Not Without You

by Janelle Taylor

Genres: Amish & Mennonite; Christian Romance; Mystery

Synopsis

Jarred Bryant has no recollection of the plane crash that nearly killed him. At first, all that seems familiar is the beautiful woman at his hospital bedside: his soon to be ex-wife, Kelsey. Soon, Jarred begins to have fragmented, terrifying visions hinting at a conspiracy involving those closest to him. And when a harrowing near-miss convinces Jarred that he and Kelsey are in grave danger, he knows he must win back his estranged wife’s trust. A New York Times best-selling author, Janelle Taylor has created a thrilling combination of suspense and romance.

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

November

Voices. Somewhere in the dark. Watery voices.

…lost all memory. Doesn’t speak…

…could be temporary? Couldn’t it? Well, couldn’t it?

…opened his eyes twice and spoke. Didn’t know a damn thing. Doctor says it happens sometimes after severe trauma…

…has to remember…has to recover… Oh, God, what if he doesn’t?

…Forget it. We could never be that lucky…

The first truly conscious thought that zinged across his brain was: I’m in agony! Absolutely everything hurt. Taking the slightest breath crippled his lungs. His ribs, though meant to protect the organs they encased, had become his enemy. Every last one of them hurt.

His eyes opened before he bade them to. The room was unfamiliar, white, sterile. For a moment he lay still in complete bafflement, not even recognizing the woman standing at the window, staring blankly into the dark night beyond.

In disbelief he thought, I’m in a hospital.

She suddenly glanced his way and swept in a startled breath. He merely stared at her. She was… familiar. She was…

My wife.

For the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. Nor, he realized with more curiosity than alarm, could he remember his own.

“Jarred?” she said tentatively.

Jarred Bryant. Thirty-eight years old. Head of Bryant Industries. Son of Jonathan and Nola Bryant. Grandson of Hugh Bryant, who was a rogue and a scoundrel, but possessed a genius for buying real estate at dirt-cheap prices and turning that same real estate into some of the most prime pieces of property around the Seattle area. Hugh had also founded several philanthropic projects and one private hospital, Bryant Park, which was undoubtedly where his grandson lay right now.

“Jarred?” she said again, lines of concern narrowing across her fine brow.

He couldn’t speak. He could barely respond. The effort was just too great, and he possessed neither the energy nor the inclination to even try. She considered him carefully for several moments, then stepped closer to the bed. Anxiety filled the most amazing amber eyes he’d ever seen. Her skin was soft, clean, and imminently touchable.

His wife? Couldn’t be.

She reached a hand for something lying out of his line of vision. The call button. He watched her thumb depress the silent beckoning agent.

“Can you hear me?” she tried. When he didn’t respond, she moved a half step away, hugging herself protectively.

He realized she was incredibly nervous. The pink tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. She wore a pale blue blouse and khaki slacks. Her chestnut hair shimmered with good health and curved just beneath her chin. This beautiful woman was—to his mind—perfect.

Moments later a nurse sauntered into the room. She wore the skeptical expression of someone who dealt with others’ emotional outbursts all the time and thought the world, as a whole, was full of overexcitable ninnies. Shooting a glance at the nervous woman, she turned her gaze on him.

“He’s awake,” she said. “That’s good.”

“Will you tell Dr. Alastair? Or should I call him? Is he here today?” The woman’s voice tightened at the nurse’s lackluster response.

“Not at the moment. But I’m sure he’ll want to know. Dr. Crissman’s on duty today.” The nurse leaned her rather formidable bosom his way. “How’re you doing there? You’ve been away from us for a few days. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.” She patted his hand, sent the woman a look that could have meant anything, then moved away.

His “wife” walked toward the windows again. But was she really his wife? She seemed so reserved and removed. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part to believe that this woman could be his.

But he knew her. They were involved in some kind of relationship, or she wouldn’t be here in the first place. He just couldn’t recall her name. He struggled, but the effort to remember grew more painful the harder he tried. Somewhere outside his vision he heard a hum—a distant sound that filled his head and gradually grew louder and louder. His eyes closed despite his attempts to keep them open, and he thought about rocking gently on soft waves.

