Just A Memory Away

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. At a hospital you could. And they would contact the police, who would—”

“Please.”

Frankie stopped dabbing and leaned close to look deeper into his eyes for a clue as to what was going on. In the dim overhead light the color wasn’t exactly dark like a deepwater blue, but more of a slate or stormy shade. Of course, some of that gray could be a result of the concussion or whatever it was that he was suffering from. In any case, it bothered her to be tempted to find out how they would look in the light of day, or when he was healthy. Smiling.

Stop it, Jonesy. You don’t need the trouble or the heartache.

Nevertheless, she heard herself murmur, “I guess I could take you down the road to my place. But I should warn you, it’s not fancy.”

“I only want to lie down. Get warm.”

He was cold? She’d thought he’d been shaking from the fright she’d given him, and from whatever he’d gone through that had put him in this state. After all, it was July, and it had to be at least seventy degrees or better. That more than anything else decided her.

She tossed the soiled tissues onto the floorboard, and carefully shut the passenger door. When she once again slid behind the steering wheel, she shot him a wry look.

“Maybe I’d better warn you about a few more things. I don’t live alone.”

He seemed confused for a moment, but soon inclined his head. “I won’t stay. Just… rest.”

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she could have sworn he looked disappointed. “You misunderstand. I mean that you won’t quite have the privacy you might want, because I have pets and they, um, get around.”

“I like dogs and cats. I think.”

She chuckled softly and shifted into gear. “Well, that’s a start.”

They drove a few miles, and during that time Frankie waited, hoping he would initiate more conversation, but he didn’t. He simply sat beside her. The shaking eased a bit; nevertheless, it didn’t stop entirely.

“I’d turn on the heater for you, but it doesn’t work. Neither does the air conditioner. Petunia has a few miles on her.” She patted the truck’s worn dashboard with affection.

Her companion merely peered into the dark night, as if trying to recognize something of his surroundings.

In an attempt to help him relax—and maybe herself, too—she offered, “My name is Frankie.”

That got his attention. “Why do you have a boy’s name?”

“Blame it on my mother.” Frankie made a face. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being an actress. Not only didn’t that happen, she ended up marrying my father and inherited the last name of Jones. What a curse for poor Mom. All during her pregnancy with me, she went through book after book of baby names, until she came up with Francesca.”

“Francesca… pretty.”

Ugh, He would say something like that. “It’s not bad,” she said with hard-won grace, “but not for someone like me. Before I was five, I had everyone calling me Frankie.”

Her passenger went back to studying his surroundings. Almost as an afterthought he murmured, “I don’t know if I like my name.”

Boy, she’d all but stuck her whole leg in it that time. Frankie shot him an apologetic look. “Don’t worry. No doubt all you need is a good night’s rest.” Belatedly, however, she remembered having read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to let a concussion victim drift into too deep a sleep. She decided she would let the experts warn him about that when she finally got him to the hospital.

It took only another few minutes to reach her home. The Silver Duck was parked on the southwest boundary of Mr. Miller’s farm. Mr. Miller was a widower who owned several hundred acres bordering a creek that fed into the Trinity River. That creek also filled the stock pond where Frankie had parked her trailer. Her agreement with the oldtimer was that she watched over his southernmost boundary—he’d often been the victim of poachers and cattle rustlers—and in exchange, he let her tie into the utility box that he’d set up for a former ranch hand, who hadn’t stayed on.

No sooner did she park beside the hail-damaged and timeworn trailer than they found themselves surrounded by a small herd of animals. Amid the barking, meowing and general ruckus, Frankie noted her passenger’s wide-eyed stare at the three-legged cat that stared back at him through the windshield.

She grinned. “Don’t worry. This only looks and sounds like Little Big Horn. I assure you, they’re all fairly friendly. Hello, babies,” she cooed, as she eased open her door. The animals swarmed around her to nuzzle, lick, and playfully nip at her jeans and T-shirt.

When Frankie made it to the passenger side and opened the door to help out her newest houseguest, he hesitated. “I thought you said dogs and cats?”

