Memories at Midnight Read online

  Somewhere in her memory she knew she’d made love with him

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Books by Joanna Wayne

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Somewhere in her memory she knew she’d made love with him

  But was it with the same passion she felt right now? If so, how could she have endured leaving him?

  “You have to go, Darlene.” Clint could barely look at her. “I thought you’d be safe here, where I could watch you. Where you could tell me if you remembered anything. But now I can’t guarantee that I can protect you anymore.”

  Last night he’d thought she should stay. This afternoon he was sending her away. Only one thing had changed in the intervening hours. They’d kissed. If only she could remember what had come between them before. Only, she couldn’t. All she knew was that the taste of him was still on her lips and that she wanted to kiss him again so badly, she ached.

  “I’m staying, Clint. Until everything is settled. Until you catch the killer. Until I remember what happened.”

  “You might be making a big mistake.”

  She moved closer to him, near enough to inhale the musky scent of him. “It probably won’t be my first.”

  Dear Reader,

  When actions of the past come home to haunt Senator James Marshall McCord, Texas rancher and recipient of the Congressional) Medal of Honor, he knows he must protect the people he loves most in the world: his family. But he’ll need some help from three very rugged, very determined men.

  Harlequin Intrigue is proud to bring together three of your favorite authors in a new miniseries:

  THE McCORD FAMILY COUNTDOWN.

  Starting in October 1999, get swept away by a mysterious bodyguard in #533 Stolen Moments by B.J. Daniels. Then meet the sexy town sheriff in #537 Memories at Midnight by Joanna Wayne.

  And finally, feel safe in the strong arms of a tough city cop in #541 Each Precious Hour by Gayle Wilson.

  In a race against time, only love can save them. Don’t miss a minute!

  Enjoy,

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin Books

  300 East 42nd Street

  New York, NY 10017

  Memories at Midnight

  Joanna Wayne

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Darlene Remington— FBI agent and friend of Senator McCord. Her loyalty to an old friend has a killer on her trail.

  Clint Richards—Sheriff of Star County. He will protect the woman he loves at any cost.

  Senator James Marshall McCord—An American hero with a past that may destroy his future.

  Randy Franklin—Clint Richards’s deputy, but can he be trusted?

  Dr. Bennigan—He’s known Darlene for years, and insists he only wants to protect her and help her regain her memory.

  Freddie Caulder—Senator McCord’s ranch foreman. He is an expert cattleman but has his problems with other members of the senator’s staff.

  Jeff Bledsoe—Retired Texas Ranger and an old friend of the senator. He knows more than he is telling.

  Bernie Cullen—Senator McCord’s bodyguard. A giant of a man who seems totally out of place in Vaquero, Texas.

  Thornton Roberts—One of the best security men in the business, he was hired to make sure the senator’s ranch is always safe from human predators.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joanna Wayne lives with her husband just a few miles from steamy, exciting New Orleans, but her home is the perfect writer’s hideaway. A lazy bayou, complete with graceful herons, colorful wood ducks and an occasional alligator, winds just below her back garden. When not creating tales of spine-tingling suspense and heartwarming romance, she enjoys reading, golfing or playing with her grandchildren, and, of course, researching and plotting her next novel. Taking the heroine and hero from danger to enduring love and happy-ever-after is all in a day’s work for her, and who could complain about a day like that?

  Books by Joanna Wayne

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  288—DEEP IN THE BAYOU

  339—BEHIND THE MASK

  389—EXTREME HEAT

  444—FAMILY TIES

  471—JODIE’S LITTLE SECRETS

  495—ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

  505—LONE STAR LAWMAN

  537—MEMORIES AT MIDNIGHT

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Much appreciation to my sisters

  Mary, Barbara, Linda and Brenda

  for their unfailing support and encouragement.

  A special word of thanks to

  B.J. Daniels and Gayle Wilson for making

  THE McCORD FAMILY COUNTDOWN

  project so much fun to work on. And to Wayne,

  always, for keeping the romance in my life.

  Prologue

  The moonless night was quiet, almost eerily so. Even the incessant Texas wind had ceased to blow. The calm before the storm.

  Darlene Remington shifted in the passenger seat of the parked pickup truck, her insides quaking in spite of the months of training that were supposed to ensure that she stayed calm in any situation.

  But she had known Senator James Marshall McCord all her life, and she had never seen him like this. She’d heard that he had his secret side, that if you pushed him too far, he could break you with a look. Been told that he could tear a man apart with his bare hands. But those were only old war stories, the kind that always accompanied heroes when they marched home from battle.

