Anna leaned her throbbing forehead against the window and tried to recall why she was on a train.  Was she traveling to meet someone?  Was she returning home to...to wherever she had come from?  Everything was so fuzzy and confusing. As the train slowed she sat up and adjusted her bonnet.  Was this her stop? Passengers folded newspapers, straightened skirts and coats, gathered their children and valises and began departing the train.  She stood, wavering with indecision.  What if this wasn't her stop?  If it was, surely someone would be waiting at the station for her?  Her stomach rolled and for the life of her she couldn't seem to focus her eyes.  Her head ached so badly everything was shadowed or doubled up. A young lady in an expensive wool frock began to pass.  "Pardon me, but are we where?" Anna asked, touching the gal's arm. The lady stopped.  "Pardon me?" "At station we have arrived?" Anna asked, her words mixed up and oddly slurred. The lady exchanged a glance with the young man behind her then smiled as if Anna were slow-witted.  "We have arrived indeed.  Enjoy your stay."  With a nod of farewell, the gal and her escort left the train. Anna sagged against the seatback.  Not one thing was clear.  Not her thoughts.  Not her vision.  Not her speech.  She wiped her damp palms on her velvet skirt.  Perhaps she should step outside and look.  If she recognized someone on the platform, she would know she was at her stop.  If not, she could re-board and continue on to wherever the train would take her. Negotiating her way to the door was difficult in her woozy state, and she used the high seatbacks to keep herself upright.  As she stepped from the train, she clutched her small reticule and surveyed the milling crowd.  Not one face looked familiar.  Not one person approached her. Black smoke billowed from the engine and filled her lungs.  A wave of nausea rolled through her and she feared she was going to faint, or worse...vomit.  Her stomach heaved and she pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth as she hurried across the boarding platform and down the station steps.  Gulping, gagging, she lifted her skirt and half ran into the towering forest the train had just passed through. She retched behind a red maple tree, its branches devoid of leaves. From the station platform, a man's voice called out asking after her health. Embarrassed by her mounting illness, Anna staggered deeper into the forest.  Dense, thorny underbrush snared her trailing skirt, tearing the soft fabric.  She pushed aside twisted brown branches and vines and struggled toward the small clearing made by the railroad tracks.  Sumac bushes with gnarled branches scratched her face and ripped at her hair.  Winded, she collapsed on her knees at the top of the bank.  Blood speckled her hands and face and her chignon hung loose at the side of her head. She clasped her palms over her roiling stomach.  She was lost.  Not one clear fact surfaced in her mind.  She couldn't remember who she was or where she belonged or why she was on that train.  She could have been going anywhere to see anyone or no one.  Laughter and shouts of joy sounded in the distance as families and friends reunited.  Anna wanted to call for help, but had no one to call to.  How would anyone help her if she couldn't speak clearly or remember where she was going? She'd been unable to clear the cobwebs and reorient herself since waking on the train.  Even now, minutes later, her thoughts skittered sideways and tangled with the thick undergrowth.  Dizzy, Anna panted in the cold, listening to the train grunt and gasp as it pulled out of the station.  It was leaving her behind and taking her valise with it, but it mattered not when her destination was as unclear as her thoughts. She hooked the ribbon handle of her reticule over her forearm and staggered to her feet.  Her legs trembled as she headed down the tracks, away from the station with too many people and their curious, probing stares.  A walk might clear her head.  As soon as she could recall where she belonged, she would return to the station and purchase a ticket home straightaway. Sharp stones gouged through the soles of her thin dress boots and turned her ankles.  Her uneven gait compounded her dizziness.  The metal tracks became four then two, wavering back and forth as she stumbled toward the trestle her train had crossed minutes earlier.  Her surroundings began to undulate and circle in sickening waves.  She stumbled sideways and caught herself against a birch sapling growing at the edge of a cliff.  Nausea rolled through her and bent her double as she gagged.  The bank seemed to drop straight down the mountain. Tears streamed from her eyes and her knees began to give way as dry heaves ravaged her body.  Momentum carried her forward and the sapling slipped from her weak grasp.  Shoulder-over-hip she crashed down through gnarled branches and over mountain rocks that tore her clothes and pummeled her body. ~*~ Paul Headley leveled the barrel of his rifle and slowly pulled the trigger.  The rifle butt slammed his shoulder, the blast echoing through the frigid mountain air.  The buck he'd been sighting darted through the Allegheny pines unscathed.  