“No, you did.”

And there was a dog and cat. Maury, named after a TV talk-show host, was a long-haired German shepherd, blinded in one eye from a carelessly aimed BB gun. The cat was Callie, short for Calico, who often acted as mother to the group, despite her handicap, the result of a near-fatal car accident.

There was also Samson, the potbellied pig, who used his girth to push his way into anywhere he wanted to go. George, a rather distinguished muskovy duck. Her beloved Lambchop, the clubfooted donkey, who brought up the rear of every family parade. And perhaps her most irascible member of the family, Rasputin, a goat with eyebrows as bushy as his long beard.

Once the stranger emerged from the truck, Maury and Rasputin initiated an instant tug-of-war with the blanket. Frankie sighed; she should have known they wouldn’t cut the new guy any slack.

“Guys, guys… not now!”

She gave her crew gentle nudges with her knees and elbows, whatever worked as she assisted her guest up the two steps to the deck she’d built herself last fall. For the most part, though, her efforts to keep her brood away from her guest were wasted. By the time she had the trailer door open, she had a feeling her company was wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off risking a night out under the stars beating off mosquitoes and God knew what else. She didn’t know how to warn him that he was in for round two, except to simply push open the door.

“I’m home!” she called into the darkness.

Even before she found the light switch, she was greeted with a scream. “Erk... save me! Save me!”

From across the room she heard a flutter of wings, and then felt claws grip her shoulder with flawless precision. “Ouch—watch it!” Frankie muttered, flicking on the wall switch.

As the room flooded with light, illuminating the crimson-and-azure parrot on her shoulder, the bird gave her a peck on the cheek. “Erk. Hello, Blondie.”

“You know you’re not supposed to let yourself out until I tell you it’s safe.”

“Erk. Gimmee a kiss.”

Although she complied, Frankie didn’t spare the bird a necessary scolding. “What I should do is let Dr. J. have you for dinner, you juvenile delinquent.”

That was too many words for the creature, and yet Honey seemed to get the message. She glided back across the room and into her cage, quickly tugging the door shut behind her. Just in time, too. Right on her tail came Dr. J., the Manx cat who’d recently come close to successfully slam-dunking the parrot into his food bowl.

“I really do work at keeping these two separated,” she told her guest, who stood mesmerized by the show. “But Dr. J.’s learned how to escape from the back bedroom, and I haven’t figured out what to do about that yet.”

“Are there any more?” the stranger asked, glancing around warily.

“Two. But you won’t meet them until they’re ready. They’re very shy.” She took his arm again. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? We can talk more after. The bathroom’s the first door,” she said, pointing down the hall. “As for clothes… I’m afraid you’ll have to cope with the blanket, or a towel. I do have some sleep shirts, but somehow I don’t think even they’d be large enough.”

The stranger paused, and although he needed the support of the wall to stay on his feet, his gaze was direct—and grateful. “I may be confused, but… I know I’m asking for a great deal from you.”

Mercy, she could spend all night and more gazing into those eyes. “That’s okay.”

“Too much trust.”

“That’s okay,” she repeated, not caring if she did sound like a just-hatched chick.

He didn’t quite sigh, but he might as well have. “Thank you.”

The longer he watched her, the more active her imagination grew, until she began feeling her insides turn to taffy, her cheeks grow feverish. She gestured into the bathroom, while backing toward the kitchen. “I, um, have to feed the gang. Don’t drown in there, okay?”

“Miss… Frankie?”

She stopped. Waited.

“You won’t go too far? You…the sound of your voice… you’re very reassuring.”

Oh, help.

Right then and there she knew she was in major trouble. Between the lost tone in his voice and the look in his eyes, he might as well have put a one-armed nelson around her heart. Frankie could deal with mashers, professional flirts, and even a male-chauvinist porky, but a vulnerable man clearly in trouble…?

“Drat it and phooey. I thought you guys were extinct!”

“Wh- Extinct?”

