“Who are you?”

Steady, she thought with a nod as she continued to monitor his pulse. And stronger. “I’m not Florence Nightingale, but I’m all you’ve got.” She smiled again and, holding each of his eyelids up in turn, peered closely at his pupils. “How many of me do you see?”

“How many should I see?”

With a chuckle, she arranged a pillow behind his back. “Just one, but since you’re concussed, you may be seeing twins.”

“I only see one.” Smiling, he reached up to touch her subtly pointed chin. “One beautiful one.”

Color rushed into her cheeks even as she jerked her head back. She wasn’t used to being called beautiful, only competent. “Try some of this. My father’s secret blend. It isn’t even on the market yet.”

Before he could decline, she was holding the cup to his lips. “Thanks.” Oddly, the flavor brought back a foggy memory of childhood. “What am I doing here?”

“Recovering. You crashed your plane in the mountains a few miles from here.”

“My plane?”

“Don’t you remember?” A frown came and went in her eyes. Gold eyes. Big, tawny gold eyes. “It’ll come back after a bit, I imagine. You took a bad hit on the head.” She urged more tea on him and resisted a foolish urge to brush the hair back from his forehead. “I was watching the storm, or I might not have seen you go down. It’s fortunate you’re not hurt more than you are. There’s no phone in the cabin, and the two-way’s in being repaired, so I can’t even call for a doctor.”

“Two-way?”

“The radio,” she said gently. “Do you think you could eat?”

“Maybe. Your name?”

“Liberty Stone.” She set the tea aside, then laid a hand on his brow to check for fever. She considered it a minor miracle that he hadn’t caught a chill. “My parents were in the first wave of sixties counterculture. So I’m Liberty, which is better than my sister, who got stuck with Sunbeam.” Noting his confusion, she laughed. “Just call me Libby. How about you?”

“I don’t—” The hand on his brow was cool and real. So she had to be real, he reasoned. But what in the hell was she talking about?

“What’s your name? I usually like to know who it is I’ve saved from plane wrecks.”

He opened his mouth to tell her—and his mind was blank. Panic skidded along his spine. She saw it whiten his face and glaze his eyes before his fingers clamped hard over her wrist. “I can’t—I can’t remember.”

“Don’t push it.” She swore silently, thinking of the radio she had so conscientiously taken for repairs on her trip in for supplies. “You’re disoriented. I want you to rest, try to relax, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

When he closed his eyes, she got directly to her feet and started back into the kitchen. He’d had no identification, Libby remembered as she began to prepare an omelet. No wallet, no papers, no permits. He could be anyone. A criminal, a psychopath . . . No. Laughing to herself, she grated some cheese over the egg mixture. Her imagination had always been fruitful. Hadn’t the ability to picture primitive and ancient cultures as real people—families, lovers, children—pushed her forward in her career?