The second time he awakened, he breathed deeply, then groaned as fire burst across his rib cage once again. He blinked rapidly several times. The room was half dark. The woman no longer waited at the window.

Kelsey…

There it was. So simple. But he’d been unable to think of it while she’d been here.

She is my wife.

He realized his left arm was in a cast and weighted down. His face felt tight and hot, and when he squinched his muscles, new pain erupted. He didn’t think he had the power to move his legs, but a heart-thundering surge of fear abated when he realized he could wiggle his toes. He wasn’t paralyzed. At least it didn’t seem so.

However, whatever he’d done, he’d done it big time.

He remembered hazily that the doctor had come and examined him, but he’d been lost in a twilight netherworld that felt infinitely safer than this real one. Kelsey had hovered around; he could hear her voice. But her tone was curiously flat, and he had the sense that he was missing vital information.

Now, he felt sharper, and consequently the pain was more acute as well. Carefully—oh, so carefully—he turned his head on the pillow to look out the windows. City lights. Lights. Fitful, smattering rain slapping the panes at irregular intervals.

I’m Jarred Bryant.

He opened his mouth and tried to say the same, but his lips were cracked and the message from brain to tongue and vocal cords seemed to get waylaid somewhere. He shivered. Would he be mute forever?

He tried again, and this time a huffing ugh escaped from his throat. Better. Things appeared operational even if they weren’t exactly running at capacity.

But the effort cost him dearly. He could feel the sinking exhaustion envelop him again, and this time he did not welcome it. He needed to stay awake. He needed to be alert and ready.

Ready for what? he wondered, realizing that the anxious feeling had come from somewhere in his subconscious. But it flitted briefly through the channels of his brain and was gone, and Jarred sank into deep slumber once again.

The third time he surfaced it felt as if he were literally swimming from the depths of a dark well. He pulled and thrashed and strained until he broke the surface and there she was. His wife. Kelsey Bennett Bryant. Standing at the foot of his bed and gazing at him with mixed emotions, which he sensed had something to do with the events that had brought him here in the first place.

He cleared his throat. She straightened abruptly, lips parting in surprise, amber eyes widening just a bit. This morning she wore a white silk blouse and a black skirt and jacket. She looked as if she were going to a bankers’ convention or a funeral. He could not believe this beautiful woman was his wife. For reasons he didn’t want to explore too deeply he felt he didn’t deserve her.

“Hello,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded rough and scratchy as if from disuse.

Instantly a shadow crossed her face. And Jarred remembered with dampened hopes that she didn’t like him much. In fact, he could safely say her feelings verged on loathing and disgust.

“Don’t talk too much. I’m glad you can,” she assured him quickly, “but don’t tax yourself. Dr. Alastair said a lot of things about your condition. Rest was right at the top of his prescription list.”

“What happened?” he managed to rasp.

She swept in a sharp, swift breath, disconcerted. Jarred waited for some kind of explanation, but she either couldn’t—or wouldn’t—enlighten him. Instead she paced to the windows, and he had to turn his head to follow her movements. Outside, the sky and buildings reflected the same color: gray.

“Oh, don’t move,” she said, catching his wince as she glanced back. “Please. I won’t…be here long. I’m just trying to figure out what to do. Your parents will be here soon. They’re so relieved.”

“My parents?” he muttered. His head felt loose and liquidy inside, as if pieces were unattached. Or maybe that was just the.effects of the drugs they were obviously running through the intravenous line attached to the back of his right wrist.

“Do you remember anything, anything at all?” she asked tensely, shooting him such a fear-filled look that he could only stare at her in return.

Drugs. That caught at the corners of his mind. But it seemed wrong somehow.

“Was it… a car wreck?” he asked.

Her shoulders slackened.