This was not a time to knock him into a tailspin with her impulsive philosophizing. Frankie dismissed herself with a wave. “Never mind. Everybody feels as if they’re lost once in a while. Go take that shower, and we’ll take things from there. Okay?”

Two

The instant she heard him shut the bathroom door, Frankie pursed her lips together for a silent whistle. What a close call! If he’d stood there another few seconds, no doubt she would have offered to bathe him herself. Boy, if the guy could do that to her when dazed and grubby, there was no telling what impact he would have when spruced up and functioning on all eight cylinders.

Bemused by the prospect, she headed back toward the kitchen, only to stop at the sudden touch of hot breath on her cheek. It was followed by the flick of a sandpaper tongue, then the weight of two reptilian feet. Finally, the iguana climbed off a stereo speaker to wrap himself completely around her shoulders.

Frankie scratched Bugsy under his flabby neck. “So what do you think?” she whispered, continuing on her way. “I know you’re intrigued. You never come out to check out company unless you are.”

At the counter she stooped to let the iguana onto the steadier base, then flipped on more lights. Dr. J. was already settled on his favorite bar stool in the hope of getting a late-night snack, and Honey croaked from her cage, although she still had plenty in her feeder to nibble on.

“Okay, you guys,” Frankie said, conscious of the less patient scratching and braying that hadn’t stopped just beyond the screen door. “Everyone will get something, as usual, but keep it down. Mercy… far be it from you guys to wait five extra minutes while I try to take care of a guest!”

Maury uttered a low-throated growl through the screen. He always needed to get in the last word.

“I heard that.” Frankie held up the steak bone she’d brought from work that one of the girls had saved for her. “See this? No jealousy or I’ll let Samson chew on this.”

That earned her a snort of disgust from Maury, who then slapped the aluminum door with a huge paw. Rasputin supplied his support with a bump of his head.

Frankie couldn’t help but smile. No wonder her guest had looked dubious about getting out of Petunia. Even for someone familiar with them and as fond as she was, they could be a challenge. She knew she wouldn’t be able to play with them tonight as much as she would like, either, because she needed to save a bit of energy for the man who remained too quiet in the bathroom.

Despite her intentions, it took her a good twenty minutes to feed the motley group. By the time she issued “lovies” to the last animal, and returned to the bathroom, the prospect of a shower looked pretty good to her, too. Hoping that the stranger had finished, she knocked lightly on the door.

“How’s it going in there?”

She listened, but heard no reply.

“Hello? Are you all right?”

The silence had her imagining the worst: what if he’d been injured more severely than she’d imagined? What if he’d lost his balance and was bleeding to death on her bathroom floor? What if…?

“Mister! I’m going to come in, okay?”

When he still failed to answer, Frankie momentarily lost her confidence. Only darn it all, she couldn’t afford to; there was no one to do this if she didn’t!

As she cautiously peered around the door, she found her guest seated on the commode lid. He looked much the same as when she’d left him.

Not one to stifle too many emotions, she sighed and touched his shoulder gently so as not to startle him. “Hey. Didn’t you hear me?”

He looked up at her, and her heart did a little jig as his eyes brightened, warmed. “Hello,” he murmured.

“Hi. You’re supposed to be taking a shower.”

He glanced at the stall as if only now realizing its purpose. “I guess I forgot.”

Forgot the only instruction she’d given him? Frankie’s spirits sank again. “Please, don’t say that. You don’t know how close I am to calling the police for help.”

“No. No…don’t.”

“But you’re hurt, and it’s obvious this didn’t happen by simply falling over a tree stump. I could probably be put in jail for the infraction of some civil law by not already having you at a hospital. Failure to render aid or something—I seem to remember they have that law here.”

He frowned. “But you did help me.”

“Proper. Proper aid is the key word in this case.” Frankie crouched before him to make him meet her studious gaze. “Look…you have to work with me. You have to take that shower. You’ll feel much better if you get cleaned up, I’m sure of it. If not, I’ll let you lie down for a while afterward. You really don’t want to lie down on my clean sheets when you’re caked with mud and who knows what else, right? Can you do that for me?”

