Ben moved in a slow circle, looking around the room. There were couches and stuffed armchairs that sat facing the windows. In the center of the room hung a large chandelier, scattering prism rainbows across the walls. She wondered what he was thinking.

  “Did you decorate this?” he asked.

  She laughed softly. “Yes, this is all my touch.”

  “Wow...”

  Was he really impressed? It was nothing compared to the kind of lavish lifestyle his family enjoyed.

  “You gave me an old hunting lodge in our divorce settlement,” she said.

  “And this is the result.” His dark gaze moved over to meet hers, and her breath caught as he raised one eyebrow.

  “This is the result,” she replied. “This place had such good bones, and I wanted to make it beautiful. It worked.”

  But it was more than just good bones... This old place had a good spirit, too.

  “How bad was it when you started?” he asked.

  Her mind went back to those early days when she’d been the brand-new owner, much to the unease of the men who socialized and drank there. She’d been about as welcome as her new design scheme. Worse, she wasn’t local, having originally come from California.

  “It was full of hunting memorabilia from the seventies,” she said. “There were lots of moose heads, stuffed fish, flannel-themed decor. The guys who came here for a beer and some hunting talk really liked it.”

  “Where do they go now?” he asked.

  “A few come here for nice dinners with their wives,” she replied. “But when they want that beer under the glassy stare of a moose’s head, there’s a pub a few miles down the road where they meet up. Don’t worry about them. They’re taken care of.”

  Ben chuckled. “I’m sure. This is beautiful. Did I...ever visit? See what you did?”

  “Whenever you needed to find me,” she said. “For example, a few years ago, we sat in the dining room together and shared a bottle of wine. Talked about old times. You told me about your new girlfriend, how the family approved of her, how she seemed to understand how your social circles worked.”

  “That sounds unnecessarily cruel,” he said.

  “I had a boyfriend at the time,” she replied. “And in your defense, you did end up asking her to marry you. You came and told me about the engagement, too.”

  “That’s the canceled engagement?” he clarified.

  “That’s it.”

  “What was I doing, rubbing it in?”

  “No,” she said. “I think you wanted my blessing, somehow.”

  “Did you give it?”

  Angelina smiled faintly. He’d been completely oblivious to the pain it was causing her as he described this young heiress who’d captured both his heart and his family’s.

  “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  As much as it had hurt, it had been good for her—forced her to face the fact that Ben was destined for loftier things. It had been a good reality check.

  “Is there still a boyfriend in the picture?” he asked.

  She wished she could say yes—maybe just to save face. But it wouldn’t be true.

  “You don’t want to know more about your ex-fiancée?” she asked instead with a teasing smile.

  “I’ll get there,” he replied. “Right now, I’m asking about that boyfriend.”

  “We broke up,” she replied.

  “Why?” He moved closer, crossed his arms over his chest and a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Because—” She looked up at him. He’d asked all these questions before... “Because we didn’t have whatever spark it is that makes everything worth it. He was great. He was kind, smart, successful...but I didn’t feel it the way I should.”

  She cleared her throat. She was saying too much.

  “But you did feel it with me?” he asked.

  “A very long time ago, Ben,” she said with a rueful smile.

  “All right.” He shot her a grin. “Just checking.”

  He always had been a flirt, this man. With her at least. He’d never been the type to play the field, or let his eye roam. But with her, he’d been incorrigible...up until things went sour. This reminder of his charm wasn’t helpful.

  She moved toward the fireplace and picked up a box of kindling and some matches. She needed to get the fire started. It was chilly in here—the problem with having this many windows in a place was keeping the cold out.

  “You want me to do that?” Ben’s voice was low, by her ear, and goose bumps stood up on her arms.

  “Uh—” She looked back at him, and he was so close that her heart skipped a beat. “Do you remember how?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I have no idea who I am, but I’m pretty sure I can build a fire.” A smile quirked up one side of his mouth.

  “Sure, then.” She handed him both the matches and kindling.

  Ben knelt down at the hearth and started to arrange kindling, crumpling some old newspaper to go beneath it.

  “It’s kind of a relief to know I remember some things,” Ben said, his attention on his work. “I wonder if I do this often.”

  “You live on a thousand-acre ranch that’s run by three different managers. You have a cook, housekeeping staff and enough cowhands that you don’t kindle your own fires. Trust me on that.”

  “Oh. This feels familiar, though.”

  “You and I used to go camping together,” she said.

  They would drive up to Mountain Springs for the pristine lake and the idyllic mountain town. Ben used to joke about how when he was a Boy Scout, he’d gotten a badge for these things. Every time he started the fire or warmed a pot of beans on the propane stove, he’d hold up three fingers and start reciting the pledge, making her laugh.

  Ben put a match to the paper and a small tongue of flame leaped up toward the kindling.

  “So I’m a relatively useful guy,” he said, glancing up at her.

  “Relatively.” She smiled faintly.

