm a man who pays attention to my responsibilities, even the unpleasant ones, but I won't have you dragging my name into the gutter any more. You will stay on this farm with no long-term visits to any so-called friends from school. If you behave reasonably well I'll give you use of one of the cars to go shopping on occasion. I know how you love to spend money," he added bitterly, the fire lighting up his cold, handsome face. "Willy will be around to entertain you, as will Aunt Ermy. You're simply going to have to curb your jet set tendencies for a while, until I'm free of you. There are the horses, as you well know, and you might even have Mrs. Morse teach you a bit about cooking if you've decided to put on a housewifely act. But don't think for a moment that you'll fool me again. Most of all, you're to keep out of my way and out of my business. Is that understood?"

  She had a temper. Dr. Hobson had warned her of it, but she hadn't seen much of it in the short time her memory had been active. During the last twelve or so hours she'd been alternately frightened and uneasy.

  But right now her anger overrode any lingering nervousness that might be plaguing her. She looked at the cold, handsome man who insisted he was her husband, the man who'd just dismissed her so cavalierly, and her last attempt at polite behavior vanished.

  "You'd love that, wouldn't you?" she said. "You want me to go away, keep my mouth shut, leave you alone and stop asking questions. Sorry, I won't do that. You can't dismiss me like a good little girl and expect me to be seen and not heard."

  "You've never been a good little girl in your entire life," he snapped. "I didn't expect you to start now. Your so-called amnesia is on
ly supposed to cause memory loss, not total personality change."

  "My supposed amnesia?" she echoed.

  "You don't think I buy that for a moment, do you? It's a little too convenient, Molly dearest. You don't usually underestimate me—I suggest you don't start now. I don't believe in your amnesia, I don't believe in your lost little girl act, and I don't believe in your country girl look either. If you want to reinvent yourself, wait till you have a more appreciative audience. You lost me years ago."

  "I thought we'd only been married ten months?"

  It silenced him, effectively, if only for a moment. "Get out of here, Molly."

  "I'm not that easy to get rid of."

  "No, you aren't," he said in a faintly menacing voice. "That doesn't mean I won't try."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Take it whatever way you want."

  "What I want are some answers. You can give me that much, can't you? Just a few answers to a few simple questions? That shouldn't be too much of a strain on your good nature."

  He stared at her for a long moment. There was no warmth, no caring in his cold face, but a certain angry resignation. "I'll answer your questions," he said, "if you promise to leave me the hell alone once I do."