Winter's Edge (3 page)

The stray memory flitted through her brain like a wisp of fog, gone before she could snatch it back.

Who had tried to destroy her? And why? The past remained stubbornly, painfully blank, with only the tantalizing memory to further claw at her nerves.

The sun was setting as they pulled into a small, old-worldly town somewhere over the Pennsylvania border.

The gloom of the day had worked itself up to the tangible expression of pouring rain, and she watched the dead countryside fly by the windows with unabated gloom. Heaven only knew what sort of man she was about to meet. Her husband, they told her, but how did she know whether she could believe them or not? Maybe this was all some conspiracy—maybe they were trying to make her doubt who and what she was.

If only she could believe that. She felt bone tired, her head pounding. More than anything she wanted to sink into a soft, warm bed and sleep for hours and days until this nightmare had passed. But would she be sleeping alone, or with a hostile stranger who didn’t even care enough to pick her up at the hospital?

She felt the sudden sting of tears in her eyes, and she opened her expensive leather handbag, searching for a tissue. The lining of the purse still smelled of the cigarettes she’d tossed, and there was no doubt she’d once been a smoker. The smell of it made her ill. Tucked inside were two handkerchiefs, linen and expensive. The first was very plain and masculine, and the initials, embroidered so carefully on the scrap of material, were PA. W. There were pale orange streaks across the white linen, too pale to be the blood she had first suspected.

Panic filled her, swift and unreasoning,-and she shoved the scraps of cloth back into the purse, no longer eager to open the Pandora’s box in her lap. MAW. the other handkerchief had read. If Winters was her last name, then her first must be Mary or

Magdalene or something of that sort. Though why the image of Mary Magdalene, the great whore, would have come to mind when she was looking for an identity was something she didn’t want to think about. She only knew she wasn’t going to let strangers convince her she was something that she wasn’t.

The weather didn’t choose to improve. She shivered slightly as the car pulled away through the deep troughs of water, out across the rain-swept highway, then leaned back, eyes shut, heart pounding. She didn’t want to watch where he was taking her. She sun ply wanted to arrive, and face up to it when she had to.

It was far too easy to drift into a strangely altered state. She had no idea whether it was the result of her head injury, or whatever drugs they’d given her, or just stress and exhaustion. But as she closed her eyes she could see him, through a mist of anger and desire. His eyes, winter blue, staring at her with frustration and contempt. His mouth, wide, sexual, set in a thin line of anger.

She wanted to lift her hand, to touch him. To brush a strand of inky black hair away from his face, to soothe away the fierceness as he looked at her. If she could just explain. But it was too late for that, she knew it. Too late for second chances, too late for the truth. She let herself sink back, into the darkness, into the forgetfulness that was a mixed blessing.

The sudden bumpiness of the road jarred her into reluctant alertness, and she sat up straight, guessing by the unevenness that they must be crossing a wooden

bridge. She looked out the streaming windows at the long low building as they drove by. An old stone farmhouse loomed beside it, wet and forbidding in the glare of the headlights through the pelting rain. Stroup brought the sedan to an abrupt halt, the jolt flinging her body against the back of the seat.

“Shoulda worn your seat belt, Mrs. Winters,” he said with a malicious chuckle.

“Or did you forget that it was the law nowadays?”

Her nerves had reached fever pitch.

“So arrest me,” she snapped back.

“Don’t I wish I could,” he replied, and she had no doubt he meant it.

“Maybe I’ll get my chance later on.

In the meantime, we’re here. Home sweet home, Mrs. Winters. ” He leaned over the back seat.

“It looks pretty deserted. You want I should see you inside?” The leer was back in his thick face.

She controlled the shiver of disgust.

“I don’t think so, thank you.

Do I have any luggage? “

“You know that as well as I do,” he answered shortly, leaning back against the seat. He smelled like stale cigarettes and yesterday’s beer.

“You were found in the clothes you’re wearing and no sign of where you’d come from. I’m sure your husband will have plenty of other stuff waiting for you. Both of you can afford it.”

She stared back at his pugnacious face, struggling to think of something suitably devastating, something that would make him flinch as he’d made her flinch. Her tired mind remained a blank. She could be cruel and cutting, she knew it with a perverse pride. At least she wasn’t totally defenseless. But right now she was too exhausted and tense to find the words.

“Thank you,” she murmured inanely, reaching out and opening the door into the torrent of rain.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” he said, before driving off and splashing her liberally with mud and water.

His last words echoed unpleasantly as she stood there, and for a moment she considered running.

