Trey's Secret Read online

  Again he stared at the postmark. Granger, Montana. It still didn’t ring any bells. He didn’t live there. He lived in…

  He went totally still, bracing against a wave of shock. He not only didn’t know where he lived, he didn’t know who he was.

  Stunned, he searched his memory. He knew the jeans he wore were Levis but he couldn’t recall his own name, nor where he came from, nor how he’d arrived on this deserted stretch of highway.

  Distracted, he brushed absentmindedly at a trickle of moisture on his cheek. His fingers came away wet with blood.

  His attention caught by the crimson stain, he narrowed his eyes, considering what he did know.

  First, he was bleeding from a cut on his head. Gingerly, he explored his temple and found a lump.

  Correction, I’m bleeding from a cut probably caused by a blow from whatever blunt instrument gave me this bump.

  Second, he couldn’t remember a damn thing about himself. His pockets were empty — no wallet, no ID, no money except for the hundred-dollar bill hidden in his boot.

  It made sense to assume he’d been robbed, he thought. But why would a thief have dumped him out along the road in the middle of nowhere?

  Unless he knew the person who’d fleeced him? Maybe he’d been attacked in his car?

  A swift, vivid image of a silver vehicle, a mud-spattered truck and two men, one of whom lifted a tire iron and swung it at him, flashed before his eyes. His stomach rolled as the memory washed through him and he relived the pain that followed the slam of the tire iron against his head and the sickening fall into oblivion when he lost consciousness.

  Someone tried to kill me. The deep conviction set off warning bells and keyed an adrenaline rush that kicked in his survival instinct. Ignoring the pounding agony in his head, he scanned the surrounding area once more, relieved when he found nothing threatening.

  The low roar of an engine broke the quiet and a semi truck appeared around the curve in the highway some distance away. Exhaust billowed from tall silver pipes on each side of the cab, creating streaks of white against the deep blue sky and gray-green pastures.

  What are the odds this might be someone coming back to make sure I’m dead?

  On the other hand, if it wasn’t, the big semi might be his chance to put miles between him and the lonely spot where they’d dumped his body. It was a gamble, but the brief flashback had revealed a silver SUV and a pickup truck, not a lumbering commercial semi.

  He tucked the envelope and knife back into his boot, shoved the hundred-dollar bill into his jeans pocket and walked gingerly to the pavement’s white center line.

  I hope to hell the driver sees me in time. And that he isn’t the guy that put me in the ditch.

  The truck slowed as it neared, three blasts of the horn blaring a loud warning.

  He lifted his arms and waved his hands over his head in an attempt to flag down the truck. Luckily, the big semi rumbled to a stop beside him, air brakes wheezing.

  “What the hell happened to you?” The driver asked, peering down at him from the open window of the high cab.

  “I’ve been robbed,” he answered, thinking quickly. “Emptied my pockets and stole my car.” He touched his temple, the brief pressure making it throb. “Left me a souvenir, too. Can you give me a lift to the nearest town?”

  “Sure, climb in.” The beefy driver jerked his head toward the passenger side.

  Square black lettering spelled out Edward Brothers Cattle Company on the white painted door. He pulled it open and climbed up.

  “Here.” The driver handed him a stained but clean mechanics’ towel when he’d settled into the seat and slammed the door. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Thanks.” He pressed the cloth to his temple.

  “Bud Ames.” The driver held out his hand.

  “Ed Smith,” he replied, inspired by the sign on the truck door. He knew it probably wasn’t his real name, but it was easy enough to remember and for now, it would do.

  “There’s some ice in the cooler behind the seat,” the driver said as he released the brake and shifted into gear. “Might help that knot you’ve got on your head. Where you bound?”

  He hadn’t a clue. Only one destination came to mind. “Granger,” he replied.

  The driver nodded. “I’m going through there. You can ride all the way with me or you can get out at the next town and have that cut looked at. There’s a big truck stop on the outskirts so it should be easy to catch another ride if you decide to see a doc before heading for Granger.”

