Here to Stay (Silhouette Special Edition) (8 page)

In Sasha’s yard the deciduous trees were loaded with swollen buds, and there were green shoots poking up through the brown pastures. The tips of the evergreens all had tender green shoots of new growth. A pair of cardinals swooped in front of the truck, then headed for the bird feeders hanging from the trees nearest the house. On both sides of the porch steps the garden beds were full of purple, white and yellow flowers. Even with the mud and the mist and the clouds blocking the sun, Miles saw the peaceful, timeless beauty of the farm. It was, he decided, a perfect reflection of the woman beside him.

Sasha switched off the ignition and pulled out the key. Then she turned her bruised but beautiful face toward him. Her dark eyes looked so earnest. Whatever was on her mind, he knew he was about to find out.

“Miles, I want you to understand that you’re a welcome guest here, but I also want you to know you’re free to leave at any time, without worrying that you’ll be hurting my feelings or insulting my hos-pitality. I know you have a lot of healing inside to do, and I’m not sure if this is the best place to do it. Okay?”

He could read between the lines easily enough.
Don’t overstay your welcome.
He nodded. “Okay.”

Her smile lit her dark eyes softly. A man really could get lost in those eyes, he thought. But only one who was welcome there.

“Then welcome to Lilac Hill Farm. Ready to get down?”

“Ready enough.”

“Want me to get in front or behind?” she asked.

Lord, didn’t the woman have a clue how suggestive that sounded? He grinned at the impulse to show her. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asked quietly, holding still and wondering how she’d react.

He could see the unbruised side of her face blush. “Don’t tempt me to let you starve in the truck,” she muttered. He was still chuckling perversely when she jerked open his door and scowled at him. Then she reached into the truck and caught his calves in her hands and he stopped laughing. He felt the heat of her touch through his jeans, heat that radiated upward to parts of him he’d lain awake nights imagining her touching. She looked up into his eyes and drew a shaky breath, sending his pulse into overdrive.

“Steady,” she whispered, and he wondered to which one of them she was talking.

With Sasha’s hands guiding his legs, Miles eased himself around to face out of the truck. The pain in his ribs faded to nothing compared to the ache of having Sasha’s hands on his thighs and knowing she didn’t see him as a man who could be turned on by her touch. She saw him as a patient, a problem to solve.

Sasha brought his cane out of the back seat and leaned it against the side of the truck. She stood in front of him, looking at him but not quite meeting his eyes.

“Now what?” he asked, although that was obvious. They had to get him down to the ground somehow. He was more curious about what she was thinking than about what she intended to do.

“Put your arms around me and lean on me while you get out,” she said, getting way ahead of him without warning. “I’ll use the roof to brace myself.”

He should have told her to just pass him the cane. He hated this dependency, but she was right, he had to accept her help or he’d be there all night. He reached out and slid his good arm around the back of her neck, feeling the strength in her shoulders as she braced her hands on the top of the door opening. Slowly he eased himself toward her, toward the long step down to the ground. Sasha shifted her feet, widening her stance. He worked his way closer, feeling drugged by the earthy scent of her skin mixing with the spring air. When he was almost off the edge of the seat he sought the ground with his feet, bringing their bodies together. Her jacket was open, and now he felt the soft mounds of her breasts, the resilience of her flat belly, the sharp curves of her pelvic bones, the long, tense muscles of her thighs against him.

He stood without moving, his feet planted between hers. His sprained ankle and wrenched knee added their complaints to those of his ribs, but it was as if the pain belonged to someone else. All he really felt was Sasha, so close she was under his skin. She was trembling. He felt the tension in her arms as she gripped the truck roof over his head. She was open to him. If she gave him the slightest hint, he’d have her mouth under his.

He felt her stiffen and suddenly knew, deep in his gut, that she wouldn’t wrap her arms around him and give in to the chemistry between them. Not then. Maybe never. Certainly not while she thought he needed her help. It wouldn’t fit her image as the Good Samaritan. And he’d be damned before he’d accept that kind of charity. The thought gave him the strength to tamp down the desire that raged in his veins.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, releasing her.

She let go of the truck and moved away fast. Miles reached for his cane and cursed to himself. So much for chemistry, he thought. She couldn’t put enough distance between them. Still, angry as her re-jection made him, he had to concede it was probably better for both of them this way. He didn’t have anything to offer her, and he sure as hell didn’t want to need anything from her.

Sasha backed away from Miles, embarrassed by that sizzling moment between them. Well, at least, it sizzled from her perspective. Miles hadn’t seemed as affected by their impromptu embrace, since he’d just stood there like a fence post. He must think she was desperate, luring him to her isolated farm, telling him he was free to go whenever he wanted to, then rubbing up against him like a mare in season.

