A Trace Of Memory. Valerie Hansen

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      He and Cleo had never laid a hand on that dog. It didn’t matter. There was a scar in the canine’s mind that overrode all the kindness they had shown since they’d adopted her.

      Travis covertly studied Emma as he followed the women toward the house. Emma was damaged, too. Perhaps severely. And it was going to be up to him to help her heal.

      “With the Lord’s help,” he muttered. “I don’t think I can be objective enough to do it alone.”

      His musings were disturbed when the three dogs that had stayed outside with him suddenly leaped off the back porch and raced around the house, barking.

      Travis stiffened. The pack sounded angry, defensive rather than excited about chasing prey the way they did when one of them scented a raccoon or a possum.

      Anyone who had owned dogs could tell the difference in their barks. And anybody who lived in the country knew better than to venture out unarmed when his dogs sounded an alarm like that.

      Travis burst into the kitchen, startling Cleo and Emma. Only old Bo, the dog that had stayed with the women, seemed aware that something was amiss.

      “Stay in here and lock the doors,” Travis ordered. He reached onto the top of a kitchen cabinet for a pistol and checked that it was loaded. “I’m going to go see what’s got the dogs so upset.”

      “Be careful,” Cleo warned. “Could be a two-legged skunk.” She pulled Emma closer. “Isn’t that right, girl?”

      The last thing Travis saw as he ducked back out the door was tears pooling in Emma’s wide, blue eyes.

      * * *

      Emma was desperately worried about Travis. She didn’t let herself be shepherded out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the second story until Cleo suggested they’d have a better view of the surrounding terrain from up there.

      The older woman proceeded to a bedroom window and beckoned. “Take a look from over here.”

      As soon as Emma was by her side, Cleo began to point. “There’s the lane you came up just now. Beyond the creek is the Hall place. A lot of their kin live hereabouts, too.”

      “I’m sorry. I don’t remember,” Emma said softly.

      “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you.”

      Leaving that room, Cleo led Emma to the opposite side of the house and raised the bedroom blinds. “Down there’s the barn and Travis’s rig. See? I keep my town car in the barn so’s it won’t get dusty.” She smiled. “Not that that helps a whole lot around here.”

      “Where’s Travis? I don’t see him.”

      “Maybe out behind. Depends on where those fool dogs led him.”

      “You don’t seem very worried.”

      “My nephew can take care of himself. It’s you I’m concerned about.” She lowered her voice in spite of the fact they were alone in the house. “Are you just embarrassed to speak of it or have you really got amnesia?”

      “I can’t remember much,” Emma admitted. “Some things are crystal clear, like knowing Travis by sight when I saw him in town. If I had amnesia, I wouldn’t have known that, would I?”

      “Beats me. I’ve got a nurse-practitioner friend who might be able to say. How about if I call her?”

      “Maybe later. I’d like to clean up and rest first, if you don’t mind.”

      “’Course. Where’s my manners? I’ve got a brand-new jogging suit that should fit you. My sister sent it to me last Christmas,” Cleo said, taking a clean towel out of a linen closet and handing it to Emma. “I’ve never worn the outfit and probably never will. It’s just not my style.”

      She pointed. “Make yourself at home in this bathroom. Take as long as you need. I’ll leave the clean clothes on the bed right outside this other door and you’ll have all the privacy you want.”

      “I don’t know how to thank you.”

      “All you need to think about now is taking care of yourself, honey. Don’t worry about later. If my nephew gets too nosy, I’ll put him in his place.”

      “I wish I...”

      Cleo laid a gentle hand on Emma’s arm through the sleeve of the gray sweatshirt. “Hush. Leave your dirty clothes outside in the hall and I’ll see that they’re washed and dried in a jiffy.”

      Touched, Emma brushed her bangs off her forehead with a shaky hand. “Thank you.”

      “No thanks needed. Just doin’ my Christian duty. I’m glad you’re a believer, too. It’ll help you get better.”

      Was she? Emma wondered. She supposed she wouldn’t have thought to pray before if she didn’t believe in God, but she couldn’t recall having been in a church for a long, long time.

      That probably didn’t matter to Him, she reasoned, calling to mind scraps of scripture promising faithfulness toward confessed believers. She could even picture herself, at a very young age, standing before her peers and reciting the week’s memory verses.

      Emma was smiling slightly as she turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

      Her jaw dropped. Who was that weary, bruised waif looking back at her? There were dark circles and puffy half-moons beneath her reddened eyes. Her skin was unnaturally pale—except where a bruise as big as a fist colored one cheek. And her hair!

      “Cleo was right,” Emma muttered, embarrassed and averting her gaze. “I’m bound to feel better after I shower and put on clean clothes.”

      And then what? What was she going to say when she finally emerged and rejoined the little family that had taken her in? How could she explain anything when her thoughts were as jumbled as the letter tiles in a spelling game, as tempest-tossed as dry leaves in an Arkansas tornado?

      Fear of the unknown coursed through her. Not remembering being hurt might have given her temporary respite but now it was detrimental. As long as the face of her abuser remained lost in the labyrinth of her mind she was in continuing danger.

      He—she was certain it had been a man—could walk up to her and she wouldn’t recognize him. Or would she? There was no way to tell unless the meeting actually took place, and given the damage he’d already inflicted upon her, being face-to-face was the last thing she wanted.

      Perhaps her reaction would be as instinctive as it had been when she’d seen Travis again. In the case of her nameless nemesis, she hoped and prayed she’d be aware enough to either flee or defend herself.

      That thought reminded her of her race through the forest and the coarse shouts she’d heard behind her right before the shooting started.

      That event was crystal clear. So why was she having so much trouble with the hours and days immediately preceding it?

      Time will tell, Emma insisted. It had better.

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