“Yeah,” Aimee said. “I think he didn’t usually talk like that. It’s like he was a stranger right then, but I knew him.”

  “And you’re sure that whoever was pushing you, perhaps so high your father was reacting with an alarm you weren’t used to, was crying behind you?”

  “The voice made him cry.” Aimee didn’t even hesitate. “Or the words. He said he’d never hurt me.”

  “Do you recognize that voice?”

  Aimee’s head shook slowly. She opened her eyes. “Maybe I do. From my nightmares. It’s always the same one.”

  “A boy’s voice?”

  “I think so. I can’t ever tell.”

  “Is it deep like a man’s voice?”

  Amy shook her head again. “I’m not sure...”

  Kelly’s tone compassionate, she asked, “You ready to take a break?”

  Aimee nodded. “I remembered my father.” The tone was a cross between awe and despair. She seemed so lost. A grown woman and a three year old all rolled into one moment.

  He wanted to hold her hand, to tell her that she was safe.

  And he didn’t know that she was.

  To the contrary, his gut was telling him that she hadn’t been—which could mean that she wouldn’t be when she had the answers she was seeking. The father’s fear...the boy man...her parents seeming disappearance, her memory block, the way things had been going wrong for her since she came to town, none of it boded well. He had a bad feeling. A driving force within him to investigate her parents’ deaths until he was satisfied that justice had been done. No matter how they’d died. No matter the cost. And suspected that, whether it had anything to do with his investigation or not, whatever her memory was hiding from her could cause more pain than the knowing would be worth to her.

  * * *

  Kelly suggested that Aimee take some time off after their Saturday noon session. She’d recommended something that would help her relax, that felt good to her, warning that if she tried too hard, if she pushed things, she could end up burying deeper whatever memories appeared to be trying to surface.

  And so, leaving the sheriff and the psychiatrist talking in the parking lot of Blooming Bridges, she got in her car and drove downtown. The main strip was a lovely mile-long piece of eye candy to her—eateries and, more importantly, artist shops. She’d read about them before coming to town, and visited websites, and was eager to drop in. To, perhaps, find wares for her own shop and unexpectedly successful online business.

  She spent hours walking the strip, disappointed at the touristy feel of a few of the shops, the cheap trinket gifts for sale, but was delighted with the majority of them, the unique, handmade wares, including some paintings and jewelry by two different Native American artists previously unknown to her. She talked to store owners, handed out business cards, received some as well and got artist contact information. For the first time since she’d packed her bags at home she felt in control. Confident. Happy.

  As far as anyone knew she was Aimee Barker from New Orleans, not Aimee Cooper who’d been born in Evergreen, and the relief of just being herself was palpable.

  One of the shop owners she’d met, a woman named Cynthia, suggested that she try a chimichanga for dinner, from a family-owned, trendy little pub on a corner in the middle of town. She treated herself to a margarita as well, almost able to convince herself that she’d made a huge big deal out of something that was going to turn out to be the dramatic recollection of a three year old, and that, in another day or so, with Kelly’s help, she’d be heading home with a psyche in sync with itself.

  The whole cognitive interview thing...she’d heard about them, of course, from television...but doing one in real life...it had been intense...but pretty cool, too.

  She’d remembered her father’s voice. Which meant that there had to be other memories of her parents inside her, too, right? She was kind of excited to find them.

  To get to know the people who’d given her life out of their love for each other.

  The rest...the crying boy...the dirt she couldn’t help him wash off...

  That part still made her uneasy. But only because she didn’t have the explanation for it, yet. Once she knew what her childish self was trying to tell her, she’d be able to reframe things from an adult perspective and put it all to rest.

  And Jackson Redmond?

  Her instant negative reaction to him leaving her interview? Her inexplicable desire to have him stay?

  He’d saved her from the tarantula. And the rattlesnake before that. She’d been off her mark. Afraid. Feeling insecure and needy.

  And had left him alone with the beautiful psychiatrist on a blissful, warm, breezy Saturday afternoon, so any wayward chance there might have been for him and Aimee to have a moment had been nipped in the bud.

  Satiated from a wonderful meal, relaxed and ready to tackle life again in the morning, she headed up the mountain half a mile and around the corner to the Blooming Bridges, and noticed the work truck outside her cabin before she’d even pulled in. A big white truck with A & E Plumbing emblazoned on the side. A couple of men, Mr. Burley being the only one she recognized, stood outside on the sidewalk leading up to her door, which currently hung open.

  She hadn’t called for a plumber.

  Or had any need of one.

  After pulling into the closest guest spot, she was out of her car and heading toward the door of her cabin in seconds. “What’s going on?” she asked her landlord as he approached.

  “Problem with the sprinkler system,” the older man said, his craggy, weatherworn face seeming almost complacent. Like the problem had happened before? “You must have left a spark in the fireplace which smoked up the place while you were gone. Set off the system and it didn’t shut off.”

  Which meant, what?

