Page 4 of Colt
The words didn’t make sense. They were English, arranged in a grammatically correct sentence, but my brain refused to process them.
“That’s not possible. I’ve never been married. I would remember—”
“You don’t remember anything from before you woke up in my spare bedroom,” Betty reminded me gently. “The doctors called it retrograde amnesia. Trauma-induced memory loss. Everything before that night is gone.”
I knew that. Of course, I knew that. My pregnancy, my boys’ lives—all of it lived in the shadow of the gap where my memories should have been. The careful explanations, the therapy sessions, the gradual acceptance that my past was a locked door I might never open.
But I’d always assumed there was nothing dramatic behind that door. A normal life, maybe. An unknown, forgotten accident had stolen my memories along with whatever ordinary existence I’d been living.
Not a husband. Not a marriage. Not a man with grief and hatred burning in his eyes.
“You knew,” I whispered. “All this time, you knew I had a husband, and you never told me?”
Betty’s eyes filled with tears. “At the time, the doctors said it was better to let your memories return naturally. Forcing information on you could cause more psychological damage, make it harder for you to heal. And then…” She took a shaky breath. “You asked me not to tell you anything. Do you remember that?”
I did. Vaguely. Those early months were hazy, a blur of pain and confusion and the fast growing baby bump. I’d been so lost, so overwhelmed by waking up in a stranger’s house with no memory of who I was or how I’d gotten there. The therapist had helped me work through the panic, the grief of losing an entire identity. And at some point, I’d made a decision.
“I said if no one was looking for me, maybe I didn’t want to be found. I also told you I’d rather build a new life than chase a past that might be worse than not knowing.”
“You were pregnant and alone,” Betty said softly. “No one came looking for you. No one filed a missing persons report. You decided that whoever you’d been before, that person was gone. You wanted to focus on your babies, on surviving, on getting better.”
I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to make sense of it all. “But you knew. You knew I had a husband. Why didn’t he come looking for me?”
Betty’s expression darkened. “I don’t know the whole story, sweetheart. I only know what Graham told me when he brought you to my door that night.”
“Graham.” My voice went hollow. “Graham brought me to you?” The man who’d been a fixture in our lives for years, who’d taught the boys to ride bikes, who showed up every few months with groceries and toys. “He—he knew me before?”
“He saved your life.” Betty glanced toward the window, then back at me. “He was young—just a prospect, barely eighteen years old. He showed up at my door in the middle of the night with you unconscious in his arms, covered in blood, barely breathing. Said you’d been hurt and he couldn’t take you to a hospital because… because of who had hurt you.”
My skin prickled. “Who hurt me?”
“I don’t know all the details. Graham wouldn’t tell me everything. It was safer if I didn’t know. But he stayed for a few weeks, helping me care for you while you were in the coma. And when you finally woke up with no memory of who you were…” She shook her head. “He said it might be a blessing. That maybe it was better if you didn’t remember.”
The kitchen felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I stood up abruptly, needing to move, needing air.
“So my husband—this Colt—he didn’t come looking for me because… what? He didn’t know I was hurt? He didn’t care?”
“I don’t know, Lilac. I truly don’t.” Betty rose and followed me to the window, where I stood staring out at the backyard. The boys were playing on the swing set, their laughter drifting through the glass. “All I know is that Graham checked in on us for years, making sure we were safe. And when I told him I was thinking of moving to Oregon to be closer to my sister, and that you were coming with me, he said it should be fine. That it was far enough away from the MC in Texas for us to be safe.”
Texas.
The word triggered something—a flash of heat, the smell of dust and motor oil, the rumble of a motorcycle engine. For a split second, I saw a road stretching out under a blazing sun, felt arms wrapped around my waist, heard a man’s laugh carried away by the wind.
I gasped, gripping the windowsill as the vision faded.
“Lilac?” Betty’s hand was on my shoulder. “What is it?”
“I saw something. Felt something.” My voice came out strangled. “Texas? A motorcycle. Someone laughing.”
Betty’s face was pale. “A memory?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I pressed my palm against my chest, where my heart was racing. “It was just a flash. But it felt… real. Like I was watching a memory.”
We stood in silence for a long moment, both of us processing what this meant. In seven years, I’d never had a single memory break through. I’d accepted that my past was gone forever, that the woman I’d been before was someone I’d never know.
But now a man from that past had found me. And suddenly, the locked door in my mind didn’t feel quite so solid anymore.
“The boys,” I said suddenly. “Are they—is he—”
