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window and inhaled fresh woods smells. She wasn’t frightened. Perhaps her memory was coming back after all, in parts, the sensory zones in her brain becoming unfrozen one at a time. The feelings—what she liked, disliked, feared, made her feel safe—maybe those feelings were truly hers, hers before the . . . before whatever happened.
    “This is lovely. I live here?”
    “It’s yours, all right. Thirty-six beautiful acres.”
    He stopped the truck at a silver farm gate. Lindsay jumped out and opened it for him to drive through. Ahead of them was a wooden fence where a black horse pranced up and down the fence row, flagging his tail, talking to her in throaty rumbles and high-pitched whinnies, his ears listening for a sound from her.”
    She closed the gate and walked to the fence, drawn to the powerful horse. The huge stallion trotted to her and stood pawing the ground, shaking his head, his glossy mane shimmering and rippling with the motion, his big brown eyes fixed on her. His black coat was not the colorless black of darkness, or ink, but the blackness of a crow, or John’s hair—with hues of dark blue and a shine that reflected in the sun. He talked to her in deep guttural tones. She stretched her hand out over the fence to him. He nuzzled her palm. His nose felt like fine velvet.
    “That’s Mandrake.” John had gotten out of his truck and joined her at the fence. “He’s your horse.”
    “I ride?”
    “Quite well.”
    “All this is mine?”
    “Yes. This is where you belong.”
    Where she belonged. Her place of mooring. What had John said when she asked him why he had hovered and watched over her every time they had stopped during the long trip back? He said he was staying close because one of the doctors had told him that people with amnesia are prone to wander off. With no memory, there is no place to dock. They’re afloat in a perplexing, unfamiliar world with nothing or anyone to hold them.
    Mandrake, in a burst of stallion energy, turned and galloped across the pasture. Was this where she was supposed to lay anchor and not drift away from?
    John drove them down the quarter-mile-long winding driveway overhung by tall sheltering trees. This place was soothing and seductive. She felt safe for the first time within the span of her memory. Why didn’t these woods frighten her? Did she remember home?
    They crossed a creek and rounded a curve in the driveway, and ahead was a log house nestled among the trees. She looked hard at it, as if staring would bring out the memory of it. Nothing. She wanted to pound the dashboard with her fists in frustration, but she was afraid that acting crazy would be cause for John to take her away to someplace else.
    Two people came out on the porch and rushed down the steps as they pulled to a stop in front of the house. A man a little older than she, and an attractive woman about her age.
    “That’s your brother, Sinjin,” said John. “The woman is Harper Latham. She’s a friend, the one I told you about.”
    A brother and a friend. Roots. Enough to hold her down? She got out and walked toward them. Strangers. Damn. They were strangers—but only to her. She saw the keen look of concern in their eyes, as though they wanted as much as she to clear the fog from her mind.
    “Lindsay.” The man had short, chestnut-brown hair, the color of hers. His unshaven face, plaid shirt, and jeans made him look like a logger. He was taller than her by three or four inches—and she was tall, almost six feet. Must have tall genes in the family. He had blue eyes, too, but his were lighter, cooler than hers. Height, hair, and eye color were where the resemblance stopped. His facial features looked nothing like hers.
    What if this was all a trick to get her to trust them and let her guard down? What if they were playing on her need to belong somewhere and feel safe?
    “You’re Sinjin?” she asked and saw a brief look of pain sweep across his face and disappear.
    “Oh, Lindsay.”