He inclined his head. It wasn’t, however, a full-fledged nod.

Not sure that he fully comprehended, Frankie gestured toward the fiberglass cubicle. “Well… anytime you’re ready.”

Obviously it wasn’t now. Her guest simply continued sitting there staring straight ahead.

Beginning to feel as if she was fighting an unwinnable battle, she took hold of his hands, which hung loosely between his knees. “Let me try a different approach…. Are

you making sense of anything I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to go in there.”

Frankie eyed the shower stall. What did he mean? Sure, her trailer didn’t look like much from the outside, even through the kind filter of darkness. After the death of her grandmother, her grandfather had towed the thing from one part of the States to another and then some, not missing a single pothole or dusty canyon on his journey of selfdiscovery. And there was no use trying to ignore the obvious: she could almost open her own zoo. That had its own cost. But concussion or no concussion, surely he could tell she was a painstaking housekeeper?

“I don’t understand,” she told him with quiet urgency.

“It looks—I can’t see.”

“See what?”

“See. In there.”

It took her a few seconds, but she finally understood what he meant. He would feel claustrophobic in the stall. Whether this was a result of his injury, or something deeper, she had no way of knowing; but it didn’t appear as if she was going to be able to talk him out of it before the sun rose.

“Holy Moly…” She sat back on her heels. “I’m definitely in way over my head here. You have to let me take you somewhere.”

“No.”

“To a doctor? For your own good?”

“No!”

Before she could react, he took possession of her wrists in a blood-draining grasp. He had impressive strength for an injured guy; in fact, his touch was so intense she had to bite back a cry. Sure, she’d been clawed, bitten and bullied time and again by the strays and abused animals she’d taken into her home; but this was different. This was more personal, more dangerous than anything she’d experienced before.

“Listen to me.” Ever so slowly, she lowered her head so that her cheek stroked against the powerful fingers shutting off the blood supply to her hands. “You’re hurting me… and you’re frightening me.”

He immediately let her go. Looking shocked, he touched her hair. “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”

The anguish in his voice was real, his touch gentle. Frankie abandoned her momentary impulse to run; however, she did sit up and eye him with renewed concern. “What am I going to do with you? Don’t you understand that you have to get cleaned up and get that dirt out of your wounds?”

He frowned, looked at the shower stall and then at her again. “Can you help me?”

Whoa.

He couldn’t be serious? But no sooner did Frankie open her mouth to tell him that, than she realized she didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t an act. “Aw…no,” she moaned, “don’t do this to me.”

“Please. It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m just not sure I can-”

“Manage on your own in such a small space?” At his brief nod, she groaned inwardly. Granted, the male body was hardly an unknown commodity to her, but she hadn’t seen all that many. Did he realize what he was asking of her?

Of course he did, she realized a moment later when a dark flush crept into his face. Otherwise he wouldn’t look as miserable and trapped as she felt.

She sighed. “Am I a wuss or what?”

“Sorry?”

“Anyone can be a marshmallow,” she said, rising to slide open the shower door and turn on the water. “It takes a rare talent to be a wuss.”

From the cabinet behind her, she took the biggest towel she owned and set it on the edge of the sink for when they were done. Then she slipped out of her sneakers.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she told the injured stranger as she tugged off her socks. “Any funny business and you’re dead meat, got it?”

“Not feeling very funny.”

“We’ll see.”

She didn’t turn away from him as she stripped off her jeans. Modesty wasn’t the issue; and despite her comment, she didn’t think he looked as if he was in any shape to really pull something. What’s more her T-shirt and panties left her more covered than when swimming with Holly at her friend’s apartment pool.

It was the stranger who presented the problem.

“Okay,” she said, adjusting the hot-and cold-water taps. “I guess I’m ready if you are.”

Frankie’s curiosity as to whether he was the modest type or not was answered seconds after she spoke. The stranger used her shoulder and the wall for support, and eased himself to his feet. The abandoned blanket simply fell away, and he stood before her as naked and unsteady as a one-year-old testing his legs for the first time.