He stared at his rifle as if it had misfired, but he knew it was his lack of desire that had caused the miss.  There had been enough death on this mountain because of him. Slinging his rifle across his back, he headed in the direction of his cabin.  Cold air burned his lungs as he walked, his feet crunching through frozen leaves and fragments of dead branches.  He huddled deeper into his coat and increased his pace.  All he wanted was a warm fire and to escape the ever-present sense of failure that haunted him. As he stepped from the cold shadows of the trees and headed downstream, he jerked to a halt and stared with stunned fascination.  Twenty feet away, standing at the edge of the creek, swaying like a young pussy willow tree in the frigid winter wind, stood a half-dressed woman.  She wore no bonnet or frock and appeared to be alone. Paul surveyed the long expanse of rock-strewn creek bed above him then checked downstream where the water widened and gained momentum.  There wasn't a soul in sight.  He scanned the timberline and the high cliffs of his property, but the mountain remained empty. If she were truly alone, in her exposed condition the woman would be dead before nightfall. Paul searched again desperately hoping someone would appear and claim her.  There was a reason she was half-dressed and seemingly abandoned in the middle of nowhere.  He did not want to know that reason.  He did not want to get involved, but it appeared he was her only hope of surviving. Damn it to hell.  He took a step toward her, knowing there would be no escape from the world no matter how deeply he desired it. The sound of his footfalls brought her head up.  Her eyes widened when she caught sight of him.  Her surprise was nothing compared to the shock that must have registered in his own eyes as he viewed her bloodied, swollen face.  Her dress hung in shreds and was covered with dirt and...blood? Without warning, she hobbled toward the trees, clutching her side. "Wait!  I won't harm you." Despite his promise, she hurried on, gasping and whimpering. Paul shouldered his rifle and sloshed through the icy river water, praying it wouldn't rise above his thighs and give him a heart attack.  A hundred yards into the trees he heard her muffled moans and traced them to where she lay partially concealed beneath a low-hanging pine bough.  She rested on her side, biting her fist, her nostrils flaring with each labored breath. "I won't hurt you," he said, gentling his voice from the intimidating baritone he'd inherited from his father, a ranking Army veteran, who endlessly drilled honor and duty into Paul's head. She panted and shivered, but said nothing. "I'll take you to a warm place.  You have to be freezing."  He placed his gun beside him, aiming the barrel away from her. Her gaze flicked to either side of him. "It's too cold," he said, easily reading her pitiful intention of escaping.  In her advanced state of shock, he doubted she could even stand.  Knowing he hadn't wanted to get involved made his face burn despite the raw wind.  Any decent human being would help this woman. The pine-scented air bit into his back as he shrugged off his heavy coat and knelt before her. She stiffened, came up on her elbow and edged away like a cornered animal. "My name is Paul.  I'm a...doctor," he said, feeling unworthy of the title and the heavy responsibility that came with it.  "I can help you."  He hoped. Her chest heaved and frantic whimpers mingled with the moaning wind that was slicing into them. He had to get her inside before hypothermia claimed both of them.  "Please take my coat."  He leaned forward and laid the warm wool over her legs.  Her skirt was torn and her knees were bleeding through her shredded stockings. She rolled to her hands, gasping and splinting her side as she tried valiantly to gain her feet.  The effort was futile.  She moaned, swayed, and fainted into a thick bed of leaves and pine needles. Thank God. Paul immediately checked her breathing and her pulse.  Both were fast and erratic, but strong.  He cloaked her in the warm folds of his coat.  Clad in his flannel shirt and wet pants, he fought to keep his teeth from chattering as he carefully lifted her into his arms.  The woman was petite and thin, but his heavy, bulky coat made carrying her difficult.  Shivering hard, he headed toward his cabin, wondering what bundle of trouble he was carrying into his life. ~*~ Paul laid the woman on his small bunk and covered her with the worn wool blanket he used during his stay.  She had moaned and writhed intermittently during the twenty-minute trek to his cabin, but never fully roused from semi-conscious.  His arms were exhausted, but it was probably better for the lady to remain oblivious to his examination and ministrations.  Resigned to the irrevocable situation, he retrieved a basin of cold water from the kitchen pump then warmed it with water from the kettle he kept heated on the wood stove.  He placed the basin of warm water beside the bed then washed his hands in it. The woman's eyes were closed and her breathing shallow.  He lifted her eyelids.  Her pupils were round and equally reactive.  No blood or spinal fluid came from either ear.  Likely no intracranial trauma.  