  He reached for a piece of wood and laid it on top of the kindling, then another. As the fire started, the smell of smoke wafted toward them, and she reached out and opened the flue.

  “Thanks,” he said, and he froze, a strange look on his face. Was he remembering those summer nights when they’d sit together in front of the fire, a sleeping bag around them both, and his arms holding her close?

  “Are you remembering something?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I don’t know...” He paused. “Something about the smell of the fire.”

  Her pulse sped up, and he rose, brushing his hands off.

  “Scout’s honor?” She raised three fingers.

  “What’s that?”

  She put her hand down. Maybe he didn’t remember. Maybe that was just her.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “I just—” Ben reached for another piece of wood and squatted down to add it to the growing blaze. “I remember a scent—”

  “Campfire?” she asked. “Everyone loves the smell of a campfire.”

  “Something floral...maybe a bit of vanilla?”

  Her breath hitched, and she swallowed. He was remembering the smell of her perfume... It was Chanel No. 5. She used to wear it all the time—it had been a connection to the grandmother she’d been named after who had also worn Chanel No. 5. And Ben had loved burrowing his nose into her neck, and pulling her close...

  New scent, new beginnings. It had been for the best.

  “I don’t know,” she lied, and she pasted a smile on her face. “It’s funny how memories work, isn’t it?”

  If he was going to remember her, let him remember the whole person, not just a fragrance. Because she’d always been more complicated than he’d been willing to admit. She’d been more intelligent than he’d realized, too, and more capable than he’d ever given her credit for. She was willing to bet that the King family had never anticipated her creating a tourism hot spot with this old lodge when they let it go thirteen years ago.

  “Come here,” Ben said, his voice a low rumble. It held a note of command, like there was some part of him still used to being obeyed.

  She eyed him for a moment, then walked closer. He leaned toward her, inhaling. Then he lifted her wrist to his face, so close that she could feel the tickle of his breath. She raised an eyebrow.

  “That isn’t the perfume I remember,” he said.

  No, it wasn’t. She had been ready for a new personal scent after the divorce. She was in her forties now—moving forward with the resort, with her friends, even with her personal life.

  “Maybe I’m remembering someone else,” he said, and he released her hand. “Sorry.”

  Angelina pulled her arm against her stomach. Someone else—like his ex-fiancée? Hilaria was the heiress of some logging fortune. She’d been the kind of woman the King family could accept and celebrate. They could show her off at parties and introduce her around without people getting that perplexed look, wondering who this Californian was, and how she made it past scrutiny. Angelina had been a little bit jealous of the other woman, if she had to be honest. Hilaria was going to get Ben to herself—there would be no more impromptu visits to the lodge once he was remarried, she was sure.

  “I’m going to go check on the kitchen,” Angelina said, taking a step back. “With so few guests and only a skeleton crew, I’m instituting meal hours where the kitchen will be open. I’ll let you know when you can go order some lunch.”

  “Thanks.”

  He eyed her uncertainly as she turned and headed toward the exit. He was probably confused as to why she wasn’t matching up to whatever memories were swimming under the surface, but that wasn’t her problem. Either he was remembering Hilaria, or he was remembering a much younger version of herself. Angelina wasn’t the same woman anymore. Whatever he might remember—she’d changed. She was stronger now, more sure of her own abilities, more confident in herself as a woman. Her divorce had crushed her, but she’d survived, and she was a better person for it. She now had some wisdom to pass on to other women who were going through similar heartbreak: there was life on the other side.

  There was more than life—there was abundance and beauty. There was growth and laughter. The world was different post-divorce. She was different. And there were still good things waiting.

  Ben King had been her weakness once upon a time, but not anymore. Some things, like moving on after heartbreak, had to start out as a choice until she grew into them. And she was choosing this—Ben couldn’t be her weakness any longer.

  * * *

  BEN SANK INTO the leather armchair he’d pulled a little closer to the fire. The heat from the blaze emanated comfortably against his shins, and he leaned back, stretching his bare feet toward it. The fireplace was made out of uncut stone and mortar, the effect both imposing and cozy at the same time. He felt safe here.

  He didn’t know why that mattered, especially with his father’s warning still ringing in his mind about being careful.

  “Here, I brought you these.”

  A pair of socks appeared over Ben’s shoulders, and he looked up to see the doctor from earlier. The older man pulled up a chair next to him and settled into it with a sigh.

  “Thanks,” Ben said. They were thick outdoors socks, and Ben leaned over and pulled them on gratefully. “What’s your name again?”

  “Dr. Warren Thomas,” he replied. “Call me Warren.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Ben.”

  The older man gave him a cordial nod. “You know, most people left when the weather prediction started to look dire.”

  “Yeah?” Ben looked over at him. “Not you, though.”

  “No, I figured I could write my memoirs here during a blizzard or in Denver in a different hotel room just the same. I didn’t see the point in leaving.”

  “What’s in your memoirs?” Ben asked.

