ChasetheLightning (5 page)

Amanda shrugged. “You tell me. And while you’re at it, you
can tell me who shot you, and who you want me to notify.”

“You can’t tell anybody about this.”

“Surely you want your family to know you’re all right.”

He shook his head, then licked his lips.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Trey watched her leave the room, his mind filling with
questions. How had he gotten here? Where the hell was here? And who the hell
was she?

He glanced around the room again. White walls. Blue curtains.
A blue rug that covered the whole floor. A three-drawer chest. A table beside
the bed. A lamp on the table, but a lamp like none he had ever seen. It had a
flowered shade, no oil, no wick. Where the hell was his gun?

He started to sit up, swore as pain lanced through his back.
Easing back down on the bed, he closed his eyes. How had he gotten here,
wherever here was?

He opened his eyes at the sound of footsteps. The woman
offered him a drink of water and he drank it greedily, then sank back on the
pillow. She was a pretty woman, tall and slender, with a wealth of wavy red
hair, dark-green eyes, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. Long, slender legs
encased in a man’s jeans. He hadn't known many women who wore pants, surely
none as lovely and curvy as this one, and he averted his eyes, afraid he had
stared at her legs too long.

She gazed down at him, a worried look in her eyes. “Are you
hungry?”

He shook his head.

“Who shot you?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Well, you should probably report it to the police.”

Report it? He wondered if she was out of her mind, then
realized she had no way of knowing he was on the dodge. “I’m obliged to you for
taking me in, but I’d best be moving on.”

“Don’t you think you should rest a day or two? You’ve got a
fever.”

It was tempting, but he couldn’t stay here, not with Wolf
Langley hot on his trail. Damn! “Thanks, but I’d better get going.”

“And I think you’d better stay right where you are, at least
until tomorrow. Anyway, your clothes are soaking in the washer.”

He frowned. “Washer?”

“You know, washing machine?”

He stared at her, wondering what the devil she was talking
about.

“Where’s my horse?”

“In the barn. You really should keep an eye on him, you
know. He’s been here several times in the last couple of days.”

She was crazy, he thought. There was no doubt about it. “And
my gun?”

“Safe enough. You need to rest,” she said, “and I’ve got
some work to do. Why don’t you go back to sleep, and I’ll bring you something
to eat later?”

He nodded, closed his eyes, and was asleep.

Amanda stared at him for several minutes, her mind churning
with unanswered questions. She didn’t know who he was or where he’d come from,
but she intended to find out.

* * * * *

It was dark when he woke again. The bedroom door was open,
and he could see a glimmer of light in the hallway. Bright white light that
burned steadily. Too bright for a coal-oil lamp. He could hear someone moving
around in the next room. The crazy woman? He wondered if she was married, or if
she lived alone.

He frowned as a strange ringing noise broke the stillness.
It was an odd noise, one he had never heard before. With an effort, he sat up.
Dizziness swamped him. When it passed, he stood and made his way to the door.
He stood there a moment, one hand braced on the frame, and then walked slowly
down the hallway, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

He could hear her talking now. From what he could hear of
the conversation, it sounded like she was talking to someone else, but hers was
the only voice he heard.

Peering around the corner, he saw her standing with her back
to him. Her hair fell halfway down her back in a mass of waves. She was wearing
the long-sleeved shirt and those jeans that clung to her like a second skin,
outlining the shape of her long legs and well-rounded buttocks. He had seen
working ranch women in trousers from time to time, but nothing like these. She
was holding something to her ear.

“All right, Rob. I’ve got to go. Be careful, okay?”

Silence. Was she talking to herself? Crazy, no doubt about
it.

Then, “I know. I love you, too. Bye.”

She put whatever she had been holding to her ear down on the
table. His gaze followed the sway of her hips as she left the room.

Curious, he padded across the floor, picked up the thing she
had been holding and put it to his ear. What the hell! He jerked his head back
when he heard a strange buzzing noise. Putting the thing down, he glanced
around the room. It looked like any other house. And yet, it didn’t. There was
a red brick fireplace with a raised hearth. Some pictures on the wall. A sofa
and two chairs, and a couple of low tables. A pair of those strange lamps with
their eerily silent bright light. Some new kind of gaslight? A large square box
that had a window you couldn’t see through on the front. Some doo-dads and
knickknacks women were fond of.

At the sound of footsteps, he glanced at the doorway. It was
the woman.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she exclaimed. She made a
shooing motion with one hand. “Go on, get back into bed. You look like you’re
about to pass out again.”

