Snow flakes fell thick and fast as Luke Kirby stopped his 4x4 in front of the family cabin, just south of Estes Park. On a clear day, Long's Peak, rising up from Rocky Mountain National Park, was visible from their cabin, but tonight his headlights were having trouble penetrating more than a few yards ahead. The wind was kicking up the fallen snow, and mixing it with falling snow, erasing not just the tracks his truck had made on the dirt road, but the place where sky and earth met, turning the world into a disorienting, white tunnel.

            The storm hadn't been bad when he left Denver but had quickly turned nasty with the rise in altitude. If the storm hadn’t moved quickly to cut off his retreat, he might have turned back and faced a family determined to distract him from the significance of tomorrow, the anniversary of the death of his wife, Rosemary.

            He rested his arms on the steering wheel, remembering a time when he couldn't think the word “dead,” not about Rosemary, who had been so very much alive. He knew all the euphemisms and all the synonyms for death. None of them had changed the reality of being left alive, being left alone in a world without her. How he'd hated it. He'd spent a lot of time dodging being alone, trying to stay too busy, too surrounded by people, to face it. He'd loved the “ball and chain,” had relished being one half of a whole that included her.

            A platitude, but true—time did heal. So gradually had time done its work, he hardly noticed at first. One day he’d realized he was above the shadows. Not happy, but no longer sad, and possibly, finally able to feel whole—and be whole—all by himself.

            If someone asked him why he was here on this bitter night, instead of with his family, he could tell them it wasn’t because he was trying to live in the past or because he begrudged his brothers their happiness. They'd earned their time with their women the hard way. Matt and Dani (who would always be Louise to him, the name she told him when they first met) had saved each other from the jaws of death up on Long's Peak just over two years ago.

            Jake had saved his Phoebe's butt, and now she regularly kicked his up over his ears. Luke couldn't see that Jake minded, in fact, he seemed happy to bend over and present for her boot. He had a tiger by the tail with that girl.

            Luke grinned. Even Matt had given in to the Phoebe juggernaut, after strong initial resistance, going so far as to allow her to stand as godmother to the first third-generation Kirby male. Young Mark had them all wrapped around his tiny, pink finger. Even Phoebe was seriously smitten. He expected her to enter the motherhood stakes any day now.

            The only two people more amusing than his brothers were Bryn Bailey, Jake's FBI partner-in-crime solving, and Dewey Hyatt, Phoebe's former partner-in-crime committing. He just hoped he was there when Bryn realized she was in love with her pet criminal, though Jake had hinted she also had softer feelings for the elusive, Phagan, who Dewey was supposed to be helping her hunt down. Luke had his own ideas about Phagan and Dewey, but it wasn’t his job to point out the increasingly obvious, especially when it was so entertaining to let events play out on their own.

            No, he wasn't here because he couldn't deal with their happiness. In a way, their happiness had lifted him with them and had brought him here tonight. In the headlights, the cabin was dark, empty of everything but years of memories, not just of Rosemary, but his dad, killed in the line of duty when Luke was thirteen. This was the first time he’d come here alone since Rosemary's death. She'd loved the mountains, loved this place, especially in a storm—if they were safe inside with a good fire going.

            With a start, he realized the cabin had almost disappeared into the storm. Already the warmth from the truck’s heater had faded. As he exhaled, his breath made a white fog in the icy air. Snow flakes, lit by the his headlights, swirled in a wind-driven frenzy. He’d better get moving before he couldn’t find his way from here to there. He had no intention of spending the night in his truck. Good thing he'd brought plenty of supplies with him. According to the weather reports, he could be stuck up here for a couple of days. Looked like there'd be enough snow for some cross-country skiing when it cleared. Nothing like a brisk battle with nature to remind you that you were alive.

            He left the headlights on while he unlocked the door, though their benefit was limited, and quickly unloaded his supplies. Inside the cabin, he tested the silence and found it comfortable, bearable—though uncomfortably cold. He turned on the refrigerator, wondering how long the power would stay on, while he stowed the perishables. Well, he’d used a snow bank for a fridge before, no reason he couldn't again.

            A gust of wind caught the window over the sink, lifting it up, then dropping it with a bang. He caught it before it could lift again, making a mental note to tweak Jake about it when he got home. He and Phoebe had been the last ones to use the cabin. He noticed a bit of snow and some dried stuff on the counter under the window and brushed it into the sink.

            The air was chill and slightly damp, tainted with the smell of old fire and older food, but a new fire would soon burn it away. He didn't turn on more lights. He knew his way around and besides, there was enough light spilling out from the kitchen for him to see by until he got the fire going. Rosemary had liked the room lit only by fire. Many a snowy night they'd huddled together under a pile of quilts and watched snow pile up in drifts against the windows.