Good... He parted her hair every half-inch to check for contusions and signs of trauma.  Hovering close, he looked for imbedded debris and the potential mechanism of injury.  She had swelling and a small laceration behind her left ear and a deep gash on her left cheekbone that needed to be treated.  Her left eye was swollen and turning purple.  Her nose and the right side of her face appeared uninjured.  Had she wounded her left side in a fall?  Or was the trauma caused by the hard fist of a right-handed man? Paul lowered the blanket to her hips then unbuttoned her fitted basque.  Trying to maneuver her arms from the tight sleeves became impossible without hurting and rousing her.  Knowing too well that delay could be deadly, he retrieved razor sharp scissors from his bag.  The fitted bodice was ruined anyhow.  Slipping his fingers beneath the soft fabric of her sleeve, he cut from wrist to neckline, repeating the process on the other sleeve before pushing aside the ravaged material.  A blue satin ribbon wove through a series of eyelets down the front of her white cotton corset.  He untied it, pulled the ribbon free, and peeled the corset back like flower petals.  He cut the pretty white chemise underneath as close to the seams as possible, hoping she could repair the garment and forgive him for damaging it.  He tucked the scissors back into his bag then opened the light chemise, revealing her creamy skin and small, pink-tipped breasts.  The man in him admired her beauty.  The professional in him retrieved his stethoscope. For two or three minutes he listened with his stethoscope, assessing the condition of her thoracic and abdominal organs.  Her lung fields and heart sounds were normal.  Rapid, shallow breathing indicated pain, but no sound of fluid, no congestion.  The auscultation was good. A velvet ribbon choker embraced her throat, the scrolled carnelian cameo looking out of place against her dirty neck and chin.  He placed the stethoscope in his bag then removed her necklace.   As he studied her neck, he felt oddly relieved there were no telltale choke marks.  Her delicate shoulders and arms were marred by scratches and abrasions that could have easily been caused by a fall.  He lifted her scraped left hand.  Dainty fingers.  Broken nails.  No ring.  Had she struggled against someone?  Had she been beaten?  Raped?  Or had she just suffered a fall into the ravine? Who are you, lady?  Did you trust someone you shouldn't have? Placing his fingers on her neck, he began palpitating for crepitus.  No crackling, popping or grating sounds in the thoracic or abdominal viscera were present, nor did he feel any rigidity or deformity that concerned him.  He did, however, notice ecchymosis in the rib area she'd been splinting.  Whether they were just bruised or fractured, he would be better able to assess when she woke.  Then he would determine if a compressive dressing would aide in her comfort. With slow, small movements, he manipulated her fingers, wrists, elbows, arms, checking for range of motion and possible fractures.  His exam revealed nothing obvious.  He would have to depend on the woman's pain and mobility level to tell him what his exam couldn't. He drew the blanket up to cover her chest, hoping the rough wool wouldn't abrade her skin while he finished the examination. He began the tedious job of unbuttoning her skirt.  Forty-nine buttons later, he peeled back the soft velvet fabric, exposing her white cotton drawers and torn, bloody stockings. Dear God, more buttons on her boots.  He had no boot hook.  Using his closed scissors, he pried slippery button loops over the hooks then loosened her boots.  He tugged them off her feet then unfastened and rolled her ruined hose down her thin legs.  Bloody abrasions and dirt covered her knees.  Her thighs and legs were scratched and showing signs of bruising.  Gently, he squeezed her hip bones and rocked her pelvis, checking for deformity or obvious signs of trauma.  Function was normal as best he could tell.  He palpated and checked range of motion in her lower extremities, but no internal trauma or laxity was apparent.  Good. He covered her with the blanket then gently rolled her onto her right side. She moaned and roused. "I'm sorry, lady.  I need to check your spine." "Hurt me you," she said, gasping and clutching her left side. "I'm sorry.  I'll hurry."  Gently, he palpated her back, lumbar, and buttocks. She whimpered and dug her dirty fingers into the bedding. "Does your back hurt?" She gasped.  "Knivez in side my." Inside her?  Or in her side?  Was her slurring caused by pain or delirium or possibly...alcohol?  He leaned down and smelled her breath.  No scent of alcohol.  Nor had he noticed any smell of liquor during the time he carried her to his cabin, but that didn't rule out the possibility.  Whatever the cause, her slurring concerned him.  He eased her onto her back.  "That better?" he asked, but her head lolled and she didn't respond. Finished with his cursory exam, he cleaned and dressed her facial laceration, trying to approximate the edges and lesson the possibility of scarring in what he believed to be a pretty face. Sitting back, he rinsed the washcloth in the basin of warm water.  