Wrong Memory, The

Looking to escape, widow Jeanne Latham ends up in the isolated, and supposedly haunted, Whisnant Mansion ten miles from civilization. It’s just her luck the owner of that crumbling monstrosity, Eric Monroe, sees her as a fortune hunter.

 

Published:08/2013
Length: Mid Novel
Word Count: 72,230
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Rating: Sensual
Available formats: PDF, RTF, Epub, HTML, Mobipocket (.prc)

MMD30614

 

THE WRONG MEMORY
By
Zelma Orr

 

© Copyright by Zelma Orr, August 2013
© Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, August 2013
ISBN 978-1-60394-
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636

 

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

 

The average annual rainfall in Colfax County possibly measured twelve inches. At the moment, Jeanne Latham bet half that amount had fallen in the past thirty minutes on this deserted stretch of New Mexico road. She strained to see through the opaque windshield, wipers useless against the deluge of water. She wasn’t a seasoned driver and not even her trip alone driving from Pennsylvania prepared her for anything like this.

Of course, the fact that she’d had no trouble on a two thousand mile trip had been pure luck. At the time she’d taken the good luck for granted, too numb to notice weather or to care what happened to her. Ivan’s death, the notoriety, the juicy gossip so gleefully reported in the tabloids – all she’d wanted to do was leave it behind, whatever happened to her after that would have to be an improvement.

So far, improvement had been slow, but steady. Until now.

“It can’t be far, darn it,” she muttered. The downpour had her completely disoriented, lost on a road she’d traveled hundreds of times in the past several weeks. “It’s only five miles from the settlement, and I must have driven at least ten since I made the turn on to Whisnant property.”

There was only the thinnest layer of gravel on the secondary route she was traveling, and the rain effectively disposed of most of it. An isolated ranch house or two between the farm route and the state road into Eagle Nest made up the neighborhood, and there was no traffic at all this far off the country lanes. She and the Jeep seemed to be the only moving things in the universe. She would have been home before the storm hit but had gotten involved with two small Indian boys who had some kind of breaking out she hadn’t been able to find an effective antibiotic for. She suspected it was from a flea, maybe even a worm, in the dusty clay where the children played. The small Indian settlement she visited had no running water, the Hogans or shacks had dirt floors, and sanitary conditions were nonexistent.

It was difficult, to say the least, to get the Jicarilla Apaches who lived there to come to see her with their ailments much less pay attention to her instructions on boiling water and not drinking goats’ milk after it sat in one hundred degree heat all day. Soon, it would be cooler weather. That would help in some ways, but then come wintertime, there were other worries.

Jeanne sighed. As a registered nurse, an outsider at that, she could only do so much. Why don’t I give up? Go back to civilization, let these hostile, isolated Indians live two hundred years in the past, die off like flies until their meager population dwindles to nothing. Why should I care? No reason that I can bring to mind at the moment.

Ivan had once told her she had a heart of gold, the soft kind that anyone could shape any old which-a-way with a sad tale and a warm smile. Vulnerable. She supposed he was right. Well, she could change, couldn’t she?

Probably not.