A Season To Believe. Elane Osborn

studied the seascape before her. “Well, the cliff over on the right does match the image I remember. But the colors of the sky and water are more washed out. And the waves were bigger, more aggressive than these.”

      “Yeah, well, the waves here tend to be pretty anemic, from a surfer’s point of view,” Matt said slowly. “The beach faces southwest, so they come in at an angle, instead of bowling right into the shore. But try just staring at the water for a while, relax and see if anything comes.”

      Jane gave him what she hoped was a cheerful smile. Yeah, right, she thought. Watching the curling surf was one thing. Relaxing? Now, that was another matter altogether. How was she supposed to relax when she knew the man standing next to her was waiting anxiously for something to happen—something, moreover, that she wasn’t sure she even wanted to come about.

      However, Matt deserved her help in his quest for justice. Drawing a salt-laden breath, she released it, then repeated the action as she gazed straight ahead. She managed to breathe some softness into muscles tingling with awareness of Matt—but no memories came.

      Finally she shook her head and turned to Matt. She caught his expression of disappointment before he had a chance to smile and shrug. Jane wasn’t fooled. She knew she’d let him down. This man, who had cheered all her efforts to walk again, to recover knowledge she’d forgotten; who had held her as she sobbed when that last disappointment had made her vow to stop searching for her past, stop trying to figure out who people wanted her to be.

      The idea that she had failed Matt made Jane want to cry, something she hadn’t done since that day nearly sixteen months ago—something she wasn’t going to do now. As she had so many times since, Jane hardened the ache in her heart to anger.

      “I’m sorry,” she said as she stepped away from him. “This isn’t working. I really don’t want to remember my past. For all I know, I was a thief, or a drug dealer, or something worse. After all, what does it say about the person I was that someone hated me enough to attempt to kill me?”

      Matt was no longer smiling. In fact, as Jane glared up at him, his features twisted into an angry scowl. His hand reached out to close over hers with almost painful strength as he pulled her to him and bent his head toward hers.

      “It doesn’t say a damn thing about you,” Matt said, his voice low, tight. “The fact that someone is driven to kill, only tells me about the perpetrator, not the victim. No matter what the crime, the victim is not at fault. And hey, we know you’ve never been arrested—or fingerprinted.”

      Jane’s heart raced as his dark green eyes looked unwaveringly into hers. She watched as the deep vertical line between his eyebrows relaxed and his intent gaze softened to one of speculation.

      “However,” he said, “I’m not sure if I’ve ever met an injured party less deserving of the term victim than you. You, my friend, are the epitome of the title Survivor.”

      Matt’s words surprised sudden tears to her eyes, tears that she was not about to shed. She blinked them away, to find that Matt was now grinning.

      “So,” he said, “your worries about what kind of person you were before you were injured? Forget ’em. It doesn’t matter who you were. What matters is who you are now, the person you have made yourself into.”

      Jane thought her heart was going to pound itself right out of her chest. She could hardly believe this was happening. She’d dreamed so many times of a moment like this one. Even after Kyle Rogers had taught her, so very painfully, that her heart was not to be trusted, she’d held on to the belief that the one man in whose hands she could place the love she felt was Matt Sullivan.

      She’d read all about her condition, knew that people who survived brain trauma often experienced bouts of hero worship, until their emotional states stabilized and matured. She believed that this explained how she’d fallen under Kyle’s spell, but she knew her feelings for Matt were different.

      And now he stood looking down at her, his gaze holding hers with all the tenderness she could wish for.

      “You’re wondering,” Matt said, “if it’s true that who you were isn’t important, then why am I pushing you to recall your past.”

      Well, not really, Jane thought, but she wasn’t about to reveal her true thoughts, so she let him continue.

      “It’s because the person you were is the key to the entire investigation.”

      Jane’s heartbeat slowed. “Investigation?”

      Matt raised his eyebrows. “The investigation into who tried to kill you. Once I learn who you were, I’ll be able to find out who knew you. Then, with any luck, I can determine which of these people had a motive to put an end to your life.”

      Turning, Jane stared out over the sea. Great. She had the starring role in Matt Sullivan’s detective novel. Just what she wanted.

      “You don’t have to force your memory.” Obviously misunderstanding her intent, Matt placed his hands on Jane’s shoulders and swiveled her toward him. “It was a crazy idea to bring you down here and think that making you stare at the ocean would result in some sort of epiphany. Besides, I’m getting hungry. Are you ready to go?”

      Jane shrugged. “Sure.”

      Matt took her hand, then turned and started back up the beach. Far ahead Jane could see a path leading to the parking lot above and to their left. She was surprised to realize how far she had come earlier with her eyes closed, conversing with Matt. The walk back now, in silence, seemed much longer. The wind was blowing harder, too, bringing bone-chilling moisture from the ocean. And beneath her feet, the uneven sand seemed to fight her desire to hurry away from this place of disappointment.

      About thirty yards from the path, Matt stopped, bent forward and rubbed his right knee, then straightened and turned to her. “How about we take a little break before we head up to the car?”

      It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to say she wasn’t tired, when she connected his action to the injury he’d suffered. Uncertain just how sensitive he might be about the subject, she simply replied, “Sure,” then followed him to the dune on their left. When he sat down and leaned against the hill, she followed suit.

      The wind seemed less biting at this level. Between the warmth of the sand against her back and the rays of the weak winter sun, Jane felt almost toasty within her soft fleece jacket. Gazing forward, she noticed that the surf had grown rougher. Each wave created a large head of foam as it rolled and crashed. The hypnotic motion and rhythmic whisper slowly teased the tension from her muscles, calmed her mind and coaxed her to shut her eyes.