  She turned and stared at his profile, at the bulging vein that ran the length of his neck. Whatever was eating at him had stolen his boisterous laugh and reassuring eyes. Of course, she’d known it had to be serious when he’d called Washington and asked her to fly to Texas to see him—unofficially and in private. And now he had driven her to this isolated wooded area to talk.

  “When are you going to tell me what this is about, Senator?”

  “I guess now’s as good a time as any, if I could just figure out how to say this.”

  “I never thought I’d see you speechless.” Her attempt at humor died before it began, another victim of the ominous darkness that encompassed them.

  “What do you know about my past, Darlene? About what happened in Vietnam?”

  “Mostly what’s been glorified in the media. That you received the Congressional Medal of Honor for bravery under fire. That the men who served in your unit think you’re just a notch under God.”

  “That’s one side of the coin. The other isn’t nearly so flattering.” Reluctance and bitterness strained his voice.

  “Why are you telling me this, Senator? Your past is not under investiga
tion. At least not that I know of.”

  “Because my past is about to explode into the present.” He reached over and patted her hand. “I hate to drag you into this.”

  “I’m not afraid, Senator, and you know I’d like to help you if I can.” She smoothed the fabric of her denim skirt, surprised to find herself nervous around McCord. She couldn’t remember ever having been before. She decided to set the parameters of the discussion up front, to avoid any misconceptions. “You know, of course, that I can’t do anything that would misuse my power as an FBI agent.”

  “I would never ask you to.” He exhaled sharply and rapped a fist on the steering wheel of the truck. “Let’s get out of the truck for a minute, stretch our legs and catch a breath of fresh air.”

  Darlene opened her door and stepped onto the carpet of grass and dry leaves. Something stirred in the brush behind them and she strained to make out the source. Nothing moved in her line of vision.

  “One of the Hill Country’s many nocturnal creatures,” the senator assured her, alert to the same rustling movement she’d noticed. He scanned the area and then reached back into his pickup, pulling a pistol from beneath the seat before he slammed the truck door behind him.

  “You’re not expecting trouble tonight, are you? If we are, this is not the best location for this discussion.”

  “Not tonight—but I am expecting trouble.”

  “More of the millennium fever that’s stalking the world?”

  “No. More like the ghost of years past rattling a few chains in my face.”

  “This is the season.” She leaned against the hood of the truck, resting the heel of one booted foot on the front bumper. “It’s hard to believe Christmas will be here in two weeks and after that the infamous beginning of a year that ends in double zero.”

  “Yes, it’s strange the effect those particular numbers have on the mood of the public.” Shrugging out of his jacket, he threw it across the hood of the truck and then hopped onto the right bumper. He sat, half facing her but at an angle so that his prosthetic leg dangled over the front of the truck.

  “But I take it the millennium is not what you wanted to talk about when you asked me to come to Vaquero?”

  “No.” He reached behind him and pulled a pipe from the pocket of his jacket. “Do you mind?” he asked, tamping down the tobacco with the edge of his thumb. “I don’t indulge often, but tonight I need the comfort of an old habit.”

  The somberness of his mood, the avoidance techniques, the need for the stem of a pipe between his lips. All so foreign to the senator’s usual commanding demeanor.

  Apprehension nipped at her practiced control. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s bothering you, Senator? That way we’ll know if I can help you unofficially, or if you need to deal with this more aggressively.”

  “Okay, all I ask is that you hear me out to the end. Then feel free to say no to the favor I’m going to ask of you.”

  “I’ll never say no to you if there’s any way I can avoid it—not after all you’ve done for me. Getting me the scholarship to the university, even recommending me for the spot at Quantico.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  McCord took a long drag on the pipe and exhaled slowly. When the last of the smoke had cleared his face, he began a sordid saga that grew more bizarre by the minute. Darlene sat without moving until her heart beat so painfully in her chest that she thought it might explode.

  “Please stop, Senator McCord.” She turned her gaze to the ground, not willing to look into his eyes. “I don’t need to hear this. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “It’s too late to stop now. You have to know all of this if you’re to understand why I had to take these actions.”

  She jerked her head up as something crashed through the bushes behind them. The sound of gunfire shattered the night, and she stared in horror at the blood that spattered her shirt.

  She jumped from the side of the truck, her mind screaming orders her body couldn’t seem to heed. A second later, something pounded against her head. She sank to the ground, and all she could see or feel was a suffocating blanket of black.

  Chapter One

  Using the toe of his right boot as a wedge, Clint Richards nudged until his left boot clattered to the wooden floor of the spacious den of the ranch house he’d built himself. Home at last, but not as early as he’d liked to have been here.