  “I think I’ll get stitched up first.”

  “Your choice.”

  An hour later they turned off the highway and entered a small town.

  “Where do you want me to drop you off?” The driver pointed out the windshield. “There’s a clinic over yonder if you want to have your head seen to first, or the police station is a few blocks further on if you’d rather report bein’ attacked.”

  He didn’t need to weigh his options. The wound on his temple was raw and a headache pulsed behind his eyes. “The clinic.”

  The truck rumbled through the center of town, the storefronts growing fewer and interspersed with private homes before the trucker braked and pulled to the curb. “This is the clinic.” He nodded at the single-story building just beyond the passenger’s window. “You take care now. Good luck.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” He held out his hand.

  “No problem.”

  The semi with its load of cattle moved slowly off down the street as he entered the building.

  Two hours later he left the emergency room with ten stitches in his head and his pocket lighter by eighty dollars. The nurse had shown him to a restroom where he’d washed the blood from his hands and face and brushed most of the dirt from his shirt and jeans. Luckily, the ditch had been lined with gravel, which kept the mud on his clothes to a minimum. Time and heat had dried his jeans and shirt. There was nothing he could do about the dark shadow of his beard — the restroom hadn’t supplied a razor.

  The doctor couldn’t give him a definite time-table regarding the return of his memory. However, the MD had assured him that in his experience, cases of amnesia like his were often short-term and it was likely he’d start remembering things gradually over the next few weeks. While there was no magic pill that could restore his memory immediately, he was relieved to learn the loss probably wouldn’t be permanent.

  After declining the doctor’s offer to refer him to the local social services agency for assistance, he left the clinic and paused on the sidewalk. Should he visit the local police and report the robbery?

  He wasn’t sure he should. While visiting the Sheriff’s Office was his best chance of finding whether someone, somewhere, had reported him missing, he’d have to tell the sheriff he had amnesia. Which would surely set off a search for his next of kin, that couldn’t be kept private and in the end might prove dangerous. If the sheriff’s investigation alerted his attackers before his memory returned, how would he recognize the enemy? He might end up in a ditch again. Only next time he’d be dead.

  Deciding to postpone a visit to the Sheriffs Office until he’d considered the situation from all possible angles, he headed back toward the highway. He’d grab a sandwich at the truck stop café and look for a driver willing to give him a ride to Granger.

  Chapter Two

  Lori Ashworth leaned against the kitchen counter, staring out the window into the backyard as she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. She cherished this part of the day when the house was quiet and she had an hour to herself before leaving for work at the Granger Bar and Restaurant.

  On the countertop beside her, the coffeemaker gave a final gurgle and the light on the machine switched off. She carried her mug and a bowl of cereal outside to the patio table for her last chance to enjoy some solitude until the following morning. At 7:00 a.m., the sun’s rays were already hot on her bare arms and legs but lacked the burn they would hold later. The lattice above her filtered
the sunlight over hanging cedar baskets filled with begonias, geraniums and fuchsias that trailed lush greenery and colorful blossoms toward the concrete pad below.

  For the past three months, these peaceful breaks had gradually turned introspective. Ever since she celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday, she’d felt restless.

  What’s wrong with me?

  She paused, spoon in hand and stared unseeingly at the expanse of emerald-green lawn. What was it that stirred this vaguely unsettled feeling?

  She pondered the question, thinking about her life, and finally decided that perhaps it was because she was stuck in neutral, romantically speaking. She didn’t feel lonely, exactly, and she was far too busy to be bored. But she’d grown up in Granger, and except for the four years she’d spent in Missoula at college, she’d seen the same people every week of her life. No thrills, no intrigue — no guy making her heart beat faster.

  Not that she was looking for a serious relationship, she thought, sipping her coffee. And she definitely wasn’t in the market for a husband since she barely had time to cope with her mother, the business and keeping her two younger siblings in college funds.