He uncovered her right arm and shoulder and began cleaning the scratches and abrasions left untended during his exam.  Methodically, meticulously, he cleaned her body a section at a time, using the blanket to preserve her modesty.  He checked again for frostbite discoloration and released a sigh of relief at the continued natural flush in her feet and hands.  Finished with bathing her, he drew the window curtain and leaned against the log wall to rest his aching back.  Was someone tracking the woman?  His mind's-eye moved into the night and up the mountain to where he'd found her.  Her body was cut, welted, and bruising.  Her garments were dirty and badly torn.  Whatever happened out there had left the woman a mess. With a tired sigh, Paul retrieved a mortar and pestle from his bag, added about a teaspoon of dried calendula blossom then added a few drops of hot water from the stove kettle.  He worked the dried blossoms beneath his pestle then set the bowl aside. From the drawer beneath his bed, he retrieved one of his last two clean shirts.  He chose the older shirt hoping the worn flannel would be softer against her delicate skin. He stood with the shirt in his hands, trying to determine the best way to get it on her.  He'd rather not disturb her, but the lady would be more than disturbed if she woke up unclothed.  Resigned to the job, he fished her right arm from beneath the blanket, slid his shirt sleeve over her fist and up to her shoulder.  He laid out the rest of the material beside her.  Slipping his arm beneath her neck and shoulders, he lifted her a few inches off the mattress and pushed the shirt beneath her with his free hand.  She moaned, but didn't fully wake.  Slowly, gently, he tugged the shirt from beneath her sore left side and slipped the sleeve over her hand.  When he finished pulling it up her arm and over her shoulder, he drew the blanket down so he could button the shirt. The supple beauty of her breasts, small yet tempting in their firmness filled his gaze.  His ears burned and his fingers fumbled every button.  He'd worn that shirt hundreds of times and never struggled with it as he was now.  To even attempt to re-button the forty-nine tiny blue discs on her skirt was out of the question.  He worked the skirt from beneath her slender buttocks, folded it and laid it on the book case at the end of his bed.  The lady would likely rest more comfortably without yards of constricting fabric wrapped around her legs.  He pulled the tails of the flannel shirt down over her pretty drawers then covered her with the blanket. Retrieving the mortar, he spread the calendula paste on a gauze dressing.  After placing the pad over the laceration on her cheek, he taped it in place. With a tired sigh, he rubbed the back of his aching neck and studied the stranger in his bed.  He'd examined the woman, treated her, and cleaned her.  That was all he could do.  When she woke, she would be mighty sore...but hopefully less confused. From the stand beside the bed he retrieved his hair brush then sat beside her on the bed.  If he wouldn't have crossed her path, she would likely be dead from exposure by now.  Had she been beaten, abandoned and left to die?  Her lashes twitched and she moaned.  Did she just suffer an accidental fall?  He felt her forehead, wishing he could ease her pain, knowing an opiate would be too dangerous if she had internal injuries that hadn't yet surfaced.  Better to wait.  As the fire crackled and burned low, her vulnerability and whimpers of pain compelled him to comfort her.  With long slow strokes, he drew his soft bristled brush through her tangled locks, removing pine needles and dried leaves, trying to ignore how much he enjoyed the feel of a woman's hair. ~*~ She came awake slowly to the fragrant smell of wood smoke and an unbearable ache lodged deep in her bones.  She arched away from the sharp pain in her ribs, gasping when it consumed her.  Something cold touched her lips and she searched with her mouth, sucked greedily, blessing the coldness that wet her tongue. A hand stroked her forehead and she turned to it, praying it would soothe the pain engulfing her.  Pressure built in her throat as she called out for help, but a disjointed grunt reached her ears. "It's okay, lady.  You're safe here..." His calm voice and cool hand flowed over her like a deep, soothing river.  She concentrated on the gentle stroke of his fingers, willing each rigid muscle in her aching body to unlock its painful talons.  "Relax...," he crooned. His request tempted her, but there was something urgent pushing up from within her that kept her from succumbing.  Something struggling in her subconscious to warn her.  Something that told her to run. She fought to open her eyes, to resist the shadows that flickered at the edge of awareness.  Coolness washed over her face and she licked the dew from her lips.  They were split and tasted like brine.  Her lower lip stung and made her moan. "I know it hurts.  I'm sorry." The voice drew her, compelled her to open her eyes.  She peered at him through slits, as though peeking between the cracks of an old horse stall.  Flannel-clad shoulders filled her gaze.  Fear slithered along her spine.  His image burned into her mind like an etching on a daguerreotype plate.  