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of cheering onlookers, screaming out seconds on a clock.
    None of it made sense, including the man walking quietly across her room. He hesitated a moment beside her bed, then eased himself down to sit carefully beside her on the patchwork spread. He’d barely spoken to her when she’d arrived, wet and muddy, in his kitchen. He didn’t look threatening now, if you discounted the serious gleam in his eyes and the hard line of his jaw. She scooted away from him anyway, pressed her back up against the headboard, tugged the blankets across her chest and locked them securely beneath her armpits.
    It never hurt for a girl to be careful.
    He took one of her small hands in both of his, and smiled. His fingers completely encircled her hands within his grasp. She felt rough calluses, the strength of a workingman’s hands. She glanced down, surprised his fingernails were trimmed and clean.
    She looked up and smiled back.
    Why couldn’t she remember?
    He looked so familiar. She must know him.
    He reached out and touched a tender spot on her forehead, his fingertips as gentle as if she’d been a newborn. “I wonder how this happened?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Did you have an accident? Is that why you were wandering down the road in the rain?”
    “I’m not sure . . . I think I must have fallen off my horse,” she said. Barrel racers did that all the time, she knew that, somehow. She didn’t remember a car, or an accident. “I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I’m okay.” At least she hoped she was okay. Her head only hurt when she tried to remember.
    “That happens. I’ve got a neighbor . . . that’s stupid,” he said. “Of course you know Betsy Mae.” He paused, then grinned, a brief smile that curled one side of his mouth and popped a dimple out in the opposing cheek. She caught herself studying that dimple, staring at his mobile lips, the tiny scar on his chin.
    This man was absolutely gorgeous and disturbingly familiar.
    She knew him from somewhere, but how? He must know her, or why would they be getting married? Maybe they’d been lovers?
    “We haven’t really introduced ourselves,” he said, blowing that wishful theory. “I’m Taggart Martin, Tag for short. This is Coop, my foreman. You have no idea how glad we are that you’ve agreed to this.” He flashed an indecipherable look at the old cowboy, then turned back to her, still smiling. “But Betsy Mae never mentioned your name. You’re . . . ?”
    She stared at him a moment and struggled to gather her thoughts. She had to quit thinking about that dimple. It wasn’t there now, anyway, darn it. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so confused, couldn’t remember . . . anything. It didn’t help that he still held on to her hands, rubbing one callused thumb back and forth along her wrist.
    His touch had a mesmerizing effect on her, as if she needed anything else adding to her confusion.
    Nor did it help that he was the proverbial “tall, dark and handsome.” His dark brown western-cut suit emphasized his lean, muscular build, and the white shirt with pearl snaps and a bolo tie only added to his rugged masculinity. A dark blue turquoise slide held the cords of his tie closed at his throat, and his thick dark hair curled just over his collar, giving him a rakish, devil-may-care look. He had the darkest blue eyes she’d ever seen, midnight blue eyes surrounded by thick, silky lashes. Why, he reminded her of the cover model on a romance she’d read.
    What was the name of that book?
    More important, what was her own name? She had to tell him something, anything. Obviously Betsy Mae had sent her here, and she trusted Betsy Mae, didn’t she? Again the image of the smiling blond, self-assured and strangely familiar, filled her thoughts. Her gaze swept the room, lighting for a moment on the stack of clothes she’d left on top of the dresser. She tilted her head and looked at him out of narrowed eyes.
    “I’m Lee,” she