The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane

His name’s Aaron Cragun.”

      “Aaron Cragun.” He repeated the name aloud, wondering at the dark flash of memory, like distant lightning through a storm. He’d heard the name before. If only he could remember where. “What does your father look like?” he asked.

      “About five foot six, red hair, red beard. Drives a homemade wagon with a lop-eared mule. You’d remember him if you’d met him.”

      Remember? He mouthed a silent curse. “So far I can’t remember a blessed soul I’ve met. Tell me how you found me.”

      “You don’t even recall that?”

      “Not all of it. Tell me.”

      “It was pure chance. Daniel and I went down to the cove to see what the storm had washed up, and there you were, your legs sticking out from under a wrecked sailboat. You had no identification on you, only your clothes and that ring.” Her gaze brushed the sapphire framed in gold. “Do you remember Daniel asking you whether you were a prince?”

      “Barely,” he muttered. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking the same thing.”

      “Of course not. But that ring had to come from somewhere.”

      He shrugged. “I’m guessing it was made for someone with a bigger hand than mine. If it had been made, or bought, for me it would fit my ring finger, not the middle one. That’s the only clue I have.”

      “And you don’t remember how long you’ve had it?”

      He shook his head. “For all I know, I could’ve had it all my life. Or found it in the street last week.”

      Thoughts chased each other across her expressive face, like light through a stained-glass window. She was as transparent as a child, he thought, and yet not a child at all. “I have an idea,” she said. “Take the ring off.”

      He met her gaze, hesitating for half a heartbeat before he did as she asked. His first thought was to check for engraving inside the ring. But as he worked it up over his knuckle, he realized what she was looking for.

      Where the gold had circled the base of his finger, the flesh was slightly recessed, the skin as pale and smooth as ivory. Wherever the ring had come from, he’d worn it a very long time.

      “That ring belongs to you,” she said, “and I think it must be very important. If you asked me, I’d guess it’s something from your family.”

      “And what else would you guess, Miss Sylvie Cragun?” He checked the ring’s inner surface for engraving. Finding none, he pushed it back into place on his finger.

      “I would guess that your family is wealthy, or would have been at the time they acquired the ring. And I would guess that you’ve never been in dire need of money. Otherwise you’d have sold it. Am I right so far?”

      He had no idea. But she looked so fetching next to his bed, with sunlight making a halo of her hair, that he found himself wanting any excuse to keep her with him.

      But even from where he sat, he could sense the strain in her—the hands that gripped the mug a bit too tightly, the taut posture of her body, the eyes that darted toward the door as if seeking escape.

      “What is it, Sylvie? What’s bothering you?” The question came out sounding harsher than he’d meant it to.

      She glanced down at her hands, then looked straight into his eyes. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you. On the beach, when we were trying to wake you, and then again last night, you spoke a name—a woman’s name. I’m thinking she might be your wife.”