"Hey, wake up," a soft, feminine voice called.

She wiggled beneath him, soft and pliant, a vague reassurance that Amanda was still with him. He cupped a breast in his palm, confused by the feel of soft cotton and the restraint of a bra. She squirmed a little more, her jeans-clad legs tangling with his. In a fragmented part of his mind he realized she was fully clothed. How could that be when she'd just undressed for him?

"Amanda," he murmured, valiantly trying to pull himself from the murky depths of sleep.

"Wake up!"

Something hard shoved against his chest, and he grunted as a shaft of pain ricocheted in his skull. Groggy and slightly disoriented, he managed to open his eyes to mere slits. Blue eyes, so dark and velvety they reminded him of lush violets, met his. He smiled lazily. "Amanda," he whispered, relieved that her dying had been a bad, awful dream. Lowering his head, he pressed his damp open mouth to the warm skin of her neck. "Amanda."

"I'm not Amanda," the woman beneath him said, struggling to push his weight off her. "Please, you're crushing me."

Frowning, he forced the thick cobwebs from his mind and pulled back enough to get a clear look at the woman. The sunshine streaming through the window sharpened his blurry vision, and he found himself staring not at his blue-eyed, blond-haired Amanda in the throes of passion, but a blue-eyed, brunette stranger determined to fend off his advances.

"What the hell?" Lightning quick, he rolled off her, and the bed, to his bare feet. A sharp, brutal pain lanced through his head, and for a moment the room dipped and whirled. He sucked in a harsh breath.

Grabbing the back of the chair by the bed, he regained his balance and focused on the woman he'd left sprawled on the bed. She looked embarrassed and flustered by their encounter. Disheveled, chin-length, glossy brown hair rumpled around a face set with delicate features, and a slight flush painted her cheeks a rosy hue. Her lips were damp and a little bit swollen. He couldn't deny that he'd kissed her; he still had the honeyed taste of her in his mouth.

He closed his eyes and swore. For the sweetest moment he'd believed Amanda was still alive, that a drunk driver had never hit them head on, killing her, when he'd driven her home that night after they'd made love. It had been so long since he'd dreamed of her, and everything had seemed so real.

"Are you okay?" came the woman's worried voice.

He looked at her and suddenly realized he was completely naked and painfully aroused from his dream-and from having her pressed beneath him. Swearing again, he snatched the pillow from the bed and covered himself.

A half smile of amusement brushed her lips as she sat up and swung her legs off the side of the mattress. Self-consciously, she straightened her flannel shirt and ran her fingers through her hair. "No need to get modest on me. I saw everything there was to see last night."

"No kidding?" J.T. searched his mind for a memory, anything to explain why he was in the ranch's line shack with a woman he didn't know and a splitting headache threatening to explode his brain. He didn't drink, so he knew he didn't have a hangover. And he didn't pick up strange women. And even if he did, he wouldn't bring them to a one-room shack, the only accommodations being a twin bed, a woodstove, a table, and a few blankets and rations.

Whos, whats, and whys tumbled through his head faster than he could log them. He settled for the most basic question. "What's going on?"

Standing, she walked past him to the wood stove and added a few more logs to the fire. "You don't remember what happened?" She placed a metal coffeepot over a burner.

Another wave of dizziness assaulted him and he sat back down on the bed before he toppled over. Keeping the pillow strategically in his lap, he rubbed his aching forehead and replied with a bit of sarcasm, "Sweetheart, you can bet if I remembered bringing you here you'd be as naked as I am. I don't remember a damn thing."

She turned around, her brow furrowed with distress. "I hope you aren't suffering from amnesia."

"Amnesia?" He watched her approach, his gaze drawn to the subtle sway of her hips in form-fitting blue jeans. Lifting his eyes to her face, he suppressed the stirring of awareness and the sense of familiarity nudging him. "I know who I am; I just don't know who the hell you are and what you were doing pinned beneath me on the bed, fully clothed and obviously struggling to get away."

"I'm Caitlan Daniels." She knelt in front of him and pressed a palm to his forehead, her voice soft. "I think your fever is gone."

"Depends on what kind of fever you're referring to," he replied irritably, pushing her hand away. The care and tenderness in her touch unnerved him, aroused him even. He found he wanted to kiss those full lips of hers again, a dangerous thought. "What about the part of you and me on the bed?"