“Come inside, where you can get comfortable,” Sasha suggested to cover her discomfort. “It smells like rain.”

“That’s not all it smells like,” Miles muttered.

Sasha smiled. “It’s a farm. You’ll get used to the odors quickly enough.”

“I doubt that. Hey, what are you doing with the bag?”

Sasha picked up Miles’s duffel bag, ignoring his scowl. “Go on up to the house. I’m right behind.”

But not close enough, she discovered a few seconds later. Miles had made his way up most of the stairs with the support of his cane. Just as he reached the top step, one of the cats ran between his feet. Miles would have crashed back down the stairs, except that he dropped the cane, twisted around and with his right arm grabbed the column supporting the porch roof. Sasha heard his grunt as his body hit the column. She dropped the duffel bag onto the wet gravel and dashed up the stairs to support him. He shook her hand off his elbow.

“What the hell was that?” he barked.

“Just a cat. Are you all right?”

“Never better, thanks. This is part of my physiotherapy program.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her attention to selecting the right key from her key ring.

“Hey, Doc, I think you should see this,” Miles said. To her relief, the humor seemed to be back in his voice.

She looked down to where he was pointing. In front of the door, looking immensely pleased with herself, sat Pretty Polly, one of the barn cats. Under one of the tabby’s white-booted front paws wiggled a small, very agitated green-and-yellow garden snake. Sasha groaned.

Miles chuckled. Polly looked up at him and twitched her ears. Sasha sighed.

“You’re in trouble now. Polly’s a shameless flirt as well as a fearless hunter. Now that you’ve admired her, she’ll probably bring you more gifts.” At his skeptical expression, Sasha smiled. “Once she brought a whole litter of live bunnies into the house, one at a time. Sam’s daughter, Maggie, and Peter’s son, Jimmy, spent hours catching them to set free. Polly never forgave them.”

He snorted, obviously unfamiliar with the emotional range of felines. He’d learn. “I expected a guard dog, not a guard cat,” he commented, grinning.

“I usually do have a dog, but I haven’t found one to replace Topsy, so the cats take turns playing sentinel,” she told him, then basked briefly in his warm, amused gaze.

Sasha knelt in front of the loudly purring cat. “Good girl, Polly!” she said, then reached out and stroked the mink-soft fur. “Thank you very much. It’s a lovely snake, but I don’t think it’s going to eat the grain the way the mice do, so I’d like to let it go. Is that all right?”

“I don’t believe this,” Miles muttered. “You’re negotiating with a cat. I’ve been kidnapped by a fruitcake!”

Sasha smothered a laugh, unwilling to hurt Polly’s feelings. After scratching around the tabby’s ears and white chin for a moment, she gently took the unhappy little snake out from under the cat’s sharp claws. Snakes were definitely not her favorite critters, but she was a vet, after all, so she smothered her reflex to cringe. She went down the steps holding the snake firmly but gently. It wriggled fran-tically, not knowing that it was safe.

She knelt next to the porch. “Okay, Mr. Snake,” she said, “head for the hills.”

After turning the snake loose in the garden beside the house, Sasha picked up the cane Miles had dropped and held it out to him. Then she hoisted the duffel bag again and went back up the steps to unlock her front door. Walking ahead of Miles, she made her way to the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went.

“You’re really something, Doc.”

His voice came from directly behind her, startling her. Even leaning on his cane, he seemed to fill the space around him. It surprised her—it
kept
surprising her—how nervous he made her. He was just a man. Just a handsome, grumpy, sexy, unattached male who was going to be living in her house for an undetermined length of time. Absolutely
nothing
to be nervous about, just because it was the first time they’d been alone without the possibility of interruption since she’d found him in his wrecked car.

Sasha turned around slowly, fighting her sudden breathlessness. He tipped her chin up with one warm finger. Reluctantly she met his eyes.

“Mr. Snake?” he murmured.

She shrugged, feeling a little foolish. “I guess it could have been Ms. Snake. The poor thing seemed more concerned with escape than political correctness.”

Miles chuckled softly. “Are you talking about the snake or yourself?”

“Political correctness seldom interests me,” she hedged. “Right now, it’s way down on the list of things I have to do. Let me show you to your room.”

He released her chin. “Lead on.”

She grabbed his duffel bag and started toward the stairs. “I’m sorry I don’t have a guest room on the first floor. There are four spare rooms upstairs that are always ready for company, but I can make up the chesterfield in the living room if the stairs are too much for your bad leg.”

“Thanks, but I can use the exercise,” he told her with a half grin.