  His workday had stretched into the early hours of evening, robbing him of the opportunity to take care of his own after-hour chores around the ranch. Not that he would have minded if any of the day’s emergencies had been genuine, but fences cut by a couple of high-school pranksters and a neighbor’s pig rooting in Mrs. Cranston’s flower bed didn’t warrant the kind of hullabaloo they’d produced.

  And then there had been the call from James McCord. Clint had rushed over, jumping to his beck and call just like everyone else in town did. His knee-jerk reaction to the senator’s call balled in Clint’s gut, adding extra force to the task of removing his right boot. The boot hit the floor with such a racket that even old Loopy opened one eye and gave his master a suspicious look before thumping his tail against the hearth and returning to dog dreamland.

  Clint leaned back and propped his stocking feet on the pine coffee table before biting into the hunk of brisket he’d sandwiched between two slices of bread. Still, thoughts of McCord’s call cantered around in his mind.

  Good old James McCord, everybody’s hero, gearing up to march from the Senate to the White House. Man of the people. But there would be at least one vote in Texas he wouldn’t get.

  But then, canvassing for support surely hadn’t been the reason McCord had called him today and asked him to stop by. No, McCord had reasons for everything he did. This was the second time in a matter of weeks he had requested that Clint drop by with no more than a lame excuse. Well, whatever his game was, Clint wasn’t interested in playing.

  He reached for the remote control and clicked on the TV, surfing a few channels and finally settling for some network’s version of a news show. He wasn’t much of a TV man unless the Cowboys were playing, but anything would beat wasting his time thinking about the good senator.

  The phone jangled beside him. He swallowed a bite of sandwich and grabbed for the receiver. “Sheriff Richards here.”

  “I’m glad I caught you.”

  Clint recognized the voice immediately. The man behind it owned and operated Jingling Spurs, one of the big-draw dude ranches just out of Vaquero. “What can I do for you, Barry?”

  “We’ve got a little problem out on Glenn Road, just before the turnoff to my place.”

  “Yeah. I’m listening.”

  “One of my guests just drove back from town. She said a woman wandered onto the road like a wounded animal. She only caught a glimpse of her, but she thought the woman was bloody-looking. She came so close to hitting her, it scared her half to death.”

  “Did she stop and check it out?”

  “Yeah. But by the time she got back to the spot where she’d seen the woman, no one was there. I figured you’d want to look into it.”

  “You figured right.” Clint was already stuffing his feet back into his boots as he questioned Barry Jackson further on the details, trying to pin down the exact location that the woman had been spotted. His fatigue drowned in the spurt of adrenaline that coursed his veins as he rushed to his pickup.

  The Jingling Spurs was out a long, lonely stretch of highway, and no place for a woman on foot, dazed or otherwise. Possibilities struck his mind like a nest of hissing rattlesnakes. He made a mental note to remind himself never to complain about boring, routine days again.

  Grabbing a light jacket from the hook by the door and his gray-felt Stetson from the shelf above it, he stamped out the back door, glad he’d insisted that the county furnish him with a truck instead of a squad car like the city boys drove. The truck got him to places the low-riding town units could never go. Like the woods off Glenn Road.r />
  Jumping into the front seat, Clint headed out to find who knew what, on a night so dark that the threatening rain would have trouble finding the ground—if it ever got brave enough to fall.

  CLINT SLOWED HIS TRUCK to a crawl and turned on his spotlight. He searched for any sign of movement in the fenced pasture on one side of the road, and in the clumps of evergreens and scrubby brush on the other. A pair of does darted to the left of him, but other than that the black night was still.

  He eased down the road, sticking to the shoulder, his spotlight emergency lights moving continuously as he scanned the area. One lone, bleeding and dazed woman was wandering somewhere in the blackness. Before he went home tonight, he’d know why, or at least see that she was safe. It was likely to be a long night.

  The minutes stretched into almost an hour, and the rush of adrenaline that had fueled him earlier wore off a little more with each roll of his tires. If the woman was out there looking to be saved, she should be responding to the sound of his truck engine or the beam of police lights. If she was still out there and conscious.

  He pulled into a dirt drive. Might as well turn around and retrace the mile he’d just covered. The rest of the area between here and the entrance to the Jingling Spurs was nothing but cleared pastureland, and the report had been that the woman had stepped out of a wooded area.

  The blue lights ricocheted off metal. He turned and tried to find the source of the gleam again, but he’d lost it. Jumping from the driver’s seat, he grabbed his searchlight and flooded the area with the powerful beam.

  His eyes hadn’t deceived him. There was a pickup truck parked not forty yards from the road, all but hidden by a stand of young pine trees.