She hesitated, then turned to him, eyeing him soberly. “They recommended that I shouldn’t tell you what happened. They want you to remember on your own.” She paused, then asked in a strained voice, “Do you know who I am?”

…has to remember…has to recover… Oh, God, what if he doesn’t?

…Forget it. We could never be that lucky…

Jarred swallowed and considered. Bits of conversation he might have dreamed ran across his brain. Was one of those watery voices hers? A deep, sinking feeling that felt suspiciously like despair filled him, and he closed his eyes. Closed her out. Every instinct he possessed wanted to call out to her and beg her-to forgive him and hold him and trust him again.

“Dr. Alastair is coming,” she said with relief into the silent void. Footsteps approached and she added, “I’ll be back this evening.”

She was gone in a heartbeat, a lingering scent following in her wake. He recognized it as one of those natural perfumes concocted in some upscale bath and body store. He’d called it “Kelsey” because it was what she wore and he associated it with her. She’d been bothered by the endearment even though she’d never voiced her feelings.

“Hello, there.”

Jarred opened his eyes and gazed up at the gray-haired doctor with the faint smile and intent gaze who stood over him.

“Do you know who I am?”

“The doctor,” Jarred answered after a moment.

“Uh-huh. And you’re the patient. I’m Dr. Alastair.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four days?” He was mildly shocked that so much time had passed.

“What do you remember about the accident?” ’

That was a blank. Jarred struggled to recall anything at all, but the effort made his head ache and the doctor placed a hand lightly against his shoulder.

“Don’t try too hard. It’ll come. Do you know your name?”.

A long, intense moment passed while Dr. Alastair regarded him with clinical curiosity. Kelsey had called him by name but the doctor didn’t possess that knowledge. For reasons that escaped him he sensed subterfuge was still necessary, and in a split second he decided on what course to travel.

“No,” Jarred whispered and the deception began.

Russet leaves spun wildly, a last gasp of movement before they settled to the ground, sticking wetly against the black pavement. Kelsey walked through the growing piles, unconscious of the leaves’ slickness as her black heels stepped off the tarmac and headed in the direction of the people grouped at the top of the knoll. The path she traveled was made up of tiny beaten gravel, adding a more natural look to the beauty and serenity of the tall firs and gray headstones that dotted the rolling hillside. Rain slapped at her cheek, and the wind threatened to snatch her black’umbrella out of her numbed hands.

November in Seattle—or more accurately, Silverlake, a small suburb tucked outside the ever-growing circle of the city. Seattle itself was surrounded by water: Puget Sound, Lake Washington, Lake Union. A glance to her left and she could see a glimmering reflection off in the distance. Eighteen-mile-long Lake Washington. To her east and south, though she couldn’t see it from here, was Lake Sammamish. If her mind were in gear, she would be able to think of its size as well.

But her mind wasn’t in gear. There was a great gap between the synapses somewhere inside her brain. Maybe her whole collective nervous system had shut down. Except that she was walking and she managed to tell the cab driver where her destination should be: the graveyard.

The graveyard.

Oh, it had another name. Something more suitable to senses chafed raw by tragedy. But Kelsey had always known it as simply “the graveyard.” She and her friends had sneaked over at night when they were in junior high and jumped the graves until something—some sigh of the wind or whisper of the leaves—lifted the hair on their arms and they all ran screaming pell-mell for home and safety.

Today, though, she felt no ghosts, only a gasping sorrow that filled her chest and ached down her limbs and made her want to collapse on the water-soaked ground. Chance was dead, and there was no bringing him back. Gone. Forever.

And it was Jarred’s fault.

For an instant, a flash of rage singed across the deadened nerves in her brain. Jarred Bryant. Her husband. The man responsible for Chance’s death.

Her grip tightened on the umbrella’s curved handle. Resolve tightened her lips. The same resolve that had kept her going ever since the terrible news of the plane crash. She was going to divorce Jarred and leave this loveless marriage behind her. She should have done it years before. But Chance’s death was the impetus that she’d needed so badly to cut the ties that bound her to Jarred.

