Page 13 of Wed By the Lumberjack

Chapter Five

Dixie Rose

“Do you remember anything?” Heath asks gently after we’ve been driving for ten minutes.

He seems utterly concerned for me. So concerned that I’m trying my damndest to hide my own worries. He sees straight through me though. Every time I try to sneak a glance in the rearview or side mirror, he catches me before diverting his eyes back to the road.

That aside, he took an eternity speaking to the doctor in hushed tones, even after we’d met with her together. I guess he wanted her professional opinion of how to delicately handle things. I couldn’t say I blamed him for treating me like glass. Something had happened, and despite the doctor’s assertions that my memory would return at any minute, I’m still no closer to finding out what that thing is no matter how hard I rack my brain.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. The doctor says I should be remembering by now but nothing’s coming to mind. Only...”

“Feelings?” he asks after a pause.

I nod and try to not let those feelings overtake me but my lip trembles and before I know it, I’m biting on my thumbnail.

Heath’s large hand leaves the gearshift to settle on my thigh with a comforting squeeze. Without thinking, I immediately stop biting my nail and take his large hand in both of mine. The minute I do, my raging heart settles to a flutter.

“I have this horrible feeling Heath,” I say softly. “Like someone’s...like someone’s after me. And if someone’s after me...I must’ve wronged them right? I must’ve done something.”

Breathe.

“What if I hurt someone?”

Breathe.

“Or worse?”

Breathe.

But I can’t, and soon I’m hyperventilating.

The truck veers to the right, and it takes me a second to realize that Heath’s pulled over.

It takes me another second to realize he’s unbuckling his seat belt and taking my face into his hands.

“Look at me, peanut.”

Peanut. He said that was my nickname in middle school. That had to be ages ago so why didn’t I remember it? The doctor said I should only have trouble remembering recent events. Yet peanut doesn’t ring a bell. In some strange way though, it does somehow feel familiar. Comforting.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, clutching his wrists. “You weren’t there.”

“It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t there. I know the kind of person you are. I’ve known you since we were kids. Look at me. Please.”

I do, tilting my head back to peer up into those stormy abysses. How many hours had I spent getting lost in them before my accident?

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