You Must Remember This

Chapter 1

Sarah James muttered beneath her breath as she strug- gled to drive through the pouring rain. The blacktopped county road leading back to the farmhouse was narrow and poorly marked. The lines had faded to a bare visibil- ity and she had to squint to see well enough to keep her pickup truck on the pavement.

She hadn’t known when she left earlier that it would storm so badly or she might not have gone. But her friend Lacy had insisted, pleading with her to get out of the small farmhouse if only for a little while.

I understand your need to be alone, Sarah. Lacy had said. But you have to start living again. It’s been more than a year. There won’t be anyone here except you and me. No one to see the scar or ask any questions. We’ll have a nice quiet dinner together—the way we used to do. How about it? I’ll make my famous Georgia Pine Bark Stew and Peanut Butter Pie.

Bribery, Sarah had said, laughing aloud. It seemed like forever since she’d laughed.

The accident that took away her laughter had happened a little over a year ago. Ironically, she and her husband, Joe, had gone out to celebrate the news that they were go- ing to have their first child. It had been a stormy, rainy night much like tonight. But they had barely noticed the weather.

That night as they drove, Sarah had continued talking and laughing even when a truck pulled up swiftly behind them and flashed its lights. How vividly she could still re- call the look of surprise on Joe’s face. He had glanced up into the rearview mirror, his face clearly illuminated by the lights behind them.

Wild kids, he’d muttered, laughing.

Then slowly she saw the laughter leave his eyes. Two small lines appeared at the bridge of his nose and then his gaze shifted nervously toward Sarah.

Joe? What is it? she’d asked.

More of my imagination, I’m afraid.

She’d known immediately what he meant. The case he’d been working on as a television journalist had taken up most of his time lately.

The story was so big, so complicated that sometimes he wouldn’t even bother to explain it to her when he came home tired and weary. But she knew it involved survival- ist groups. Men who spent their weekends in the woods, armed to the teeth and fully convinced they would be called on at any time to defend their homes. Some of them sold illegal guns and military equipment stolen from vari- ous army bases; others dealt in drugs. Joe even suspected that there were ties to elected county officials.

All Joe’s imagination, the sheriff had told him.

Drop it, Joe, Sheriff Metcalf had said. Before you get your fool self killed and leave that pretty wife of yours a young widow.

Sarah’s husband had been very upset when he came home from that meeting.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the sheriff were involved in this, too, he’d said.

No, Sarah had whispered, staring at his troubled face. Her grandfather had known Sheriff Metcalf all his life. He’d voted for him the year before he died.

Maybe I’m wrong, Joe said. But something about this is just not right.

Joe had pretended to heed the sheriff’s words, backing off his demand that the group be investigated. But it hadn’t stopped him from continuing his undercover investigative work on the story. He’d often been angry and frustrated that there was no help from county law enforcement.

Just before the accident they had begun to receive hate messages on their answering machine. Hang-up calls in the middle of the night. Chilling warnings that Joe should check beneath his car before starting it in the mornings.

Joe had even installed a burglar system on the car only to find the wires disconnected a day or two later.

Sarah envisioned how Joe had tried to speed away from the truck that night. Hold on, honey, he’d said, clenching his jaws together.

She closed her eyes, remembering. It had happened on a road similar to this one. Isolated and straight. Closed in on both sides by towering pines glistening with rain when the headlights touched them.

Suddenly the vehicle behind had bumped them. Sarah screamed and reached for Joe.

Joe! she screamed. Your seat belt. You didn’t fas- ten your seat belt!

She was the worrier and Joe was the daredevil. He of- ten teased her about that. But how many times in her life had she warned him…cajoled him into fastening his belt? She’d even tried to frighten him with stories of accident victims brought into the emergency room. But he had thought himself invincible. And that night, she knew he fully expected he could outrun the truck.

Their small car slid sideways on the road, but Joe had managed to regain control. In the dashlights, she saw the muscles in his thigh flex as he pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

Sarah had felt the speed in every inch of her body, making her heart accelerate, making her breath come in small gasps as she clasped her hands together and whis- pered silent prayers.

The truck behind caught them easily and rammed them again, then pulled around until their hood was even with the car’s rear fender.

What happened next was a nightmare that still woke Sarah in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. How many times since then had she lain awake for hours with the same horrible, dark feeling of impending death. Even now, just remembering the feeling made her heart beat faster.

The truck had slammed into them, pushing the small car around sideways on the slick road. She remembered the horrible feeling of sliding out of control, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheels and Joe’s curses as he struggled with the wheel. Then there was the surreal feel- ing as the tires caught and the car began to flip. Over and over…

Joooe!

Sarah gripped the wheel of the truck and shook her head, trying to shake away the last thing she remembered about that night—the sound of her own voice calling out her husband’s name.

Why on earth had she let herself remember any of it? Especially while driving on a night like this.

She shook the memories away. She had become too thoughtful and introverted since the accident. Lacy had been telling her that for months. Especially after Sarah insisted on remaining in the country even after she had re- covered from her injuries.