She sat back on her heels. Another sweep of dusky rose stained her cheeks, as if she was remembering in detail his attempt at seduction. "You were tossing in your sleep; a bad dream, I suppose," she said in a voice gone a little husky. "You were calling for Amanda. Is she your wife?"

"I'm not married," he said flatly. "Go on."

She shrugged. "You were thrashing around. I tried to wake you, and you pulled me down on the bed. You were… very determined. Must have been some dream."

"Yeah, one I wish I'd never wake up from." He shivered from the frigid draft in the room-or was it the memory of that fateful night when he'd lost Amanda that had shaken him so?

Leaning toward him, she grabbed the wool blanket from the bed and settled it over his wide shoulders. The smell of fresh, rain-scented skin curled around him like some kind of narcotic, a natural, feminine fragrance that enticed him more than any expensive perfume might have.

"Well, I'm glad you did wake up," she said, fussing over him. "You've been out cold for about fifteen hours and I need to check that nasty bump on your head."

"Bump?" His eyes narrowed. "Why do I feel like Alice in Wonderland? Absolutely nothing is making any sense." Plowing his fingers through his hair, he found a huge knot on the back of his head. He winced and cursed as a dull ache throbbed in his temples.

Images flashed before him. The blocked water in the creek. Pulling the tree to the shore. Untying the rope from the trunk. Realizing the tree had been cut deliberately. Sleet, rain, cold numbing wind. Then a loud thud, a fierce paralyzing jolt, and blackness.

Apprehension coiled in his belly. "I'm starting to remember. Someone knocked me out," he said slowly, suspiciously. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

"Of course not!" she said, her chin rising indignantly.

His gut instinct told him she was innocent of the crime. "I believe you, but that doesn't explain how we both came to be holed up in this line shack."

She didn't reply. Averting her gaze, she adjusted the blanket around his legs. Her slim, warm fingers brushed over his knee, and a startling heat spread up his thigh, pooling in a place that didn't need any more encouragement.

He drew in a deep breath and caught her busy hands. "Excuse me," he said tightly, "but I feel at a distinct disadvantage here. Why don't I have any clothes on?"

She looked from her bound wrists to his face, and he could have sworn her pulse quickened beneath his fingers. Her expression, however, betrayed nothing. "I had to take them off you. You were soaking wet and freezing when I found you, and I didn't want hypothermia to set in."

"You found me?"

"Yes."

"This scenario is getting more intriguing by the second." Letting go of her, he rubbed his palm over the stubble on his jaw. The prickly beard confirmed that a night had passed without him realizing it. "Why don't I put some clothes on and we can discuss everything from the beginning? I'm grateful you found me, but I have to admit I'm a little curious what you were doing trespassing on private property that's at least fifteen miles from the main road. You mind getting me my jeans and shirt, please?"

Standing, she cast a glance at the table, where she'd spread out his clothes. "They're still damp."

His gaze skipped down the length of her, taking in her neat and tidy long-sleeved shirt and crisp, very dry jeans. Her boots looked brand spankin' new. If his clothes hadn't dried in the time they'd been in the shack, hers should be at least a little soggy, he thought. "Why are you nice and dry?"

She shifted on her feet. "I had a jacket on."

"So did I." He nodded to where the jacket hung on a hook by the door. "By the looks of it, it's still pretty soaked." She opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand to cut her off. "No, don't tell me; you had an umbrella with you, right? You were wearing a wide-brimmed hat? Your clothes are waterproof?" His tone was sardonic.

Her lips were pursed, and sparks of annoyance brightened her eyes. Too bad. He wanted to know exactly what was going on. Something didn't add up.

She turned away to check the percolating coffee, and when she glanced back at him a moment later his heart stopped for a fraction of a second. Her dark violet-blue eyes hit him like a bolt of lightning, sending a rush of memories of another woman tumbling through him. Her eyes beckoned to him…

He scrubbed an agitated hand down his face. Get a grip, man! That dream about Amanda is putting silly notions in your head-or the whack to your skull has made you a little crazy!

"I saw an extra set of workclothes in that cupboard," she offered, and started toward a floor-to-ceiling pantry about three feet wide, stocked with a variety of staples and basic necessities to survive a few weeks secluded in the shack.