He glowered at her, then turned and retraced his steps to
the bedroom. Every movement sent slivers of pain shooting through his back. He
sat down gingerly, took a deep breath, then stretched out on his side and
closed his eyes. Dammit, he felt as weak as a newborn colt.

Moments later, he sensed the woman’s presence in the room.
“You must be hungry.”

“Yeah.”

“What would you like to eat? I’ve got some chicken noodle
soup.”

“Soup!” He opened his eyes and glanced at her over his
shoulder.

“Well, what do you want? Steak?”

“Rare.”

“All right. What do you want with your steak?”

“Anything you’ve got is fine.”

“All right.” If he was hungry enough to eat a steak, he
couldn’t be too bad off. She moved around to stand in front of him. “Here.” She
handed him a glass of water, and held out her hand. “Take these.”

He stared at the two small white things in her hand.
“What’re those?”

“Aspirin.”

He frowned up at her. “Aspirin?”

“For your fever.” She shook her head. “For heaven’s sake,
you’d think you’d never seen aspirin before.”

Well, she was right about that. He took them from her hand
and popped them in his mouth, grimaced at the horrible taste.

The woman sighed. “You’re supposed to wash them down with
water.”

He drained the glass, rinsing the bad taste from his mouth,
then handed it to her.

“Where are you from, anyway?” she asked.

“From here.”

“Arizona?”

He nodded.

She looked at him oddly for a moment. “Have you got a name?”

“Trey.”

“Just Trey?”

He nodded, unwilling to share his last name. “And yours
would be?”

“Amanda.”

“Just Amanda?” he asked with a wry smile.

“Just Amanda. Are you sure there isn’t someone you want me
to notify that you're here?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, I’ll go fix that steak,” she said, heading for the
door. “Rare.”

He stared after her. There was something strange going on
here, something not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but
something was definitely wrong.

Amanda stood in the kitchen, staring out the window while
she waited for the potatoes to boil. She didn’t know what it was, but there was
something definitely wrong here. Something out of sync about…what was his name?
Trey. Just Trey.

He was a handsome man, not pretty boy handsome the way Rob
was handsome, but handsome in a rugged, masculine sort of way. She smiled at
her reflection in the window. Sort of the way Tommy Lee Jones was sexy, with
that gravelly voice and killer smile. Why hadn’t he known what aspirin looked
like? Why was he wearing a gun? And clothes that looked sort of…outdated? If he
really were an actor, or one of those guys who liked to play cowboy, perhaps
the trauma of getting shot for real had blurred his memory.

She had washed and dried his shirt and pants. His trousers
were folded over the back of a kitchen chair; his shirt was draped over the
trousers. She ran her hand over the shirt. Long-sleeved, and made of rough
flannel. With a neat, round hole in the back where the bullet had gone in.

Just who was that man in her guest room? And why was she so
attracted to him?

She checked on the potatoes, opened a can of white corn, put
the steak under the broiler. Opening the fridge, she reached for a carton of
milk, then shook her head and grabbed a can of the beer she kept on hand for
Rob instead. She couldn’t imagine the man in the guest room drinking milk.

She turned the steak, mashed the potatoes, turned the fire
off under the corn. She put his dinner on a plate, put the plate on a tray,
added some silverware and the beer, and carried the tray down the hall to the
bedroom.

Her patient was sitting up in bed, the sheet draped over his
lap. She felt a flutter of appreciation in the pit of her stomach as her gaze
moved over him. Long black hair fell past his broad shoulders. His stomach was
flat, ridged with muscle. And his arms…she had always had a weakness for men
with well-muscled arms, and Trey’s were right up there with the best she had
ever seen.

She felt a wave of heat wash into her cheeks when he looked
up at her, one dark brow raised inquisitively.

“Here’s your dinner.” Embarrassed at having been caught
staring at him, she deposited the tray, none too gently, on his lap.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Can I get you anything else?”

He glanced at the tray. “How about something to drink? Beer,
if you’ve got it.”

She tapped a finger on the top of the can. “What do you
think that is?”

Frowning, Trey picked up the gray container, which was
similar to a tin can but lighter somehow, with a fragile feel to it. When he
gripped it, his fingers sank into the metal. It was cold, almost icy to the
touch. The words “Natural Light” were printed in blue and red letters and below
that, in very small print, the words, “Beer…brewed for a naturally smooth
taste.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a can of beer before?”

