Scorned Vows: An Arranged Marriage Romance (Scorned Fate)

Two years later

The small town of Danvers was buzzing with the oncoming river festival. We were the short stop before the better-known resort city of Grafton near the confluence of the Mississippi and Illinois rivers.

My temperamental pickup chugged through Main Street, a mile-long street of commerce. For a community of less than a thousand, we had fancy shops like Nature Java.

It was my first stop of the day.

After parking my vehicle, I hopped out. I walked the short distance to the glass door of the coffee shop and pushed it open. Bells jingled, drawing the attention of the barista and owner, Brad Bailey. Blond, blue-eyed, lumberjack sexy, and a decent kisser, he glanced away from the espresso machine with a look of relief on his face.

“Thank God you’re here. The laptop has locked up.”

“Have you been watching too much porn, Bailey?” a customer heckled from the booth.

I grinned and walked past them. Though some faces were familiar, and I knew more than a few by their first names, I was still the geek-squad girl who kept to herself. The one you called when you had a computer problem.

Frequent problems with the coffee shop’s laptop were bad for my reputation, except I knew why it was down.

I did a system boot and plugged in my jump drive. Brad walked in with a tall cup of coffee.

“So, how about that date? I want a do-over.”

I’d give him brownie points for persistence. “You really should stop visiting all those conspiracy theory sites. They’re bogged down with ads and pop-ups. One of these days, I won’t be able to recover your computer.”

He grinned. “Then I wouldn’t see you as often.”

I rolled my eyes. “There are plenty of girls in town who are dying for you to ask them out.”

Brad leaned in and gave me a dose of those piercing eyes. He was attractive, and he was comfortable, but there was no spark.

“Rayne, since I saw you the first time. I’ve wanted to put that sparkle back in your eyes.”

I winced, remembering the time he meant.

“Can I have some coffee here!” someone called from outside.

Brad made a resigned sigh. “Next time, make me your last call for the day.”

Not likely.

I subjected his computer to several scans and added more safeguards. It was usually the harmless stuff, but the last thing he wanted was to get ransomware.

I wouldn’t even charge him for this visit. I waved past him and thanked him for the free coffee. Thankfully, a customer had his attention when I walked out. I felt like I was kicking a puppy each time I turned him down.

I was the problem. I wouldn’t wish myself on anyone.

Not my nightmares.

Not my panic attacks.

Not my broken pieces.

My next stop was a clothing facility in between here and Grafton. I enjoyed driving out of town. Sometimes Danvers could be claustrophobic with how small it was and how everyone was in everyone’s business. Since my tank was low, I stopped at Spiffy’s to gas up. Spiffy’s was the typical country store with two gas pumps and a convenience store known for its home-cooked meals.

After I gassed up, I pulled into the parking space at the back. My brow rose at the shiny Maserati in the parking lot. Now, we didn’t see many of those around. It must be someone from Chicago.

I was a regular at the store, and the staff was used to me.

“Hi, Rayne, we’ve got chicken and biscuits right out of the oven,” Spiffy announced. He was a tall black man with a bald head and a white beard with arms that bulged against the short sleeve of his black tee. He used to be in the Navy. I tried not to dig up too much information about people around me, but it made me feel safe.

“I got a couple of things I need to pick up, but pack me two orders, please.” I didn’t like going out at night, preferring to eat in.

I was familiar with the store’s layout, but people were milling everywhere. They were probably stocking up for a day on the river. It made it hard to move through the displays. I checked my watch, noting I had twenty minutes to make my appointment. I hurriedly scooted between people who felt it was okay to chat in the middle of the aisle. This was a cramped convenience store, not the grocery aisle at Kroger. Finally, I had my gum, power bars, and a couple of packs of beef jerky. I hadn’t needed Tylenol lately, but spring was coming, so I picked up a bottle of Benadryl.

In my rush, I spun around too quickly and rammed into somebody. My haul scattered on the floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” a deep voice said.

I was already on my haunches, gathering my stuff, but I couldn’t help noticing the polished expensive shoes. Then the man crouched in front of me and I looked up.

His eyes reflected shock and so did his mouth, which hung open like he was about to say something, but he forgot the words.

It made me extremely uncomfortable.

“I’m… oh my God,” he got out finally. “Nat—”

I laughed, cutting off what he was about to say. “Is that oh my God good or bad?”

He clamped his mouth shut and just stared at me. He was pale beneath his tan.