  Still, she thought wistfully, it would be nice to have some excitement in my life. What woman wouldn’t like a little romance?

  The alarm on her watch went off, pulling her thoughts away from daydreaming and wishes. Ten minutes later she left the house for the six-block walk to the restaurant.

  Just before 10:00 a.m., the moving van he’d hitched a ride with rolled into Granger, a medium-size ranching community with established neighborhoods and a few new houses on the outskirts. The main street was wide and uncrowded, lined on both sides with a variety of businesses. Though not a large town, it appeared prosperous.

  He scanned the storefronts, wanting to feel a connection, to see a sign he knew or a face he recognized, anything that would tell him he belonged in Granger. Despite his hopes, he didn’t have a gut-deep feeling telling him this was home.

  He asked the driver to drop him at a stoplight, returning the man’s wave as he climbed down from the cab. The big truck lumbered away down the road and he set off along the sidewalk. Halfway through the four-block business district, he stopped abruptly, his attention caught by a saloon on the opposite side of the street.

  He studied the Granger Bar and Restaurant. There was something very familiar about the neat facade with its two front entrances and the combination of bar and dining room next door to each other. He stepped off the curb, pausing to let a dusty ranch pickup truck pass before he crossed the street. A red-and-white Help Wanted sign was taped inside the window to the left of the entry.

  Maybe my luck is about to change, he thought. The small amount of cash in his pocket wouldn’t last long, and he had yet to come up with a brilliant plan to learn his identity without chancing another attack from whoever wanted him dead.

  The cool interior of the empty saloon was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Wooden booths with navy-blue vinyl upholstered benches lined two walls while round tables with seating for four were arranged haphazardly in the center of the room. At the back, an empty space in front of a raised stage clearly served as a dance floor. On his right was a bar that stretched the length of the wall, lined with mirrors that reached to the ceiling.

  “Can I help you?”

  A woman entered the room from a side door and walked toward him, skirting the tables. She carried a handful of red-and-white Help Wanted signs and a roll of Scotch tape.

  A mane of pale-blond hair was pulled up into a ponytail, silky wisps escaping to curl against her nape. She wore a white tank top with narrow shoulder straps, her arms tan and smooth, while brief khaki shorts left her slender legs bare.

  He stopped breathing. All his senses focused on her and the elusive feminine scent that reached his nostrils.

  “Can I get you something? Anything?”

  He realized he was staring at her mouth and when he snapped his attention higher, read wary concern in sea-green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes. Delicate dark brows arched questioningly above those fathomless eyes.

  Lori Ashworth stared at the stranger, who stared back at her as if he’d been frozen in place.

  He was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders, lean hips and long legs. His black Western shirt had pearl snaps and was tucked into the waistband of faded Levis, a black leather belt with a conservative silver buckle threaded through the jeans’ belt loops. Black cowboy boots covered his feet.

  Faint beard stubble shadowed his jaw and cheeks, a shade darker than the mahogany tint of his hair. Beneath the arch of his brows, his eyes were thick-lashed and an unusual dark-gray color. On his right temple, near the hairline, perhaps five inches or so of white medical tape stood out starkly against tanned skin. The tape didn’t quite cover a nasty-looking bump and a bruise that looked new and would no doubt be more defined and colorful by tomorrow.

  He looked faintly rumpled and dangerous. And he oozed a sexual appeal that vibrated along her nerve endings.

  She was sure she hadn’t seen him before. He wasn’t a man she would have forgotten. He was, however, the most interesting male to walk into her life in years, maybe ever.

  She didn’t know what he was doing in her bar but she’d definitely like him to stay for a while.

  “Can I get you something to drink? A beer, maybe?” Fortunately, friendliness was expected from a bartender, she thought, and hopefully, he wouldn’t realize the impact he was having on her.