She found herself smiling back even though her sore face protested. Then she turned away and led Miles up the stairs.

“This is really nice,” he said behind her. “It must be old.”

“The house itself is about a hundred and twenty years old, but it’s been modernized several times. No more outdoor plumbing and gaslights, although we’ve kept most of the old fixtures.”

“Almost like a museum, with all these antiques and family portraits.”

“I guess it is, in a way. A lot of good memories live here.” Sasha stopped just past the door to her own room, the first and largest, which used to be her grandparents’ room. “Take your pick,” she told him, gesturing down the hallway. “Although you may prefer the farthest one. Sometimes I get emergency calls in the middle of the night, but you won’t hear the phone down there.”
And I won’t be tempted to tuck you in.

“Is this one yours?” Miles asked, nodding back toward her door.

“Yes,” she managed to say in a fairly steady voice. Ordinarily she loved showing guests the antiques and heirloom linens, the framed needlepoint pictures and carefully collected silver and crystal vanity items that filled her private space. But the idea of inviting Miles into her overtly feminine bedroom sent dizzying waves of heat to her head. What would he think of the normally practical country vet if he saw she slept in eyelet laces and down quilts? She didn’t think she could deal with the sight of him moving around her room, perhaps touching her things with those utterly masculine hands—perhaps touching
her.

Sasha started to move past Miles, intending to carry his duffel bag to his chosen room. He reached out and gently took the carry strap out of her hand. Hesitantly she looked up to find Miles studying her. “I’ll take the far room,” he murmured. “That way, both of us will sleep.”

That’s what
he
thinks, she told herself as she returned to the kitchen.

W
onderful, rich aromas lured him out of a deep sleep. The clock by his bed told him he’d been asleep for over two hours. His body felt as if he’d been sleeping for a hundred years—achy, clumsy, heavy. His head felt as if his brain had been replaced with cotton. Silently cursing his awkwardness, he limped his way down the long flight of stairs with their softly worn, faded carpet runner. When he finally reached the first floor, he followed the sounds of dishes and glasses being set down. Sasha was moving around the kitchen, setting the old wooden table with one hand and holding an ice pack against the bruised side of her face with the other. She smiled over her shoulder, making him feel even more guilty. Sasha was in no condition to be waiting on him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed help? We could have ordered pizza. Sit down.”

She shrugged, but at least she sat on one of the caned ladder-back chairs, still holding the ice pack to her face. “I didn’t need help.”

He snorted. “Right. That’s why you have an ice pack on your cheek.”

“No. I’m using an ice pack because my face hurts. But I don’t cook with my face, so I managed very well.” He was about to say something rude to express his disbelief, but she smiled again, and he felt his anger melting. “Thank you, Miles. I guess I’m too used to living on my own to think of asking for help.”

Her answer touched him in an odd way. “Well, think of it now,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. “I’m not here for a free ride. Don’t treat me like an invalid.”

“Sorry. I hope you like chicken paprika.”

Her comment caught him off guard. “I don’t know,” he admitted slowly. “I probably do, because it smells great.”

He could see his own confusion reflected in those dark eyes and it ripped at him. He had to turn away before he broke down and made a fool of himself. There was a glass in the sink. He rinsed it and set it in the dish drainer as an excuse to keep his back to her.

“Oh, Miles!” she said softly. “I guess I don’t really understand what you’re going through. Is it that bad? That you’ve forgotten your likes and dislikes?”

“Seems like it,” he conceded, reluctant to admit to even that small weakness. “Food isn’t so hard to figure out. I don’t mind tasting things, except for hospital food. If I thought I liked hospital food, I’d probably throw myself off a bridge.” Her laugh took away some of the sting of confessing. “What can I do next?”

“Everything’s ready. It just needs to be served.”

“I can do that,” he told her when she came toward the stove with a long-handled spoon. Gently but firmly he took the spoon from her fingers.

He managed to scoop the food from the pots of chicken and rice without spilling. Sasha carried their plates to the table. She took a bowl of salad out of the refrigerator and a basket of rolls out of the oven. Then they sat down across the table from each other. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever shared kitchen duties with a woman, couldn’t recall intimate meals for two, but he didn’t need memories to know this was special. It felt comfortable. Too bad it couldn’t last.

“Bon appétit,”
she said.

The first bite melted in his mouth, leaving the spicy sauce dancing on his tongue. He suspected that kissing Sasha,
really
kissing her, would be like that. The thought was so enticing, so forbidden—he’d forbidden it himself—that he almost welcomed the sound of voices in the front of the house. He recognized them immediately. Peter Simmons, the shrink, and Sam.