            He stopped for a moment as the memories caught up with him. Rosemary laughing as she pelted him with snowballs. Rosemary smiling up at him from the blanket as the mountain sun bathed her in its crystal light. Rosemary looking at the mountains and not at him when she told him she was going to die and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

            Seven years. Like Jacob in the Bible, he'd served his time, done his duty and now it was time to move on. Not to forget, but to move out of the shadows and live again.

            “Don't mourn too long, Luke,” she'd said to him that last day, her voice the only thing he still recognized about her. She'd never said what too long was, but here and now, he could almost see her standing in the light from the kitchen, tapping her watch the way she always did when he’d been out on the mountain too long.

            “I know, Rose,” he murmured. “I know. As always, my timing is great. Just great.”

            He checked the wood box and found it filled to the brim. Jake had also laid out logs in the fireplace. Only needed only a match. That made up for the open window, Luke decided. In a short time, he had the fire going, putting out cheerful heat against the winter chill. When the power went, he'd be warm and have hot coffee. He could live without a lot of things, but hot coffee in the morning wasn't one of them.

            He'd sleep in front of the fire. It would be warmer and he could more easily feed the hungry fire. He and Rosemary had slept downstairs the last time they were here. They'd made a bed for two on the floor in front of the fire. He'd use the couch. Wouldn't be the first time he'd done time on one. Life with Rosemary hadn't been all smooth sailing. The Kirby men had made a habit of marrying spirited women.

            He did a quick run upstairs for a couple more quilts. There was always a sturdy mega-sized lap quilt folded over the back of the couch, but it wasn't enough on a night like this. He also grabbed a couple of pillows to soften the hard arms on each end. As he came down, he noticed that the quilt wasn't folded over the back, but spread across the seat. In the flickering light from the fire, it almost looked like there was someone under it. For a minute chills snaked down his back, until common sense reasserted itself.

            If someone was here, it was a squatter who'd likely used the unlatched window to get in. Damn, couldn’t kick a dog out on a night like this. So much for being alone. He dumped his blanket load on a chair. Odd that whoever it was hadn't heard his noisy arrival and made their presence known. It was enough to make him uneasy, so he pulled his gun. As a cop, he'd learned to err on the side of caution early in his career. He knew which boards creaked and took care to avoid them as he quietly approached the couch. Keeping the figure covered, he reached out and flipped the edge of the blanket back and saw….

            Feet.

            Or more precisely, a pair of hiking boots and blue-jean covered legs below the knees. Good boots. Not a squatter then. Maybe a hiker?

            Luke, feeling a bit ridiculous and a little anxious about the lack of movement, moved to the other end. Being alone with a body wasn't what he had in mind either. This time when he flipped the blanket back, he saw hair. Lots of it. Tangled and blonde enough to make Marilyn Monroe jealous. Long, too. The ends of most of it were hidden under the part of the blanket that still covered her middle, except for a bunch that hung over her face and off the edge of the couch, forming a question mark on the wood floor.

            It seemed Goldilocks had come calling but found only one bear.

            He stowed his gun and knelt down beside her. Bits of dried brush, brown grass and twigs were caught in the tousled strands of her hair. She had a thick, fleece jacket on, with bits of dried stuff stuck to it, too. He noticed it had been torn in several places. One of her arms also hung off the edge of the couch, the hand at the end of the arm was bare and badly scratched. A couple of her nails were broken, the edges ragged and torn.

            “Who's sleeping on my couch?” he muttered, as he gathered up the trailing strands of hair, icy cold and soft as silk, to expose her face. It was scratched, too, and there was a nasty looking bump just above her temple. A thin trail of dried blood disappeared into her hair line. The bones under the scratches were good, the kind that wear well over time. Her jaw was strong and determined. Laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes seemed at odds with a mouth that was full and rather sad. Her thick lashes lay in dark fans against her pale, bruised skin, hiding her eyes. Equally dark brows arched over them.

            It was hard to be sure because memory was so unreliable, and his memories of Rosemary as a young woman were buried under her last months of wasting slowly away from ovarian cancer, but she also reminded him of a young Rosemary, or her sister, if Rosemary had had one. It was a bit eerie on a dark and stormy night. If her eyes were blue when she opened them, he might just have to join the X-Files fan club.

            Luke felt along her neck. Her skin was unnervingly cold, but he found a pulse—rapid and a bit shallow—but there. She wasn't dead. Yet.