And you thought keeping something on would make things less sexual? Jonesy, you are daffier than Honey.

She already considered the man a heartthrob, but that proved the father of all understatements. He was what the girls at the club would call a “stud.” Simply beautiful, as far as she was concerned. One inevitable cheater-glance downward, and she knew it would be a miracle if she got through this without making an absolute fool of herself.

She slipped an arm around his waist to offer additional balance. “Easy. Easy.” She coaxed him into the stall. “You’re doing great.”

“Feel lousy.”

“There’s a built-in seat in here. You can sit down in just a second.”

“Okay, just… don’t close the door.”

“I won’t.” Things were cramped enough as it was. She’d never thought about how small the shower was in all the time she’d owned the Silver Duck. But the stranger changed that the instant they were both inside the cubicle and she tried to help him onto the triangular bench. It was impossible. No matter how badly she wanted to avoid it, those long legs of his were tantamount to trying to maneuver around redwood trees in a gym locker. If she wanted to get him settled, not to mention cleaned up, she would have to suffer through a bit more body contact.

Tough work, Jonesy, but you are the only volunteer.

“Wait a minute.” Already wet, she was drenched by the time she maneuvered him to where he needed to be. “And we haven’t even been properly introduced,” she muttered, the third and hopefully last time his nose bumped against her breast.

Fortunately, he either didn’t hear her or else didn’t care to comment, and she quickly busied herself by adjusting the spray away from herself and back onto him. “Now, if you get dizzy or anything, hold on to me.”

For the moment, however, he seemed content to lean back against the fiberglass wall and close his eyes. In fact, he looked as if it would take dynamite to move him again.

That troubled her. “You can’t go to sleep on me.”

“Tired.”

“No, no, no. You have to help me to help you.”

“Try…”

She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and decided to work on his hair first. From the looks of the dirty water running down his face, she figured the sooner they got him cleaned up there, the better his chances of avoiding an infection in those cuts and scrapes.

Fortunately she used a fragrance-free shampoo and soap, so she didn’t have to worry about an allergic reaction; but she did worry about causing him additional pain. She asked him several times as she carefully worked the soap into a rich lather whether she was hurting him or not, until she finally believed he meant it when he said she had an “angel’s touch.”

“I sure hope so,” she said, getting more chatty to keep from focusing on how his thighs kept rubbing against hers. “I’d sure hate trying to explain to the police why I thought I could do a better job at patching you up than a hospital could.”

“No police. No hospital.”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you before.”

Once she rinsed out the shampoo, however, she had to sacrifice gentleness for thoroughness. Although she half drowned him, she used a washcloth to clean the wound at his temple; but, under the circumstances, it was the only way to make sure she got out every bit of grit.

By the time she had him lean forward to focus on the lump at the back of his head, he’d lost what was left of his equilibrium. When she released him to rinse out her cloth, he almost fell off the seat, nearly taking her with him.

She earned a bruised elbow for that one and a near heart attack. Once she got him steady, she tried again…and again. Each time, she had to deal with the same results.

“I know you’re beat,” she gasped, wearying herself, “but we have to get done.”

“Feel… sick.”

“Now, is that any way to talk to the woman who’s considering having your baby?” She peered at him, hoping that little shocker might have the desired effect. It didn’t. “Okay, then let’s try this. Brace your forearms on your knees and your forehead here.” She patted her tummy to show him.

At first the solution worked perfectly. He stayed steady, and she made good progress as she attended to the nasty bump on the back of his head.

Then she grew aware of how much hotter his breath was

than the water—against her tummy… her thighs…. And

as if that wasn’t enough, when he tilted off-balance again, he recovered by grabbing her legs!

Frankie froze, the feel of his big, strong hands moving on the backs of her thighs just a teensy bit more than she’d bargained for. “Um… mister.”

Could he be toying with her, after all? When he shifted his hold higher and almost cupped her bottom, she was nearly convinced. Then, just as she aimed the washcloth to slap his hands away, he uttered a deep, miserable moan.

“Can’t do this much longer.”