The way that people simply walked in made Miles edgy. It was an invasion of privacy that felt familiar, yet he couldn’t place why. Surely, if he’d come from the kind of big family where everyone tumbled over everyone else, the police or Eleanor Dobbs would have mentioned parents or siblings. No one had said anything about anyone missing him, looking for him. The obvious conclusion—that he had no one—settled on him like a dark cloud.

“Hi, guys!” Sasha called out. “Who’s hungry? There’s plenty left.”

The two men walked in grinning and shaking their heads. “We just came from dinner,” Peter said, his gaze shifting from Sasha to Miles as if he were trying to read their minds. Miles forced himself to meet that probing look evenly. “Just wanted to make sure you could handle all the chores and didn’t need anything for the pain. Your face still looks pretty awful, Sash.”

“Thank you so much,” she retorted, but her smile told him she wasn’t offended by Peter’s comment. “Everything’s done, except for the last hay feeding. That’s not a big deal.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “I’ll do it. Won’t hurt the horses to get their hay a little early.”

“You’re going to the barn right now?” Sasha asked. Sam nodded. She stood. “I’ll go, too. It’ll go faster, and Desperado won’t freak when he sees a man.” She grabbed a slice of cucumber out of the salad bowl. “Miles, don’t feel you have to wait for me. Your dinner will get cold. I won’t be long.” She popped the cucumber slice into her mouth and followed Sam out of the kitchen.

The last thing he was going to do was wolf his dinner down while Sasha was out there battling with that crazed beast. He started to rise, to go after her, but Peter stepped to the table and turned one of the chairs around so he could straddle it, facing Miles. There was no way to mistake the other man’s intentions.

“How’s it going?”

Miles smiled grimly. “You working overtime?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t exactly punch a time clock. I’ve been reading up on memory deficit.”

“And?”

“And I thought you might like to know there’s someone you can talk to, if you have any questions.”

“
If
I have any questions?” He kept his rage under control, but just barely. “My life is one big question. You have any answers?”

“I wish I did.” Peter met his eyes with no apology, and Miles knew what was coming. “I’d like to know what kind of man Sasha has taken into her home.”

“So would I, Simmons. So would I.”

* * *

Sam flicked on the barn lights, then planted himself in Sasha’s path. “You trying people medicine on that crazy horse, or horse medicine on that man in your kitchen?”

“Tactful as always, Sam.” She shooed him out of her way and headed down the aisle to the hay stall. All the horses nickered and pawed, impatient for their meal.

Sam stayed right on her heels. “You can’t heal every hurt critter, man or horse.”

“I can try.”

“How’s the man going to get his memory back when he’s with you? You aren’t part of his history. You came out of his darkness, his accident, not his light. If he tries to stay with you, he’s going to lose the light from his past. He’ll never know who he is.”

Sasha tore off a flake of hay from the open bale, scattering loose hay with the force of her movements. “Give me a break, Sam! I’m not some nut case from a Stephen King novel, keeping the guy here against his will. He felt disoriented, and he’s still bashed up from the accident, so I offered him a place to rest before he has to tackle his problem. We both know he’s leaving soon.”

She thrust several flakes of hay at Sam, then stomped up the aisle to distribute the rest. His heavy sigh followed her, audible over the thumping and neighing of the horses.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said when they met at the end of the aisle.

Sasha felt some of her anger melt under the wistful expression in Sam’s black eyes. “You know me,” she said lightly. “I’m too busy to get involved. I won’t get hurt.”

Sam gave her a crooked grin. “Maybe it’s Miles I should be warning.”

“Maybe you should just remember I’m over thirty and have been taking very good care of myself for years.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “What about Desperado? You still have to throw his hay over the fence?”

She grabbed the flakes meant for the trumpeting stallion outside and grinned at Sam. “Yeah, but he lets me get closer to the fence before he goes ballistic.”

Sam grinned back. “Careful. That could be a sucker move to soften you up. Maybe someone told him ladies like a little danger.”

That made her laugh, despite the soreness of her face. “Not this lady.”

* * *

When Sasha walked back into the kitchen she found Peter and Miles sitting at the table, discussing the possibility of the Toronto Blue Jays winning another World Series. Amazing, she mused, how a man’s entire identity can be wiped out without damaging his baseball knowledge.

“Sam’s waiting in the car,” she told Peter. “He said he promised to get back and read a story to Maggie before bed.”

“I’m gone,” Peter answered, standing. “How’s Desperado?”

Sasha sighed. “As well as can be expected for a basket case. Very defensive. He could use a couple of hours on your couch.”