Extremely uncomfortable had morphed into full-on spooked. It wasn’t the first time men had stared at me too long. I was aware I had more than average looks, but this stranger looked like he’d seen a ghost and not a beautiful woman. I quickly dropped my gaze to pick up the rest of the items. Alarm bells trilled loudly, and my fight-or-flight needle sprung to flight. I rose from the floor, and he rose with me, brown eyes still transfixed on my face.

“Well, I better get going,” I said, cheeks burning, voice uneasy. “Be sure to grab the chicken and biscuits before they run out.”

The urge to escape was overwhelming. I barely heard what Spiffy was saying when he rang me up. I didn’t bother with small talk, and I didn’t dare glance over my shoulder, but I was sure the stranger in an expensive suit was still staring at me.

He didn’t look familiar at all.

Before I drove off, I memorized the Maserati’s plates. Shaken by the encounter, I needed to be talked off a ledge.

“Never go back.”

Was a repeating threat in my head since I woke up in this town.

I cancelled my appointment at the garment manufacturer and returned to town, to the one person who knew who I was.

Dr. Gleason’s clinic was in his house right on the edge of Danvers. He had a part-time nurse who came in, but I didn’t see her car. There was no one in the waiting room either, but he must have heard me enter. He opened the double doors to the examination room and asked, “Were you supposed to come in today?”

I was pacing the room, chewing on my nails. “No, but I need to speak to you.” The quickening in my breath and pulse signaled an oncoming panic attack. That was a familiar part of my new life, too.

His gaze sharpened behind his spectacles, and he gave a brief nod. “I’m almost done. Give me a few minutes.”

The few minutes turned into ten. By that time, I was leaning against the windows and staring off into the distance. I heard the doors and a pregnant woman walked out. She smiled at me and left.

An ache stabbed me in the chest. It happened whenever I saw a pregnant woman or a baby. I didn’t know who I was before, but I had a feeling the sadness I felt was in relation to a loss of a child or a miscarriage. My brain was a minefield, and Dr. Gleason warned me about filling the patches of my memories with assumptions.

“What’s going on?” Dr. Gleason was the town physician and was looking to sell his practice because he was pushing seventy. He was lanky with a shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair, and he dressed casually in flannel shirts. He loved fishing like most people around here and would sometimes be seen in an angler’s hat and coat.

“I had an encounter with a man who seemed…” I was looking for the right term. “Shocked to see me.”

“Did you get any flashes of memory?” He invited me into the examination room and had me sit on the table.

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Not at all, but I had a panic attack.”

“That could be anything.”

I blew out a breath. “I know we’ve been through this over and over. You said the man who dropped me off in the St. Louis shelter said my boyfriend was a bookie. Do you remember if he said mafia or anything?”

“Did this guy look like mafia?”

I laughed nervously. “How do guys in the mafia look? He didn’t look like Tony Soprano or anything. He looked good in a suit and appeared to be Italian, but he could also be Middle Eastern or someone from the Mediterranean. Strong features. I have his license plate.”

The doctor tapped his mouth. “Do you want to go down that route?” He stood and started tidying his instruments. “You’ve been doing so well in this town. Don’t invite trouble. You have a new identity now.”

Besides being the town doctor, Dr. Gleason worked for the shelter for battered women in St. Louis. I was dropped off in their processing center with a broken wrist and bruised face, with retrograde amnesia. I was also unconscious. The doctor was a former neurologist, which was why he was tapped by the St. Louis, Missouri, chapter. Most of the women who came through there had traumatic brain injuries, and he was the closest doctor who could help.

I remembered flashes from childhood, maybe until I was five, but nothing after that. I didn’t have an episodic memory, which was how the brain processed past events. I kept my semantic memory, which explained how I retained learned knowledge of facts, words, and objects. This was why I took to the computer easily and identified as a computer nerd. I hated being out in public, but Dr. Gleason attributed my panic attacks and fear to my subconscious.

“Never go back.”

I had kept track of the St. Louis gangs and their associates, but I hadn’t seen any news about a missing bookie’s girlfriend. The man who dropped me off didn’t give many details except I interfered with my boyfriend’s online racket which matched up with my knowledge of computers. I was tempted to run my fingerprints, but I steered clear of government databases.

“Don’t invite trouble” was a mantra Dr. Gleason instilled in me.

“Maybe it’s time for me to move to another place?” I said. Maybe I should move to the East Coast. “You’ve taken care of me for so long.”

He smiled briefly. “You’ve been a special case. I was hoping to witness the return of your memory.” He sat behind his desk again and started cleaning his spectacles. “You don’t find our resident barista attractive?”

I laughed. “You know, despite my lack of history, I never thought blonds were my type.”