The Quiet Seduction by Dixie Browning

occurs when two people know each other well. Although just how he could be so certain of that, he couldn’t have said. All the same, he knew he liked her company. Liked looking at her. Liked talking to her. Would have liked doing more than looking under other circumstances.
    She’d turned to him then, picked up the plane again, and he could have sworn she’d been about to say something important. Instead, she’d shaken her head, murmured something about locating a spool of wire and gone back outside.

Five
    W hat, Storm wondered idly, had Ellen been about to tell him? That it was time he left? That she didn’t like the way he made the beds? That he’d used too much detergent in the laundry? He’d figured that much out by himself when the suds had threatened to overflow. Figured it out and dealt with it. He still had a few gray cells on active duty.
    Feeling restless—his usual state these days—Storm opened the front door and studied the terrain. Nothing unusual about it. Nothing in the least outstanding, yet he liked it.
    As compared to what? a mocking voice asked.
    Okay, so the partial fence around the house needed painting. For that matter, the house itself needed painting. Maybe while he was here he could—
    And maybe not.
    The remnants of a sadly neglected lawn cried out for help. Someone—Ellen, probably—had planted some ornamental shrubs that were also in need of attention. Maybe if he picked up a pair of pruning shears, something would come back to him.
    The horse barn was in surprisingly good shape compared to the other outbuildings. Among other things, she needed a carpenter. He had a feeling that memory or not, he was not now, nor had he ever been, a carpenter.
    However, he might as well try his hand at a few simple repairs. It didn’t take a college degree to tighten a few hinges so that gates wouldn’t sag and shutters wouldn’t bang against the wall. Given the right tools, common sense should kick in and tell him how to make a few basic repairs.
    His gaze shifted to the lane, which was badly in need of resurfacing. He had a vague memory of being bumped over a few potholes, tilting dangerously and grabbing hold of the metal sides of the wheelbarrow when Ellen and Pete had steered him around others.
    At the other end of that driveway there was a state highway. A hedgerow blocked the view, but he could hear the sound of traffic quite clearly from where he stood. Somewhere out there he had a vehicle, or what was left of one. He had to have been driving. His memory was hazy, but he didn’t recall seeing a car nearby when he’d been dragged out of that ditch.
    Ellen had mentioned seeing a delivery van a few hundred yards down the highway. Later she’d seen a wrecked pickup and the hood of a red sports car.
    Could any of them have been his?
    Possibly. Whatever he’d been driving, there was bound to be some form of ID in it. License plates could be traced. Had anyone done that? And if not, damn it, why not?
    Had he been alone when the twister struck?
    Unable to find answers, his restless mind returned to his immediate surroundings. From where he stood he could see one corner of the paddock where two mares swished away the flies. Nice-looking stock. Nothing outstanding, but good, serviceable mounts. It occurred to him that he’d never seen Ellen or Pete up on one.Still, they had to be saddle broken. Maybe he could buy one of the geldings and ride out of here.
    Oh, yeah? Using what for money? For all he knew, he couldn’t even ride. It was really beginning to gall the hell out of him, being out of the loop.
    Stealing a horse to escape was probably not an option. Whatever else he was—or wasn’t—he was pretty sure he was no horse thief.
    Wearing shoes that had dried stiff, the soles curling up slightly at the toes, he made his way carefully down the front steps and crossed the clearing between house and barn. From inside he