Peter chuckled and shook his head. “No, thanks. I don’t keep a shovel in the office. Give him some space. And call if you need me,” he said, giving her a gentle pat on the arm. “For anything,” he added quietly as he walked past her.

Alone again with Miles, Sasha felt the large room close in on her. It was too silent. She could hear her own breathing, her own pulse. He was too real, too attractive, too dangerous. After Sam’s pointed comments, she was feeling too vulnerable.

Miles got to his feet. “I put our plates in the oven.”

To her chagrin, his thoughtfulness brought tears to her eyes. “Thanks,” she managed to say hoarsely. “I’ll get them.” That gave her an excuse to turn away from him, an opportunity to compose herself.

They ate without speaking for a while. Music, Sasha thought. She should have turned on the stereo. Anything would be better than this echoing silence that crackled with speculation and temptation. The silence focused her thoughts on Miles, and on Sam’s warnings not to get involved, not to let herself get hurt.

Distance. Objectivity. They were her professional armor, keeping her from feeling too personally every loss of a patient, every departure of a fostered animal. But sometimes she feared she’d lost the ability to care deeply. She wanted to fall in love with someone so deeply that she
could
get hurt, but with the right man, she wouldn’t get hurt. And anyone with the brains of a fruit fly would know Miles couldn’t possibly be the right man for her.

The sound of him clearing his throat made her look up. He met her eyes with a steady, assessing gaze that made her realize he’d probably been following his own train of thought while they’d been eating in silence. What does a man think about when he’s lost his memories, lost his identity? How does he put his life together again? What happens when the past comes crashing back? Or does it work that way? So many questions, so few answers. No wonder he seemed angry so often. She probably would be, too.

“I guess we can safely assume I like chicken paprika,” he said, giving her a wry grin when she glanced at his empty plate. She managed a small answering smile despite the soreness of her face. “Sasha, we need to talk.”

“About?”

“Us.” He set his plate away from him and leaned forward over the edge of the table. “I just want to make sure you know you don’t have to lie awake nights expecting me to pounce.”

“Thank you,” she said as neutrally as she could, wondering what kind of surgical procedures Peter had threatened if Miles did attempt to seduce her. “I really hadn’t thought about it,” she fibbed.

He nodded. “Just so we understand each other.” He stood. “I’ll wash, you can dry.”

Sasha took a towel out of the drawer, pondering their conversation. Miles had no identity, but he had scruples. Or a healthy respect for her foster brothers. Either way, she was safe in her bed, or any-where else. So why, when she should feel relieved, did she feel like breaking a plate over his head?

* * *

Miles finished washing before Sasha finished drying, and sat at the kitchen table watching her put the clean dishes away. Exhaustion had caught up with him so suddenly it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen asleep over the sink. His head felt heavy, and all his aches were nagging at him, but there was one more thing he needed to do before he could go back to the bed waiting for him upstairs.

Sasha folded the dish towel over the rail and turned to study him. Her expression was as objective as any of the doctors who had peered at him in the hospital, and despite his promise not to act like a sex-starved maniac, that rankled.

“Would you like an ice pack? There are always several in the freezer, ready to go.” Her smile lit her eyes. Even with those bruises, her beauty gave him another, deeper kind of ache no ice pack or aspirin could cure. “I’m my own best customer.”

“No, thanks. All I need is a good night’s sleep. Every time I drifted off in the hospital, someone would come in to mess with me, or there’d be an announcement on the loudspeakers.”

“Well, the ice packs are there if you need them. There should be ibuprofen in your bathroom. If there’s anything else you need, feel free to hunt around. I’m going upstairs to wind down with a bath and good book. It’s only Sunday, and I’m beat already.”

He studied her beautiful, battered face, resisting the urge to stroke her unbruised cheek. Her skin looked as soft as a rose petal. “Are you feeling all right? No concussion from that devil you call a horse?”

“No, I’m fine. Sore, but nothing I can’t deal with. You can meet Desperado tomorrow if you want.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Good.” She gave him a quick smile. “Sleep well. I won’t wake you when I get up.”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll get up with you.” The words hung in the air between them.

Sasha’s cheeks turned pink. Turning away, she murmured, “Well, good night.”

“One more thing, Sasha?” She turned, and the innocent expectation in her eyes convinced him that he’d made the right decision. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, whenever I can get a flight out.” She blinked, then stared at him, obviously waiting for an explanation. “I don’t want to make any more work for you, and I have to get back to my life and figure out why I ran away from home.” He tried to make the words come out light, but the sadness in her eyes told him he’d failed.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this, Miles. It’s a golden opportunity to decide who you want to be, instead of worrying about who you were. You can create a new identity. The future is wide open. Why not leave the past behind and start over?”