            Luke knew a bit of first aid—luckily most of it about hypothermia, since he and his brothers spent so much time in the mountains. He needed to get her warmed up fast. He grabbed the quilts he’d collected and piled them on top of her. When he sat down to try and ease a pillow under her head, he realized she was looking at him, her eyes wide and puzzled.

            Violet. He hadn't expected that. Deep, pure violet. They brought the pale mask of her face to instant, vivid life and put a good bit of his unease to rest. Not Rosemary. Not that he really believed she was. It was just weird. Weird enough for his imagination to get a little away from him. Thank goodness neither of his brothers were here. Wouldn't they get some mileage out of this situation if they ever found out?

            He'd put her in her late twenties, but now, looking into her eyes, he upped that by a few years. Her eyes were wise and knowing, more aware than the average twenty-something, despite the confusion clouding their depths.

            “Do I—know you?” she asked. Her voice was a thin thread of sound, but clear and crisp. It suited their mountainous surroundings. Reminded him of a stream running over rocks on its way to the low lands.

            “I don't think so. Name's Luke Kirby. My family owns this cabin.

            Her lashes closed for a moment. Her brows drew together in a frown. “Cabin?”

            He reached past her, turned on a rustic styled lamp and gestured to their surroundings. “Cabin.”

            Her lashes lifted, her eyes surveying what she could without moving. “Oh.”

            Despite this, he could tell the lights were still out inside her head. He waited quietly for her to orient herself. Something had happened. A fall of some kind, he guessed, based on what he's seen of her injuries. It sometimes took time to put the pieces of memory together in the right order after a shock.

            “Would you like some soup and coffee?” he asked. “We need to get you warmed up, if you're up to it.”

            “I am hungry.” She sounded surprised. “Thank you.”

            He left her for the kitchen, glad for the time away from her to get his thoughts in order. He still felt a bit off balance by her resemblance to Rosemary, and, if he were strictly honest with himself, her unexpected beauty. His body had taken in more input than his brain could process, but the main gist of it was basically, wow.

            He put water in the coffee pot, started heat under it. Found a can of soup and dumped it in a pan. Maybe he should start dating again, just to let off some steam in his “wow” reflex.

            He turned and found her standing in the doorway studying him with a seriousness that did nothing to relieve the pressure. She was taller than he'd expected from someone with so slight a build. She stood carefully, but with a grace and elegance that her obvious discomfort couldn’t erase.

            “Is there—“ she stopped, color flooding her cheeks.

            Luke found he could grin and immediately felt better, more balanced and in control again. “Bathroom's through there. Light's on the right.”

            It was odd, but kind of cute. Usually only old ladies were embarrassed to ask for the john these days. There was something kind of old fashioned about her, despite her very modern clothes. He could see her presiding over a tea pot in a room full of antiques. In a dress that matched her eyes and had a bunch of white at the neck. Something like Katherine Hepburn would wear.

            “Thank you.” She turned, wobbling slightly.

            He fought back an sudden urge to leap to her assistance. Partly because he didn't want to scare her and partly because he wasn't sure he could leap. His body had surprised him a few times lately, by not responding to his mental commands. A reminder that he wasn’t as young as he felt. Instead he asked, “Do you need help?”

            She smiled slightly. “Thank you, but no. I can manage. I guess I stiffened up or something while I was asleep.”

            Her back straightened, her chin lifting as she made a determined bee line for the bathroom door. She had guts to go with the beauty.

            It wasn't until Luke heard the door creak closed that he realized he still didn't know her name. While he kept a watchful eye on the soup, he dug out the first aid kit and a flashlight. If she had a concussion, her eyes would show it. And if she was? Well, he’d deal with it then. He had his phone. He could call for advice.

            The soup started to bubble. He lifted it off the heat, gave it a stir, then poured it in a bowl. Grabbed some crackers and a cup of coffee and put it all on a tray. He heard the door creak open and found his thoughts bubbling like the soup. It was, he decided ruefully, like something out of a Raymond Chandler book. Snowed in the mountains with a mysterious woman—who had probably missed her step, taken a tumble and then lost her way, he reminded himself. No mystery, just Mother Nature's pointed reminder not to take her for granted.

            She hadn't just used the toilet, he saw. She'd also washed the blood off her face and tidied her hair. Most of the bits of brush were gone and her hair was now pulled back into a sort of knotted pony tail that hung down to her butt. She was also white as a sheet from the effort. Luke jumped forward, surprised and pleased his body did as requested, and helped her back to the couch. He got her settled with a pillow behind her and blankets tucked around, then brought her the tray.

            “Can you manage yourself?” he asked.