It might have been different…she might have been different if she hadn’t lost the baby, too, a few days after the wreck. If she’d had something to live for, something to look forward to in those first dark months after Joe’s death.

Sarah shivered and tried to concentrate on the road and her driving.

Squinting through the darkness and rain, she thought she saw lights ahead and her hands automatically tight ened on the steering wheel. For some reason she felt a lit- tle tingle of alarm race down her arms.

Much of the countryside from Wayland to the ocean was farmland. The Colonial Coast, as the tourist brochures called it. Miles and miles of cultivated fields, or cattle pasture. The rest of the swampy countryside was piny woods—thousands of acres of flat country and tall, slen- der pine trees. A great deal of it belonged to the federal government or the state of Georgia, but no one bothered with it except when it was necessary to fight an occasional forest fire.

Funny that the very thing that frightened her now about being out here in her grandparents’ old home—the isola- tion and quiet—was one of the things that had appealed most to Sarah at first. After Joe’s death, and with the ter- rible scar on her face, Sarah had wanted to be as far away from people and traffic as she could. It was the one thing she thought might save her sanity.

It’s a car, she muttered, focusing again on the lights ahead of her. Peering through the rain-spattered wind- shield she saw two definite spots of light. Was the vehicle stopped? Was it an accident or…?

She heard something then. A muffled explosion, like the spat of a gun. But was it a gunshot, or just her heightened imagination? She told herself it was probably nothing more than a car backfiring.

Suddenly the carlights coming toward her brightened. She could sense that the vehicle was moving now and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Even with her nurse’s training, she wasn’t sure she was ready to assist with a car accident.

A dark van sped past her, heading toward town. It was going too fast, at an almost frenzied speed, she thought.

Sarah found herself trembling as she watched the glim- mer of red taillights in her rearview mirror and saw them disappear into the rainy darkness. Without realizing it, she had slowed her truck to a crawl. There were no other lights for miles now, either ahead or behind her. She could hear her own unsteady breathing mingled with the quiet thump of the windshield wipers and the loud hiss of rain on the cab of the pickup.

For heaven’s sake, she muttered, shivering. Get a grip.

She had thought too much about what happened last year, that was why she was so unsettled. Tonight, in the downpour, everything had reminded her. And it was not a good time to be out driving, or remembering.

Instinctively Sarah reached up to touch the raised red line on her face that ran from the corner of her mouth al- most up to her hairline. It was an ugly scar. But one that could be repaired, the surgeons had assured her, when- ever she was ready.

But she wasn’t ready. Simply because she didn’t care. Joe’s death had devastated her and she was still bitter that she didn’t even have his child to help soothe the ache in her heart. She wasn’t sure she would ever care about anything again. At this point, she thought she might be content to stay hidden away in the country forever, at least until the insurance money ran out. And that could take a long, long time.

It’s all right, she whispered to herself.

In a few minutes she’d be in the warm, dry safety of the house. What she’d seen was nothing. Probably just a van full of teenagers playing their usual Saturday night pranks.

Sarah thought she’d never been so relieved to see any- thing as the sight of the reflectors that marked the drive- way to the farmhouse.

She allowed herself only a moment of panic when she pulled into the driveway and noticed that the security light in the yard was out. So were the other lights she’d left on inside the house.

She put the truck into Park and grabbed a flashlight from the seat. Then, pulling her jacket over her head, she made a dash through the rain to the porch.

Sarah felt a tingle of apprehension race up her back. The hair at the back of her neck prickled and she turned to wave the light out through the rain and over the soaked bushes and thicket beyond the yard.

Is anyone there? she called. Tom?

Was that silly cat out there in the bushes somewhere? She hadn’t really heard anything to make her think that. It was just a feeling, a heart-pounding anxiety that she couldn’t quite explain. Almost as if someone were watch- ing her.

Tom…is that you? she called again.

Finally she waved the light toward the end of the porch. The big gray striped cat, hearing her call, had crawled out of his warm, cozy box and stretched now before padding slowly and silently across the wooden planks toward her.

Sarah smiled and bent to scratch his furry head. When she straightened and unlocked the door, her hands were trembling.

She held the door open for a minute, wishing that for once, the stray tabby who had wandered here a few months ago, would finally come inside.

Want to come in? she asked softly…hopefully.

Tom rubbed against her legs, then sniffed the cool air that drifted out of the house. But in the end, he turned and sauntered back toward his box on the porch.

Sarah hurried inside, feeling somewhat safer once she closed the door and was standing in familiar territory. God, was she turning into one of those people who never ventured out into public? Who had panic attacks unless they were in the security of their own home?

She muttered irritably as she flicked a switch and con- firmed that the storm had knocked the electricity out. Flashing the light around the darkened house, she assured herself that nothing was amiss and that the place was just as she’d left it a few hours earlier.

In minutes she had candles glowing in the hallway and bathroom, and in her bedroom across from it. And at the end of the hallway, the light from a kerosene lamp in the kitchen spilled warmly out across the wood floors.