“Kelsey…” ’

Marlena Rowden reached out a trembling hand. Chance’s mother. The woman who had been there for Kelsey all those years of growing up in Silverlake while her childhood friendship with Chance developed into something more. Marlena had always held a special place in her life. She’d taken Kelsey in after the deaths of her own parents: her mother from breast cancer; her father from subsequent loneliness and loss of the will to live.

Chance’s parents had picked up the pieces when Kelsey, aged sixteen, was left lost and bewildered. She’d relied on them for love and support just as she’d relied on Chance, and though Chance and she had grown apart after high school, Kelsey had continued to see herself as an “adopted” Rowden. They were her family.

Until Jarred Bryant, that is.

“I’m so sorry,” Marlena said now, tears filling her eyes.

“Oh, Marlena…” Kelsey hugged her and the grief she’d held back these long, awful days surfaced and filled every space inside her. She wanted to cry out in agony. It was Jarred’s fault! He’d been at the controls of the small plane, and if anyone were to blame for the craft’s sudden spiral downward into the Columbia River, it was Jarred.

“We—we hadn’t seen a lot of Chance lately, you know,” Marlena said, pulling away from Kelsey to search in her black faux-leather bag for a Kleenex. “He was having some troubles. You know…”

“Yes, I know.”

“Robert and I have relied on you more than we should. But Chance couldn’t help it.” New tears welled and she pressed the Kleenex to her mouth, her face scrunched up in misery.

“I know, I know.”

Kelsey couldn’t talk about that now. Chance had been a drug user for years. A dabbler, mostly, or so Kelsey liked to think, but the bald truth was that drugs had controlled his life for so long that he was a stranger to everyone, maybe even himself.

“If you hadn’t been there for us, I don’t know what we would have done.”

“You were there for me,” Kelsey reminded her gently, hugging her once more. Marlena had been more like a best friend than a woman a generation ahead of her. Even when Kelsey was in high school, Marlena had treated her the way she might have someone her own age, and Kelsey had thrived in the role. Of course, these past years they’d naturally become more distant with each other; Kelsey’s marriage had necessitated the change. But it didn’t mean they weren’t still family, and now, with the Rowden’s only child dead just months shy of his thirtieth birthday, Marlena and Robert only had Kelsey.

And she only had them.

Marlena’s face was as white and fragile as old china. Holding her body close, Kelsey sensed the shudder that passed through her thin frame. Over her shoulder Kelsey caught sight of the wheelchair-bound Robert Rowden, a victim of Parkinson’s disease, Chance’s father. She smiled sadly at the man who seemed to have aged two decades since the accident that had taken his son’s life.

“I wish he were still here,” Marlena choked out.

“Me, too.” Kelsey’s voice sounded strangled and raw.

“What are we going to do?” “I’ll be there.”

Gently she disentangled herself from Marlena’s embrace, hugged Robert, then took a position among the ring of people who’d attended the grave-side service. The group was small. Chance possessed only a few true friends and most of them were scattered to the four winds. Other Silverlake residents who remembered him from high school still called him “the boy with the brightest future. “ Those attending the grave-side service knew Kelsey as well, and they stopped to talk to her, one by one. But in the back of her head, she considered what they truly must be thinking: She was the wife of the man who’d taken Chance Rowden’s life.

A headache started at her temples, but she resolutely refused to succumb. She hadn’t lived in the same house as Jarred for the last three years; their marriage had been in trouble even longer. But she was still legally married to the man, and now, with this tremendous burden of grief and blame, which she couldn’t quite shake, she wondered why she hadn’t taken those steps toward divorce and freedom earlier.

And what had Jarred been doing with Chance in that plane anyway?

A flash of Jarred in the hospital bed burst across the screen of her mind: white bandages, unsteady breathing, bruised cheeks and chin, swollen fingers and lacerations.. Unwillingly, a pang of sympathy jarred her. He looked so… so pathetic that she wanted to comfort him!

Imagine wanting to comfort Jarred Bryant!