“Can’t say as I have.” Trey studied the woman, Amanda, for a
moment. He had never seen a woman who looked quite like her, either. Her lips
were too pink to be natural. The long-sleeved shirt she wore looked like
something a man would wear, but there was nothing masculine about the way it
hugged her body, outlining the curves of her breasts. And those trousers… He
swallowed hard. Had she been wearing a short red dress and black stockings, he
would have said she was a tart, but she didn’t act like one, or talk like one.
If she had been for sale, he would have paid for her time in a heartbeat. Just
thinking about it aroused him, making him grateful for the tray across his lap.

He met her gaze, felt the unmistakable sizzle of attraction
that passed between them.

Her gaze slid away from his. “You’d better eat it while it’s
hot,” she suggested. “I’ll be back later for the tray.”

Damn, but she looked good walking away. He spent a
pleasurable moment watching her leave the room, then looked down at the can in
his hand. How the devil did she expect him to open it?

He ran his finger over the top of the can, grunted softly
when his fingernail caught in a small metal ring. He gave a tug, and, to his
surprise, there was a small hiss and an opening appeared leaking a small
dribble of foam. He could smell the hops. He lifted the can to his lips, took a
drink, and almost spit it out. There was a weak beer taste, but the stuff was
watery, thin. He sure as hell wouldn't dignify it by calling it beer!

Setting the can aside, he cut into the steak and took a bite.
Damn. The beer in this place was undoubtedly the worst he had ever tasted, but
the woman knew how to cook a steak.

It had been a long while since he’d had a decent meal and he
savored this one. He’d never had beef this good in his life.

With a sigh, he put the knife and fork down and set the tray
on the bedside table. Leaning back, he closed his eyes.

He woke to the sound of rain on the roof. He figured the
woman had looked in on him while he slept, since the curtains were closed. That
strange bright white light from the hallway spilled into the room. She had removed
the dirty dishes from the tray on the bedside table and left a bowl with an
apple and an orange, a glass of cold water, and a small knife with a blade that
might cut through butter but not much else.

Feeling a whisper of warm air, he frowned. He didn’t recall
there being a fireplace in the room. And there wasn’t. Turning over, he
searched for the source of warm air. It seemed to be coming from some sort of
vent in the wall up near the ceiling.

He heard angry voices coming from the other room. A man and
a woman, arguing. The sound of a woman’s scream, a gunshot. He bolted from the
bed. Damn, where was his gun when he needed it? He glanced at the knife
disdainfully. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing that resembled a weapon
in the room. Grabbing it from the tray, he moved as quickly as he could into
the parlor. He glanced around the room, looking for the shooter, but there was
no one in the room save for the woman. She was seated on the sofa, looking at
him over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” the woman exclaimed. She stood up,
frowning when she saw the knife in his hand.

“Where is he?”

“Where’s…” She glanced at the knife again. “Where’s who?”
she asked tremulously.

“The man who…” He broke off, started again. “I heard
gunshots…”

She stared at him and then, to his utter surprise, she burst
out laughing.

A sudden noise filled the room. Trey looked toward the
sound, blinked, and blinked again, unable to believe his eyes as he stared at
the large box. There was music coming out of it, and voices. But that wasn’t
nearly as shocking as the colorful moving images.

He lowered his arm, the knife in his hand forgotten, as he
moved toward the box. With some trepidation, he bent down to stare at the
window. It looked like glass. Reaching out, he touched it with his fingers,
jerked backward when the glass crackled with a sound like lightning.

Straightening, he turned and looked at the woman. “What kind
of chicanery is this?”

“Chicanery?”

“This!” He gestured at the box with the knife, chagrined to
see his hand was shaking.

The woman shook her head. “What? The TV?”

“TV?”

“They’re coming to take you away, aren’t they?” she
muttered, remembering the words to an old song.

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That they’re after me?”

The woman folded her arms across her chest. “One of us is
talking crazy,” she said, “and it’s not me.” She smiled at him. “Why don’t you
just put that knife down,” she said, her voice softly coaxing, as though she
were speaking to a not-too-bright child, “and go back to bed?”

He glanced at the moving pictures in the box again. A burly
black man was talking to another man, but the words made no sense. A hundred
questions pounded in his head, demanding answers, but he was in no condition to
pursue them now. Feeling like a damn fool, he dropped his hand to his side.

The woman hurried toward him, her brow furrowed. “Come on,”
she said. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

He felt that way, too, though he wouldn’t have admitted it.
He leaned heavily on her as she helped him back to the bedroom. She was, he
thought, the cleanest, prettiest smelling woman he had ever met.

“You’re bleeding again,” she said.