Hard cheekbones.  Proud nose.  A solid chin in need of a shave.  Brown eyes that spoke to her although his mouth remained closed.  "Who...you are?" she croaked.  She raised a hand to her parched throat.  What had happened?  Where was she? "Paul Headley.  I'm a doctor," he said. She glanced beyond his shoulder to the fading light outside the curtained window and then returned to her surroundings.  She lay in a bed tucked beneath the window on one end of a cabin.  To her right, a snapping wood stove was bracketed by two thick-cushioned wingback chairs that shared an end table holding a huge oil lantern.  Beyond that, in the far right corner, stood a pair of overflowing bookshelves and a heavy wooden table that appeared to double as a desk.  A kitchen of sorts took up the other corner.  As her gaze came full circle, she noticed a doorway to another room.  But her attention riveted on the entrance door and the heavy metal bolt locking her inside. "Is there someone I can contact for you?" he asked.  "Someone you trust?" The intensity in his eyes kept her silent.  Tingling with apprehension, she drew back, suddenly consumed with the need to get away from him.  To get beyond that locked door. "I'll send for a friend or family member if you'll provide their name." She considered shoving him aside and running for the door, but knew she couldn't even make it out of bed on her own.  Shaking, she scoured her mind, wondering who she could contact.  Who could she trust?  Not one name surfaced.  Not one fact revealed itself.  Her panic flared and she moaned.  She couldn't remember anything! "It's all right," he said.  "Just start with your name." Her name was...was...  She touched her temples.  She had to know her own name. "Are you afraid to tell me?" She studied her hands.  The broken nails and scraped fingers didn't look familiar, nor did the flannel night dress she was wearing.  As she pushed herself upright, pain tore through her side.  Gasping, she peered in the mirror hanging on the wall at the end of the bed.  A woman with wild brown hair, a swollen eye and a bandage on the side of her face stared back at her.  That was not her face!  Whoever she was, she couldn't be that monster in the mirror. "Don't," the man said, blocking her view.  "You've endured enough." She searched his eyes, her own stinging with tears of shock and unanswered questions. "I'm sorry.  I don't know what happened." "I 'member don't!"  Her slurred words surprised her and seemed to concern the doctor. "Easy, Miss."  He captured one of her hands and cradled it in his palms.  "You suffered a significant hit to your head, which I believe is contributing to your confusion and trouble speaking." She pulled free and huddled against the wall, caught in waves of excruciating pain. He sighed and scraped his hair back.  "I have no idea what happened out there, but I suspect you took a bad fall into the ravine.  I'm not sure why you fell.  Were you alone?  Is it possible that you were pushed by someone?" Pushed?  Pushed?  She had no idea.  "Why push me someone down?"  She groaned and shook her head, scared and frustrated that her words and her mind were such a jumble. "I don't know.  But until you're well enough to remember what happened, or remember who you are, I'll have to keep you here with me." Her gaze clashed with his then dashed to the bolted door.  Was it him?  Had he hurt her?  Was this part of some perverted game? He trailed his finger through the air in front of her nose.  She jerked her head back, watching warily to see what he was about.  "That's right, watch my finger.  Good," he said moving his finger toward her nose and away again.  "Does your head ache?" She nodded, but the movement sickened her and the edges of her vision grew black. "Can you see clearly?  Any double vision?"  Dizziness washed over her and her head lolled. "Lie back, Miss." She leaned her head against the wall and peered at him through the bleary slits between her eyelids. "If you don't mind, I'll call you Willow until you can tell me your name.  It's the first thing I thought of when I spotted you shivering at edge of the stream." He'd found her by a stream? "You need to rest now."  The man cupped her shoulders and eased her back to the mattress.  She struggled against him, trying to resist being pushed to her back where he would dominate and hurt her again.  He was unmercifully cruel. "Easy, Willow." She raised her arms to protect herself from the hard hands that would take her to hell. Sign up for Shout Out! to be notified when Anna's story is available. Copyright © 2002 Wendy Lindstrom. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author. Many of you who voted in my reader poll wanted to read Adam or Anna's story next.  I'm happy to say that Anna's book is well underway, but don't worry, you'll see Adam in this story too.  Adam needs time to grow into a man-a Grayson man-before he's ready for his own romance.  In the meantime, that means more books about the other characters, so please vote for whom you wish to read about (after Anna's story).  I promise, I won't forget about Adam.  In these other stories you'll see him grow into a man seeking his own forever love. © WendyLindstrom2011