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down with a plop. “I know it.”
    She shook her head and sighed. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would she break out of prison, find me and send me all the way out here? Why wouldn’t she come here herself?”
    He turned his mug around in circles as he stared at it. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
    She touched his fingers. Immediately he jerked his hand away. Maybe it was good she didn’t have a memory because she sensed something in John Callahan’s memory was bad. Really bad. Where had the scars come from? Why did he live way out here, secluded and alone? And why hadn’t he stocked up on food before the blizzard of the century?
    Maybe the weather had taken him off guard—after all, she’d been caught in the storm as well—but she didn’t believe it. There was more to the story. And it wasn’t good. She remembered other things, like the way he never handed her anything, but set it down for her to pick up. How, every time she’d reached for him, he’d sidestep her.
    When she looked up, he was staring at her, those blue eyes shuttered. But she knew that behind the mask lurked real pain.
     
    John had lived with emptiness for so long that these new emotions nearly overwhelmed him. They came at him from all directions—fear, anger, grief, surprise. It was like coming up from anesthesia. Awakening from a long, complicated surgery to realize you were alive, you’d made it through, but it hurt like hell.
    He’d come close to blurting out what had happened to him and it scared the hell out of him because he didn’t know why. He’d never told anyone other than the doctors and even then he didn’t tell the whole story. If the little lady was scared now, she would be terrified to learn of the monster that didn’t live in her nightmare but was sitting next to her.
    “I need to get some air,” he said, the urge to flee so strong he almost tripped over her chair in his haste to rip open the kitchen door. He snagged his coat on his way and took a deep lungful of crisp, cold air. Hell, even that hurt. But it felt good.
    The cold air dried the sweat that had beaded on his brow. The doctors had always said when the time was right, he’d talk about it. He’d been adamant the time would never be right and had vowed to take his memories to his grave. And two days ago he would have done just that if she hadn’t shown up and wrecked his plans.
    Breathing easier now, he watched a pair of deer emerge from the line of trees. The buck lifted his head and sniffed the air, muscles tensed to flee. The doe eyed John in curiosity. Behind him, the door opened and his guest stepped out, a blanket wrapped around her. He placed a finger to his lips, then pointed to the deer.
    “Oh,” she breathed. Together they watched as the doe snuffled through the snowdrifts and the buck stood guard, keeping a watchful eye on the two of them. John felt her hand slide into his and instinctively tried to pull away, but she held tight, curling her fingers around his. He glanced at their twined hands.
    Her skin was soft, smooth, so pale next to his big, scarred hands. His heart beat fast as the panic closed in, but he pushed it away. Nothing would happen if he touched her. She was different. This wasn’t Peru.
    Closing his mind to the awful pictures in his head, he touched. He reveled. And for a long time they stood that way, hands held. But the memories refused to be ignored and the panic refused to be overlooked. Soon, old habits took over and he broke contact.
    But for a moment in time, he’d felt normal. Almost…whole.
    ***
    Their relationship seemed to change after the peaceful moment on the back porch watching the deer. She wouldn’t say John was at ease with her, but…less on edge. He seemed to relax as much as she supposed he relaxed around anyone. And it didn’t escape her notice that instead of thinking of him as just “Callahan”, a man who could possibly help her, he had become “John”, a man with a past and emotions