Inhaling deeply, she mentally shook herself. This service was for Chance. She refused to think about Jarred here.

Marlena’s hand fumbled for hers, and Kelsey squeezed it warmly. They stood together like two sentinels and waited. This grave-side service was an add-on for those who knew Chance best. Kelsey listened to the minister’s final words through a haze of numb resolve as Chance’s body was interred forever. Glancing over the line of black umbrellas rimming the newly dug grave and walnut casket, she couldn’t help another thought of Jarred from creeping in. He’d shocked her, opening his eyes like that yesterday, and talking to him again this morning had been surreal and frighteningly déjà-vu-ish. He’d been so… willing to talk. Just the sound of his voice had raised her heartbeat and lifted the hairs on her arms, and she’d found it difficult to shove him to a distant corner of her mind.

Another flash of memory: herself, meeting Jarred Bryant for the first time, dazzled by his wealth and social status and good looks, standing like a deer caught in headlights as she watched him across a crowded room, dumbstruck when he’d worked his way toward her and they’d been standing face-to-face for the first time.

“I understand you work for Trevor,” he’d said by way of introduction.

“Yes.”

“Interior design?”

“Yes.”

“If you have any influence whatsoever, can you get him to stop designing those milk cartons and littering up the waterfront?”

She’d laughed then, her wonderment over meeting him evaporating as she broke into peals of mirth. Trevor Taggart, one of Seattle’s most influential developers and Kelsey’s boss, was chock-full of bad taste. He liked ultramodern buildings and had had the Historical Society, the city of Seattle, and most everyone else up in arms at least once every other year. Kelsey sometimes wondered why she aligned herself with Trevor, but he truly thought his ideas were good and often stood around in hurt and confusion at all the slings and arrows thrown his way.

“Those ‘milk cartons’ aren’t so bad,” she said, referring to Trevor’s latest project, which included a series of look-alike buildings all painted white. “Don’t worry. They’re going to be taupe.”

“Really?” Jarred arched a brow. He was a direct competitor of Trevor’s in Bryant Industries’ construction division, though his buildings were unfailingly tasteful no matter what the style.

“You should see the interiors. They’re fantastic, really.”

“Your work?”

She blushed, embarrassed. “The design, I mean.”

“I’d like to see them.”

She lifted a hand. “Call anytime. Someone will be happy to show you around.”

“I’d rather have it be you than Taggart.”

Kelsey lifted her shoulders. “That can be arranged…”

And so had started her life with Jarred Bryant. It was funny. Shortly after she and Jarred got serious, Chance appeared on her doorstep. He begged her not to marry Jarred, even before Jarred actually popped the question. She’d laughed at his fears, never believing Jarred’s intent was that honorable. Then she had been touched when Chance cleaned himself up and suddenly pledged true love. She hadn’t listened, of course, because not only was she falling in love with Jarred, but she knew Chance’s problems weren’t over. They’d just been momentarily put on hold. And she wasn’t in love with him anyway. Not in that way. They were friends and “adopted” siblings, and she could never regard him as anything else.

And Kelsey had been entranced with Jarred’s extraordinary good looks, intenseness, quick, furtive smile, and business acumen. He’d seemed larger than life, and she’d fallen in love so quickly, so completely, that it was a long time before she faced the fact that she’d made a mistake. She hadn’t really known him. She hadn’t known then that he possessed the soul of a snake and a miserable, shrunken heart. She’d learned those truths the hard way.…

Wincing at her own mental honesty, Kelsey came back to the events currently happening at Chance’s grave. The casket was being lowered. People flung roses onto its disappearing satiny, lid. Separating from Marlena, she hung back, detached in her own sorrow.

Surprisingly, she’d actually seen Chance last Saturday night, the night before that fateful plane ride. He’ d come to her condominium, looking absolutely terrible, a walking skeleton. He’d broken down and cried and said things were just awful. “My life is over,” he’d said, words that now lifted the hair on Kelsey’s scalp and caused her to shiver.