  “The place is soaked. It’s going to need to dry out and then we’ll see the extent of the damage,” he continued. “Mattress, furniture, all saturated. I have no idea what damage there will be to the floor.” He shook his head, his mouth tipping in not quite a frown, as he stared at the door. “I’m sorry to say, but there’s no way you’re going to be able live in it. Or anywhere else in Evergreen. As I told you when you first sent in a request, you were lucky I had a cancellation. Places around here...we book up months, even a year, ahead of time for the summer season. I just called around, hoping someone else had had a cancellation, but we’re all booked up. Might need to head back to Flagstaff even to find a place for the night...”

  She was barely comprehending. Stared at the bit of soaked floor she could see. “My stuff...”

  “Mostly ruined, I’m afraid. Anything that was out. I saw some clothes in the closet, but the door was opened and they’re soaked. Whatever was in drawers was probably okay, but the leather bag doesn’t look like it fared well.”

  A college graduation gift from Aunt Bonnie. Eight years old and still rolling along just fine...until then.

  “I need to go in and get it all.” If he thought he was there to stop her, he was wrong. She had her phone and credit cards in the bag she carried with her, but she wanted her things. Clothes could launder, toothpaste containers were likely waterproof...her makeup was in a zipped pouch inside the medicine cabinet...

  In bits and spurts, thoughts of her belongings came to her until they propelled her up the walk and through the front door.

  Everything was indeed saturated. An inch of water stood on the floor, though she heard a vacuum going in the bedroom area—a wet vac, she assumed.

  A spark she’d left? As in, he was trying to blame the mess on her?

  The Blooming Bridges website said that staff cleaned the fireplace and set the evening’s fire every night.

  The spark could have smoked before the late afternoon cleaning, except that she’d carefully put out that fire.

  Her cute little cabin...

  With the tarantula and the snake...

  Without looking any farther around, she went straight for her suitcase, found it virtually ruined, grabbed the grocery bags she’d stacked in a kitchen drawer and started throwing her stuff in. What clothes wouldn’t fit she shoved inside the sweatshirt she’d brought, using the arms to tie the bottom off well enough to get it out to her car.

  Her laptop was fine—she’d shut it in the nightstand drawer—but the case was not. Her makeup was fine. The blow-dryer wasn’t.

  With each piece she owned, she mentally catalogued, packed—wet with wet, dry with dry, ruined or not—and moved on to the next.

  Where was she going to go? The sun was setting. It would be dark soon.

  The drive to Flagstaff...forty-five minutes of it would be across desolate desert land that would be pitch-black. It wasn’t like there’d be streetlights. Or homes in the distance. Nor were there exits with gas stations. Or anything else emulating human civilization.

  Longing for home, for city life, feeling trapped and claustrophobic, she told herself she’d be fine. That it was for the best, really, as she should never have come in the first place. Talking with shop owners that afternoon, being back in her art world...she’d come back to herself. Seen who she was. She’d been good.

  And good was enough.

  Taking one last look around, her glance fell to the chair she’d been sitting on early that afternoon with Kelly talking softly to the memories deep inside her.

  She remembered her father’s voice.

  And if she went home...the dreams would start again.

  After what she’d learned and seen in Evergreen, they’d probably be worse. If she wanted peace, and to move on with her life—could Kelly’s inference that she didn’t have close relationships because of something she’d buried deep in her psyche be right?—she had to see this through. Had to help her little self find her way out.

  Maybe Jackson would know of someone who’d let her stay for the night. And she’d figure out the rest in the morning. Make the hour and a half commute back and forth from Flagstaff each day if she had to. Making sure she did all driving during daylight.

  Filled with anticipation at the thought of calling him, she hesitated to pull out her phone. All she’d been since the moment they met was one disaster after another.

  Seriously...what were the odds of a spark smoking from an extinguished fire to the extent that...just hours after a tarantula...and before that a rattlesnake and bullets...

  Someone didn’t want her there.

  She’d stayed upbeat, in a positive frame of mind, as long as she could. Being soaked was the last straw.

  Upon picking up her phone, she dialed the sheriff on his personal cell, as he’d instructed her to do if she needed to reach him before morning.

  Squelched at the thought of interrupting private time between him and the psychiatrist. But didn’t hang up.

  He’d said to call if she needed him.

  She needed him.

  And didn’t know who else to call.

  Chapter 9

  Jackson was sitting out back with a beer, waiting for his owl family to appear for their nearly nightly sojourn together when his phone rang.

  He grabbed it quickly, not wanting the jarring sound to interrupt Hoot’s journey to him, and was pleasantly surprised to hear Aimee Barker’s voice. He’d changed from his uniform into jeans and a black T-shirt and was ready for some downtime.

  By the time she’d finished apologizing for bothering him, he was feeling like a creep because the sound of her voice had turned him on.

  Most particularly when the tone of her voice reminded him why he’d given her his number. Not for pleasure—whether he’d wanted to do that or not—but out of professionalism.

  She was calling the sheriff who just happened to be sitting at home in jeans drinking a beer. She wasn’t calling the man himself.