  “Oh...my life,” Warren said. “Childhood stories, boyhood dreams...few years in the army, long years in medical school and growing a family. I don’t suppose it sounds terribly interesting to a man your age, but it’s my story and I wanted to write it down.”

  “I don’t remember my life,” Ben said. “So I suppose you’ve got a leg up on me there.”

  “Give it time,” the older man said quietly. “I’ve seen this with some car accident victims, and I’ve read some research papers about the same condition with war injuries overseas. A good knock on the head can rattle things around more than you think. And unless there are some psychological reasons where you don’t want to remember, you’ll heal up just fine.”

  “Psychological?” Ben asked warily.

  “PTSD,” Warren said. “Shell shock. Sorry, it was a poor attempt at humor. I’m sure it doesn’t apply.”

  Ben leaned his head against the back of the chair, and when his gaze moved from the crackling fire toward the window and the blowing snow outside, he struggled to remember as far back as he could. The first clear memory he had was of crawling out of his overturned truck into the snow—the icy slap of the wind, the ache in his head, the sticky warmth of blood on his face. His hat had been upside down in the snow, and he’d scooped it up...

  Ben was grateful to be here—inside the lodge with a fire, fresh clothes, a sturdy roof over his head. But he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d had when he saw the place looming ahead of him in the storm. He belonged here. He’d been certain of it. This was the place he needed to get to...

  Where had that certainty come from?

  “She’s beautiful,” Warren said after a moment of silence.

  “Hmm?” Ben roused himself from his thoughts.

  “The owner—Angelina. She’s beautiful,” Warren repeated.

  “Yeah.” Ben smiled faintly. “She is.”

  “And you were married to her?” Warren asked.

  “So she says.”

  But then, the man on the phone—his father—had told him to be wary of what people might do for the money he apparently had. So why hadn’t his father warned him that he’d been married to this woman?

  Warren looked over at him quizzically. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t remember her,” he said.

  “Do you remember anyone?” Warren asked.

  Ben shook his head. “But she seems like the kind of woman a man wouldn’t forget, doesn’t she?”

  Warren laughed softly. “She’s impressive.”

  “What do you know about her?” Ben asked.

  “Not much. I’m only a guest. I know a bit about this resort, though.”

  “Yeah?” Ben turned toward the older man. “Because this place feels familiar to me.”

  “You know, rumor has it that Blue Lake was used in some Camp Hale training exercises,” Warren said. “I’m a bit of a World War Two buff, and that’s some trivia that not many people know about. Camp Hale was a training site for mountain terrain. It’s about forty miles from here, so the soldiers marched out this way a couple of times.”

  Ben nodded. “That’s interesting. So is that what brought you here?”

  “It factored in,” Warren said with a nod. “It’s an inspiring location because of the lake, too. It’s a place to commune with nature.”

  Ben was silent.

  “Anyway, more recently, this used to be a hunting lodge,” Warren went on, “and when Ms. Cunningham there bought it, she completely refurbished the entire place. She opened some hiking trails up the mountain, brought in canoes and kayaks for the lake, and almost overnight this place turned from a beautiful photographic secret into a tourism must-see. My wife talked about this place—”

  Warren sighed, his voice trailing off.

  “And?” Ben said.

  “Oh...she was impressed by Ms. Cunningham’s ability to create something beautiful. She visited this resort on her own a few years ago when it first opened.”

  “You didn’t come with her?” Ben asked.

  “I was busy at the hospital. I had patients to see, and hours to log, and...money to make, I suppose.”

  “I see.” Ben leaned forward and picked up a metal poker. He jabbed at a log, pushing it farther into the flames.

  Ben looked over at the man’s left hand. There was no ring, but there was a dent in his left ring finger. A recent divorce, maybe? Warren seemed to notice Ben’s scrutiny because he closed his hand into a fist and pulled it out of sight.

  “Writing has a way of bringing a man’s life into focus,” Warren said. “It shows you the patterns, the direction, the ironies.”

  “Are you going to try and get it published?” Ben asked.

  “Oh...” Warren sighed. “No one cares about your life unless you’ve endured something horrific, or done something amazing. I don’t fall into either category. But I do think it might be of interest to my grandchildren one day. Maybe my great-grandchildren. Once I pass on, I’ll stop being the boring old grandpa who lectures them about our family’s tendency toward high blood pressure and diabetes, and I’ll be an ancestor. It’s much more mysterious to be an ancestor, trust me.”

  Ben chuckled. “I could see that.”

  “And maybe I want a hand in the way I’m remembered, or thought of, later on,” Warren said. “It’s handier to be able to tell your own story, instead of have stories told about you.”

  “What sorts of stories would they tell?” Ben asked.

  Warren shrugged. “Depends on who does the telling, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you have enemies?” Ben asked.

  “I have an ex-wife.”

  Ben smiled. “Right.”

  So did Ben, apparently. And his ex-wife was the one providing this roof over his head, the clothes on his back... What stories were told about Ben? He had no idea. Apparently, he was wealthy and divorced from a beautiful woman. But was he a well-liked man? Was he respected?