He grunted as he fell face down on the mattress, lay there,
only half aware, as she took the knife and tossed it on the tray. Sitting on
the edge of the bed, she removed the bandage from his back. Her hands were
soft, gentle, as she swabbed the wound with some sort of strong-smelling
ointment, and replaced the bandage.

He heard her mutter “men” as she gathered up the soiled
dressing and carried it out of the room.

In the brief time before sleep claimed him, he wondered just
what it was he had seen inside that strange-looking box.

Amanda tossed the soiled gauze and adhesive tape in the
trash, then poured herself a cup of coffee. Carrying the mug into the living
room, she sat down on the sofa. She had a sneaking suspicion that her patient
was a brick short of a load. Anyone who didn’t recognize a can of beer and
didn’t know what a TV was had to be crazy. But, oh my, the man was gorgeous.
And gallant, she thought, remembering how he had burst into the room, ready to
defend her with nothing more than a paring knife.

Setting the cup aside, she went to look out the window. The
rain had let up for the moment. Grabbing her jacket and a flashlight from the
closet, she went out the back door, picking her way through the mud to the
barn.

The horse whinnied when she opened the door. If she decided
to keep the barn, she was going to have to get some electricity in here. She
dropped a flake of hay in the feeder, made sure there was water in the barrel,
then spent a few minutes petting the stallion while he ate. There was something
soothing about being around horses. A flash of lightning illuminated the
darkness, followed by a drum roll of thunder.

Amanda gave the stallion a last pat on the shoulder. “See ya
later, boy.”

On her way out of the barn, she paused by the saddle and
removed the saddlebags tied behind the cantle, thinking there might be
something inside her guest might need, or want.

It was raining again when she dashed across the yard toward
the back door.

Inside, she took off her jacket, shook the rain out of her
hair, dropped the saddlebags on the kitchen table. Head cocked to one side, she
stared at the twin pouches a moment while she had a silent argument with her
conscience. She had no right to pry into his belongings. Still, there might be
something inside to tell her who he was, or where he belonged.

Feeling a little guilty, she opened the bag nearest to her,
reached inside and pulled out a dark red wool shirt, a pair of jeans, three
heavy boxes of ammunition, a frying pan, a blue and white speckled coffee pot
and a coffee cup, a spoon and fork, a sack of what looked like beef jerky, a
box of wooden matches wrapped in what she thought might be oilskin, a short
length of rope, and a pair of leather gloves. No ID of any kind.

She put everything back inside, opened the other pouch, and
reached inside, only to stare, mouth open, at the sack in her hand. It was a
money bag. The words
, Property of First National Bank, Wickenberg, AZ
,
were stamped on the front in black block letters.

Dropping the sack on the table, she untied the string that
held it shut, then looked inside, her eyes widening. It was stuffed with
greenbacks. She pulled out a couple, and frowned. There was something odd about
the bills. They seemed larger than they should have been. Counterfeit?

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was still
alone, then spread the bills out on the table. She stared at them a moment,
then picked one up. It was a ten-dollar bill. “This note is legal tender for
ten dollars” was written across the top. “Will pay the bearer ten dollars” was
printed across the middle; the words “Treasury Note” were written across the
bottom. There was a picture of a man in the lower left-hand corner, and what
looked like some sort of historical scene in the lower right. The back was a
rather bright green with “Ten” written on the left side and “10” written on the
right. There was some small print in a circle in the middle that she couldn’t
quite make out.

The next bill was, without doubt, a twenty. There was also a
two-dollar bill, and a five, each unique in their own way. They were certainly
more colorful and more interesting than the money in use today. There were some
gold coins in the bottom of the bag. She picked one up, surprised at how heavy
it was.

Where had her patient gotten hold of such old money? And
what was he doing with a money bag obviously taken from a bank? Was he a
collector? Good Lord, what if he was a bank robber? She shook the thought
aside. Banks probably didn’t keep money this old. Had he robbed a museum, then?

She glanced over her shoulder again before scooping up the
bills. She put them all back in the sack, dropped the gold coin in on top, and
closed the bag.

It occurred to her that she should call the police, that she
should have called them when that man first showed up in her yard with a bullet
in his back.

“Better late than never,” she decided. But when she picked
up the phone, the line was dead.

She frowned at the receiver a minute, and then grinned.
Wasn’t the phone always dead when the movie heroine went to call for help? With
a shake of her head, she dropped the receiver back into the cradle. No doubt
the recent rains had damaged the line. It had happened before.

Going down the hall, she peeked into the guest room. Her
patient was lying on his stomach, snoring softly.