  “I’m on my way,” he said as soon as he heard that there’d been further trouble at the cabin. Already up and inside, he was putting on his gun, and heading toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  He didn’t.

  “I’m not there,” she told him. And then he waited.

  “I got my stuff out. I just...don’t have anywhere to go. I’m parked outside the pub where I had dinner. I can drive to Flagstaff, but it makes me nervous to do that in the dark and I was hoping you’d know someone who could put me up for the night. As a favor, you know. I’d gladly pay...”

  He could come up with half a dozen places without trying.

  The women’s jail, for one. There were currently no inmates.

  And she’d be safe.

  He wasn’t putting Aimee Barker behind bars. No matter how much the idea of her being locked in safe seemed like a good one at the moment.

  “You can stay here.” As soon as the words were out, he jumped on board with them. “I’ve got an entire upstairs...well, it’s got angled ceilings so the rooms are kind of unique and you have to watch your head...but there are two bedrooms and a bathroom up there that I don’t use. You’re welcome to the entire floor.”

  “I can’t put you...”

  “...at least for tonight,” he interrupted her. “Something is going on here. No one has so many seemingly natural disasters or mistakes befall them in a single twenty-four hour period...”

  “I could be a klutz for all you know.”

  “This isn’t you doing things, well, other than the trespassing incident. Overall, these are things happening to you, and frankly, I’d feel better knowing you were under protection. At least until we have time to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Okay, then thank you.”

  Her quick compliance kind of surprised him. Until she said, “I know I had that fire out, Jackson. I poured water on it. Like you, I’ve kind of come to the conclusion that someone doesn’t want me here, which makes absolutely no sense at all.”

  Her words did nothing to calm the unease rising inside him. “Stay put,” he told her, not liking that idea, but not wanting her driving on dark mountain roads alone, either. “I’m coming in to get you and you can follow me home.”

  Home. His home. Not hers.

  And he better damn well keep that designation firmly locked in his mind every second that she spent in his personal space.

  Whether it be at his house, or anywhere else.

  * * *

  “Who knows you’re here in Evergreen?” Jackson, looking so good in those jeans and black T-shirt, like a regular, hunky man, rather than the youngest sheriff she’d ever heard of, sat hunched forward on the edge of his couch. Aimee was sitting in the armchair across from it—both pieces of furniture in a light brown leather covered with small darker brown decorative inscriptions—trying to wrap her mind around what was happening. To help him figure out what was going on.

  “No one but you and Kelly know I have a past here,” she told him. He’d shown her his place, including the washer and dryer in a little room in the back where she could do her laundry, given her time to get settled upstairs and then asked her to meet him in the living room to discuss her situation. It had all been very businesslike. With a bit of small-town welcome, and her awe at his unique and very lovely home, thrown in the mix. “And no one but Mr. Burley knew I was coming to town before I got here,” she added, thinking of the shots that had been fired the previous morning. Surely those couldn’t have been directed at her.

  Had that only been a day and a half ago? It seemed like weeks.

  “What about in New Orleans? Surely someone there knows where you were headed for vacation. Maybe someone who has a beef with you got a hold of the information and is after you here where, feasibly, they wouldn’t be a suspect.”

  Made sense. Except that, “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt me, but that aside, I purposely didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Just that I needed some time away to myself. With my aunt’s sudden death...everyone was understanding, sympathetic, telling me to take what time I needed.”

  Everyone being the shop’s employees. And her next-door neighbor who was also her closest friend and was watering her plants while she was gone.

  She frowned. “And it’s weird stuff. Was the snake supposed to bite me? You don’t die from rattlesnake bites, from what I read. At least not often, and not if you get medical attention right away. Same with tarantulas—they can’t open their mouths wide enough to bite deep enough to get enough venom in you...” She broke off when she saw his brows raise. Then said, “I did a lot of reading about the area before I left home, kind of hoping it would trigger memories without me having to make the trip out.

  “And the sprinklers,” she continued. “It makes no sense...except to force me out of town, maybe.” And then it hit her. Wide-eyed she stared at him. “Unless Mr. Burley knew my folks. Knew my aunt’s name. Recognized my name when I contacted him for a cabin reservation...”

  Her voice grew in momentum until she saw him shake his head. And she realized...if he’d recognized her name, and wanted her gone, he’d simply have told her he didn’t have accommodations for her.

  “He’s only been in town about a decade,” Jackson said. “I was already on the force when he and his wife moved here.”

  “He has a wife?” She’d been under the impression Burley lived alone, ran the place by himself, with hired help for cleaning.

  “She died a few years back. This was their retirement dream, coming to a place like Evergreen and opening Blooming Bridges. She’s the one who named the place.”

  She was trying to draw from his calm. Wasn’t completely succeeding.

  “If someone is sabotaging you, and I’m at the point of going with that theory, then it could be anyone who’s ever had access to that cabin. The door opens with a regular key that hangs on a board behind Burley’s desk. Someone could have had a copy made. For that matter it could be someone who stayed there and for some reason doesn’t want you, or maybe even someone else there.”