She’d offered him coffee and food, but he’d seemed to have something on his mind that he couldn’t quite force past his lips. Apart from saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, Kelsey, I’m sorry,” he’d been unable to express himself. He kissed her before he left and whispered he loved her near her ear.

And then he was gone. It hurt. It ached. Chance had never escaped his desire for recreational drugs. He’d battled and lost time and again. He was a drug addict and that was it.

But he didn’t deserve to die!

“Are you stopping by the house?” Marlena quavered as everyone began to disperse. She stepped carefully over soggy patches of ground and piles of autumn leaves. Robert waited in his wheelchair, his gaze and thoughts a million miles away.

Kelsey shook her head. She wouldn’t be able to stand about while people drank coffee and ate hors d’oeuvres off paper plates and talked in quiet circles about Chance. Her stomach revolted at the image. “I’ll come see you another time,” she told the woman who had once prayed she would be Kelsey’s mother-in-law. But Kelsey had inherited Nola and Jonathan Bryant, instead of Marlena and Robert Rowden, and she knew, regardless of what she felt about Chance, or Jarred, she’d certainly lost out in the in-law department. Jarred’s parents were as cold and self-motivated as Chance’s were warm and giving.

She shuddered just thinking about how she would have to soon see them.

“How is your husband?” a stolid woman in a gray dress asked as she hurried to catch up to Kelsey and Marlena. Florence Wickum. Silverlake’s self-appointed know-it-all.

Kelsey couldn’t immediately answer. Marlena started to tear up, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. It was as if this reminder of how her son had died was the final crack in the dam of her defenses.

Florence blinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to cause more pain.”

Marlena shook her head and tried to wave her away. She was woefully inadequate in fighting off the Florences of the world.

Kelsey surged to her rescue. “Jarred is…recovering,” she said tightly.

“I heard he was in a coma.” Subtlety was not Florence’s forte.

“He was unconscious for several days.”

“Oh? So he came out of it?”

“Yes.”

Marlena gazed numbly at Kelsey. “Did he say… why?”

She knew what Marlena meant. No one understood why Chance and Jarred had been together. They weren’t friends. Acquaintances, maybe, but even that was a stretch. “No.”

“Is he all right?” Marlena asked.

“Physically he seems to be improving very well. I’m meeting with his doctor tomorrow for a full update.”

“What about mentally?” Florence seized on Kelsey’s unspoken concern.

“He’s… alert.”

“He spoke to you then?” Florence pressed. “You talked to him?”

“I did.” Kelsey took a step backward and her heel sank into water-soaked grass. She struggled to pull her shoe free. Her foot slipped out, one toe dipping into the damp ground. Reaching down, she yanked at the shoe and stepped back inside it, mud and all.

“I’m sure Mr. Bryant had a perfectly good reason for taking Chance with him in that airplane,” Florence said soothingly to Marlena. “I have to admit I’d be anxious to hear what it was though!”

“He didn’t say anything?” Marlena pressed, needing answers Kelsey was unable to give.

“Jarred hasn’t recovered all of his memory yet,” Kelsey was forced to explain. “Apparently it’s a common enough side effect from trauma to the head.”

“Are you saying he has amnesia?” Florence demanded.

“No. He’s just fuzzy on the details. Please…” Kelsey tucked a hand under Marlena’s arm and pulled her away from Florence. “I don’t know enough yet. Jarred’s barely awake. Believe me, I’ll find out what happened.”

“I know you will, dear.”

“He was heading toward Portland when the plane nosedived. It crashed into the north bank of the Columbia River, then slid into the water. There were rescuers there immediately. They saw it go down. Otherwise, Chance’s body would not have been recovered so quickly.”

“And your husband might not have survived.”

“Yes, I know.”

Kelsey turned her gaze toward the Olympic Mountains. Today they were invisible, their majestic slopes hidden by the arms of gray clouds that so often enfolded the Seattle area in their thick embrace. The crash was still being investigated, but there was no question that Jarred had been at the controls of the s. . .