But where would she run to? They hadn’t passed another house or a car for miles; she was out in the middle of nowhere, and the rain was like tiny pellets of ice pelting against her skin. She’d been running away when they found her. Maybe it was time to stop running. Time to face the truth, no matter how unpleasant it might be.

She moved toward the back door of the house with an instinct she didn’t stop to consider, her head held low against the driving rain. Pulling at the knocker, she huddled under the tiny porch roof. There was no She knocked again, this time more loudly. The strain of the day, the wetness of her clothes and the pain in her head were all joining to make her furiously angry with a fate. and a husband who had put her in such a miserable situation. She stared out at the rain-soaked landscape, sorely tempted to take off into the late afternoon downpour, never to be heard from again. But cowardice and discomfort were too much for her, she thought bitterly, and feeling like a fool she turned back and knocked one last time.

“The hell with it,” she muttered, as she pushed open the door and stumbled in.

It took her a moment to get her bearings. The interior was warm and dark, with the scent of lemon oil and wood smoke in the air, and there wasn’t a sound other than the steady tick of a grandfather clock gracing the stone-floored hallway. Her high-heeled shoes were wet and slippery, and she kicked them off with a sigh of relief before moving down the strange hallway in her damp stocking feet. Her total lack of recognition should have disturbed her. They had told her this was her home—she had no choice but to take their word for it. For the time being all she wanted was to find someplace warm and sit down.

She found her haven at the end of the hall—a warm, cozy living room with a fire crackling in the field stone fireplace, sending out delicious waves of heat. There was no one in sight, and for the first time she thought to announce her presence.

“Hello?” she called out, softly at first. Then, gaining courage, she shouted louder.

“Is anyone home?”

There was no answer, just the hiss and pop of the fire. Sighing, she sank down in one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire and took stock of her surroundings.

She’d never been here before, she told herself incredulously. If she had, how could she have forgotten it, how could she ever have left it? Even with the gloom of the lashing rain outside, it was surely the most beautiful room she’d ever seen in her life. The walls were of an old and mellow oak panelling, the ceiling low and comforting, with shelves of books all around. The furniture around her was old, a wonderful mix of antiques and overstuffed comfort. To her right was a gate leg table with a Chinese porcelain bowl of fresh flowers on it; across the room was a Chippendale highboy that made her ache with covetousness. And yet there was no need for envy, she realized suddenly. This was her home.

She lost track of the time, staring absently into the fire. It could have been five minutes, or an hour, before she became aware of her damp, uncomfortable condition. Her silk suit was ruined, and her entire body felt clammy and stiff despite the warmth of the fire. She decided then she couldn’t wait any longer for her phantom husband—she simply had to get into more comfortable clothing.

Making her way into the back hall, she turned on the lights against the late afternoon gloom. It was an eerie feeling, wandering around this vast, strange yet familiar house. At any moment she expected some stranger to pop out of a hidden doorway, to denounce her as an imposter.

But no one appeared. She climbed slowly UP the curved wooden staircase with its lovely oak planks polished to a mirror shine. At the top she stopped in confusion.

There were six or seven doors leading from the long, narrow hallway, and the passage itself took a sharp turn and went down two steps into another section. She had no idea which was her room. She explored slowly, noisily, so as to alert any possible inhabitants. But all the room were deserted. Four of the bedrooms were apparently occupied, three were just as obviously guest rooms.

It was hard to decide which room could have been hers. The first contained clothes rather like the ones

she was wearing: elegant, expensive, sophisticated and very uncomfortable looking. Yet they simply weren’t the sort of thing that the young woman in the mirror would really want to wear, especially at her age.

But the other bedroom’s closet revealed even less likely apparel. In it were dresses belonging to an obviously elegant, well-dressed matron of indeterminate age, wearing a stylishly stout size 24.

She wandered back into the other bedroom, with no choice but to accept the fact that everything was fitting in with the unattractive picture she was building of Mrs. Winters.

While the other bedrooms had beautiful old flooring covered sparingly with antique hooked rugs, hers was awash with puffy white wall-to wall carpeting. The other rooms boasted lovely old furniture, with gleaming woods lovingly tended. Her room had a matched set of expensive ugly modern furniture, all chrome and glass at screaming odds with the lines of the old room. The drapes and bedspread were satin, and the entire effect was one of tasteless opulence. She sat down at the mirrored dressing table and stared at herself over the rows of silver-topped bottles of perfumes and creams. That slightly tanned creature with the splash of freckles across her nose didn’t belong in this room, did she? Somehow she had the uneasy feeling that she did.

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 turtle neck, 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 remern-bet 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, to welling 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.

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