            She nodded, a slight, grateful smile briefly flickering across her face. She picked up the spoon using, Luke noted, her left hand. When it became apparent she wasn't a south paw, he folded back the blankets and found her right wrist swelled to twice its normal size. He probed it gently and heard her gasp.

            “Sorry. Can you move your fingers?” She flexed them. “How about your wrist?”

            She managed to bend at the wrist, but the effort drained more color out of her face.

            “I don't think it's broken, but it should probably be strapped up until it can be x-rayed. A hairline fracture and a sprain can both cause swelling.” He should know. He'd had both. He opened the first aid kit and rummaged through it until he'd found everything he needed.

            “Are you a doctor?” A few bites of the soup put a slight flush in her cheeks.

            “Actually, I'm a cop. And an all-too-frequent patient.” He grinned at her. “My mom claims most of her gray hairs are my fault, but my brothers did their fair share, believe me. Most of it from rock climbing.” While he talked, he helped her out of her jacket, an obviously painful exercise, then applied a wrist splint and wrapped it expertly with elastic bandage. When he was done, he touched the tips of her fingers. “Can you feel this?”

            She nodded, relaxing back against the couch with a sigh of relief. “It feels a lot better.”

            “Let me know if the tips of your fingers start to tingle and I'll loosen it.” He frowned. “Normally I'd apply ice, but you’re still pretty chilled.”

            “I feel wonderfully warm, but I'd rather avoid ice for now.”

            She ate most of her soup and but only took one sip of the coffee, using her free hand. She stared into the cup, then looked at him. “I don't think I drink coffee.”

            She looked startled. It did seem like something she should know about herself.

            “I'll get you some water, but first—“ Luke set the tray aside, and picked up the flashlight.

            “What now?” She sounded amused.

            “Looks like you took a pretty nasty tumble, could have a mild concussion. I want to look at your pupils.” He tipped her head up and briefly flashed the light in her eyes, watching her pupils react. “Did you lose consciousness?”

            She had to smile at the question. She seemed to have lost more then consciousness. “Oh yeah.”

            “It's not unusual for the noggin to be scrambled after a fall.”

            He moved next to her, his big, warm hands cupping either side of her face. His face was close enough for her to see the texture of his skin as he gently probed her scalp for injuries. The words craggy and weather-beaten came to mind first. He looked like a man who lived much of his life outside. He wasn't exactly handsome, but she felt an odd, surprising flicker of attraction flare where he touched her.

            “Besides the bump on your temple, there's another here, above your ear.”

            “I've got one on the lower occipital, too,” she said, touching the base of her head with a wince. He looked surprised as he checked it out.

            “That you do. You obviously did a top over tail today.” He sat back, his hands dropping away.

            To her annoyance, her skin felt cold, almost bereft without his touch. You know nothing about this man, she reminded herself. But that wasn't the worst part. She knew nothing, literally nothing, about herself, except, apparently, that she had an occipital. And a parietal, frontal and temporal. Very weird. Except for that, it was as if she'd come into being when she opened her eyes a short time ago. She hadn't even known what she looked like until she saw herself in the mirror. It was an odd feeling to meet yourself for the first time. By most standards, even with the bumps and bruises, the face that had stared back at her would be considered beautiful. She'd felt no pride of ownership, no sense of I am a beautiful woman. No sense of herself at all. She'd fingered her clothes. They were made of good fabric, but sturdy and serviceable, rather than glamorous. No perfume, cheap or expensive lingered on her skin. She'd sniffed again. Soap. Just soap. And the smell of pine. Judging by the amount of pine needles she'd shaken out of her hair, the smell of pine was inevitable, rather than revealing.

            Her hands, beneath the scratches, were well cared for. Her fingers were long and well shaped. The nails that weren’t torn were neatly filed but unpolished. To her surprise, despite the signs she'd taken a very nasty tumble, she had this slight, very slight, feeling of relief. It was as if she'd laid down a burden. Beneath the uncertainty, she felt light and free. If she had no past, that left only a future full of possibilities.

             “What do you remember?” he asked.

            A better question would be, what are you trying to forget, she thought. She shrugged, then wished she hadn't. The movement upped the pain quota enough to make stars dance across her view.

            “Let's start with something easy, like your name?”

            Her name. Everyone had a name. For a moment, she had an impulse to make something up. Put something onto the blank canvas of her mind, but her mind refused to play. It didn't cough up a single consonant, let alone a whole name. She pushed at the gray mist and it pushed back. Opening just enough to let out a single emotion. Panic. It spilled through her like a tsunami, threatening to sweep her away. As if he sensed it, he grabbed her good hand, held it strongly, a life line pulling her free of the dark undertow.