  “No, thanks, I don’t drink alcohol.”

  His voice was deep, with a slight, lazy drawl that weakened her knees and stirred heat in her midsection.

  “Well then, how about some ice water?”

  A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Sounds good. I’d appreciate it.”

  He took a seat on one of the stools as Lori walked behind the bar. She filled a tall tumbler half full with ice and added water. “Here you go.” She set the glass on a napkin and slid it across the counter in front of him.

  She knew she was staring but couldn’t look away from the rhythmic movement of the muscles in his throat as he swallowed.

  The glass was empty when he set it back on the bar. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips, blotting a few drops of moisture.

  Without comment, she refilled it and watched as he drained half the water before stopping.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Not a problem. It’s hot outside,” she added.

  His brief grin showed a flash of white teeth in his brown face. “Feels like it’s over a hundred.”

  “No air-conditioning in your car?” she asked with sympathy.

  “No car.”

  She gestured at the bandage on his temple. “What happened?”

  “I was robbed.”

  She blinked, taken aback at the briefness of his reply. “What did they hit you with?”

  “Something heavy.” His wry tone was accompanied by a slight grin that lifted the corners of his mouth.

  Lori was distracted by the sensual curve of his lips and he spoke again before she could gather her wits and question him further.

  “Who do I see about the job?”

  “That would be me — are you looking for work?” She gasped as she suddenly realized who this man was. Over six feet, dark hair, light eyes — he fit Bill’s description perfectly, although his eyes were gray instead of light blue. But then, she knew for a fact that Bill was color blind. “Oh, my goodness! You’re Troy Jones, aren’t you! I was expecting you three days ago — Bill told me you were taking a week to go hiking in Yellowstone before you came to Granger.” She looked again at the strip of white tape. “I’m guessing you’re late because of the robbery?”

  He nodded and took another drink of ice water.

  “I was starting to worry about you. I tried to call Bill yesterday but he and Rhonda had already left for their cruise and since they’ll be gone for a month, I didn’t know who else to ask. I’m so rel
ieved you’re here — my late-shift bartender quit yesterday. Bill warned me you can only stay until the Four Buttes Saloon reopens in six weeks and told me he’d made you promise to return.” She smiled with pleasure and relief and held out her hand. “I’m Lori Ashworth. I manage the bar and the restaurant next door.”

  He set the empty glass down and brushed his damp palm over his jeans-covered thigh. He had no idea how he knew beyond a doubt she was wrong about who he was. Neither did he have a clue as to what had become of the bartender the beautiful blonde had been expecting, but if she thought he was someone named Troy Jones and was willing to give him a job, he was more than glad to take it. The real Troy Jones would likely appear sooner or later but he’d handle that when it happened. For now he’d play the cards fate had dealt him.

  He took her slim hand, registering the instant jolt of electricity and the feel of her soft, feminine palm in his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lori.”

  He didn’t release her hand until she tugged slightly.

  “Nice to meet you, too.” A faint flush tinted her cheeks and her fingers weren’t quite steady as she brushed a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “How did you get to Granger without a car?”

  “I hitched a ride with a trucker.” He’d decided to stick with the story he’d told the driver. He had no memory of being robbed but it seemed logical to conclude that was why he’d landed in the ditch. “When they stole my car and gave me this —” he gestured at his temple “— they also took my wallet.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her expression was sympathetic. “You can run a tab in the restaurant next door until you receive your first week’s pay if you’d like. Since my family owns both businesses, it’s not a problem. Just let the waitress know and we’ll deduct the total from your check.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  “Well…that’s settled, then. I’ll need to fill out the usual paperwork for a new hire, but we can put that off for a few days until you can replace your identification. We provide T-shirts stamped with our logo for all employees to wear while on duty and a room upstairs comes with the job. There’s very little crime in Granger but every now and then teenagers break in and steal beer so we prefer to have someone living on the premises.”