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was here. Her name would be a good place to start.
    Turning her vision to the right, she soon realized there was little to see except the blackness that seemed to penetrate this place. However, in the flickering light off the cave wall, she made out the silhouette of a man. Firelight seemed to paint his shadowy image in glimmering flashes of light and dark.
    She could tell very little about him, save that he appeared to be as big as a bear. If she shifted just so—not so much as to draw his attention, but enough to look toward the fire—she could see him in the flesh.
    For a long moment, she studied him. Then she lay back. He wasn’t so big after all, though he did look to be tall, perhaps six foot or more. He was an Indian, also. Odd that she should know that detail about him, but not remember her own name.
    He wore his hair like the Mohawk did. Except for a section of longer hair styled atop his head, he fashioned his hair clipped close to the head. However, a section of his mane was allowed to grow to great lengths in back, and tied to this longish hair were what appeared to be eagle feathers.
    Her gaze ranged down over his body and she noted that, excluding several tattoos covering his arms, his chest and arms were bare. He wore necklaces of stones and beads around his neck and the ever present breechcloth that the Indian male seemed to favor was tied around his waist. There was also a red cloth sash fashioned around that slim waist, and leggings that came up high on his legs outlined the muscles of his thighs. Undecorated moccasins covered his feet.
    Was the man a Mohawk warrior? Perhaps. But Sarah knew there were six tribes that made up the Iroquois Nation, though how she knew this piece of knowledge when she couldn’t recall who she was, was not quite clear. However, she decided that this man might originate from a different one of the tribes that made up the Iroquois Nation, since his hairstyle mimicked the Mohawk, but was not exactly the same.
    Hopefully he was not Ottawa.
    Sarah frowned. Why would she hope he was not Ottawa?
    Again she tried to concentrate. But her mind seemed to draw nothing but blanks.
    The man was handsome, she decided, and Sarah allowed herself several more glimpses, admiring the clean look of bare chest and that strange mixture of short and long hair. Odd, too, that she wasn’t afraid of him.
    Shouldn’t she be?
    It did strike her as peculiar that a man so muscular, so incredibly male and so obviously fitted for manly tasks was at work over a fire, doing chores considered feminine. He was cooking a meal. Despite herself, his image made her smile.
    But why should she smile? She was naked beneath this blanket and couldn’t remember the most elementary things about her life. Logic alone would dictate that she should be afraid.
    But she wasn’t.
    Did she know this man? Was that why she wasn’t frightened? Frustrated, Sarah let out a soft moan, and returned to her assessment.
    He was young, perhaps younger than she. There was also something about him that stirred her curiosity. His demeanor was very sexual, although why she should think so, she didn’t understand, unless … perhaps he was her husband? Or maybe it was his attire—or lack thereof—that caused the consideration.
    Unfortunately that thought had the effect of reminding her that she was scantily dressed. Had this man taken advantage of her? Now came the fear, and a sensation of vulnerability swept over her.
    Again she wondered, who was this man? Who was she? Wretchedly she realized that there was nothing else for it but to find out what was going on, and after chasing the knot that seemed to have collected in her throat, she asked, “Excuse me, sir, but have I had an accident? ”
    The man looked up from his work and glanced askance at her. He said, “You are awake at last.”
    He spoke English. Sarah frowned at the thought, marveling again at how much she “knew” without knowing. However, he hadn’t answered her