Sarah hung her wet jacket on the hooks of an antique hall tree and went into the bathroom to dry her hair. It was then she heard the sound, quiet and muffled.

The thump of a car door? A limb falling on the roof? Or had it been a footstep on the front porch?

Sarah swallowed hard and picked up the flashlight again. If she’d learned anything from living out here alone, it was to face her fears immediately. Waiting and thinking only heightened her phobias.

She walked to the front door and pushed back the cur- tains that covered the small window at eye level. She pressed the flashlight against the glass and what she saw made her heart seem to stop.

A man stood there in the darkness, slumped over slightly, his shoulder pressed against one of the porch posts. Lightning flashed and outlined him for a moment like some eerie scene from a movie.

Sarah wanted to scream, to run. But to her horror, not a sound emerged from her lips. Her feet, instead of mov- ing, seemed cemented to the spot.

She couldn’t see his face. In fact, he didn’t even appear to be looking toward the house, but seemed intent on keeping himself upright.

He’s hurt, her nurse’s voice cried. Help him!

And yet her trembling hand did not move toward the door’s lock.

Suddenly she turned and ran to the phone that sat on a table in the hallway.

The line was dead.

Slowly she went back to the door, hoping that what she’d seen was a vision. Her imagination. That somehow the stranger would be gone.

Instead she saw him lying on the porch, his legs hang- ing down over the steps into the rain.

This time she didn’t think. She reacted with instinct and compassion, opening the door without hesitation and hurrying to the fallen man.

Raking the light over him, she murmured quietly when she saw the pool of blood beneath his head.

My God, she whispered, falling to her knees on the porch beside him.

This was not a victim of a car accident. His hands were tied behind his back and the blood on the porch came from a head wound that looked serious.

When she touched him, his skin was wet and cold and she could feel him shivering beneath her hands. Quickly she searched for a pulse in his neck. It was weak, but it was there and she whispered a silent thanks that he was breathing. But Sarah knew he might already be in shock from the cold and from whatever terrible fate he had met out there in the gloom and rain.

Sarah’s eyes lifted and scanned the darkness past the porch. She saw nothing; heard nothing unusual. The sound of rain and thunder blotted out everything else.

She gripped the man’s jacket, and turned him onto his back. He groaned, but still didn’t open his eyes.

It’s all right, she whispered, wiping the rain and dirt from his face. You’re safe now…you’re all right. Just hold on…do you hear me?

He was not a big man, but his shoulders were broad and she could feel the corded muscles beneath his clothes. Still, it was a struggle to drag him inch by inch across the porch toward the door. Stories she’d heard crossed her mind, about the effects of fear and adrenaline on a person’s strength. It was the only way she could account for the fact that she was able to pull him into the house and the front bedroom.

She found a pair of scissors and cut the plastic ties that bound his hands and dug into his wrists. Freed of re- straint, his arms fell limply onto the floor.

By the time Sarah had dragged and pulled him up onto the bed, every muscle in her body screamed from the ef- fort. Finally, her task accomplished, she fell back onto the floor, exhausted and panting for breath. She could feel her heart pounding and she was aware of her cold, muddy clothes sticking to her body.

She stared at the man on her grandparents’ old iron bed. If he had been unconscious this long he might be gravely wounded. She might not be able to give him the help he needed. After all, it had been a year since she’d practiced nursing.

Finally she managed to drag herself up from the floor and run into the hall to try the phone again. Hoping des- perately that the line might miraculously have cleared, she listened carefully. But there was still no dial tone.

Oh, no, she murmured. Sarah pushed her wet hair away from her face and went back into the bedroom to stand looking helplessly at the wounded man.

You’ll have to do it, Sarah James, she told herself. There’s no one else. So don’t just stand here—get busy.

Quickly she ran through the house to find more candles and a kerosene lamp. She couldn’t spare any more time thinking or wishing there were some other way to help this man. She had to stop the bleeding and see how serious his condition was.

She kicked her wet shoes off as she hurried back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom, bringing warm water, towels and bandages along with a lamp and can- dles.

She could hear his breathing. It sounded quiet and shallow and every now and then it would catch in his throat and he would groan and mutter words she couldn’t understand.

Sarah put the lamp beside the bed and went to work, first cutting and pushing away his jacket and shirt to see if there were other wounds besides the one on the side of his head.

His skin was battered and bruised but there were no wounds to his chest.

Thank you, God, she whispered. Her eyes moved over his bare skin, from the steadily beating pulse at his throat, to the thick mat of dark hair on his chest. He was well built and though the smoothness of his hands indi- cated a lack of physical labor, he looked like a man who kept himself in top condition.

Hesitating only a moment, she unbuckled his belt, feel- ing a little uncertain as her knuckles brushed against his flat stomach.

She averted her eyes as she cut away his wet underwear and then pulled a quilt up to cover his naked body. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen that way, she reminded herself.

As she began to work at cleaning his face and chest, her attention was immediately distracted by his strong, hand- some features. Straight brown hair, cut close on the sides, spiked over his forehead. And even as wet and muddied as he was, she caught the faint scent of an expensive men’s