Ranger's Mistaken Identity (EAGLE RIVER RANGER'S #6)

1. Blaze

BLAZE

Iwasn’t supposed to stop.

That was the first mistake.

I had a list. A schedule. A reason for being in town that had nothing to do with coffee, pretty women, or getting gut-punched by the past in the middle of a Texas sidewalk.

Then I saw her.

Standing just outside the café.

Sunlight caught in her hair like the whole damn morning had been waiting for her to step into it. She laughed at something the woman beside her said, soft and real, and every muscle in my body locked down.

Because I knew that laugh.

Or at least…

I thought I did.

“Blaze?”

Trigger’s voice crackled through my earpiece.

“You still with us, or did you get distracted by something shiny again?”

I didn’t answer.

Most people in Eagle River called me Blaze now.

Army Ranger call signs had a way of sticking, especially with the men inside the Last Stand Tavern who knew me better than most people ever would.

But sixteen years ago?

I’d just been Hersh McDougal.

A too-young, too-stubborn kid with more dreams than sense and one girl who had owned every part of my heart before I was old enough to know how badly love could ruin a man.

And the woman standing outside that café looked exactly like her.

No.

Not exactly.

Older. Softer in some places. Stronger in others.

But those eyes?

That mouth?

The way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear like she had done a thousand times when she was trying to pretend she wasn’t nervous?

My pulse slammed once. Hard.

“…no way,” I muttered.

“Blaze,” Trigger pushed. “Report.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Wait—don’t?—”

Too late.

I killed the comm and started walking.

She noticed me before I reached her.

Smart.

Her body shifted, just enough to tell me she’d clocked me as a possible threat. Her shoulders didn’t stiffen. Her face didn’t panic. But her eyes sharpened, tracking me with quiet caution.

That wasn’t the girl I remembered.

The girl I remembered used to run barefoot through summer grass and steal fries off my plate when she thought I wasn’t looking.

This woman looked like she knew exactly how dangerous the world could be.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Calm. Polite. Controlled.

I stopped a few feet away.

For a second, I forgot every word I’d ever known.

Because this close, the resemblance wasn’t just strong.

It was impossible.

“Felicity?”

The name slipped out rougher than I meant it to.

Her brows drew together. “That’s me.”

My chest tightened.

She didn’t say it like she was surprised I knew her.

She said it like she had no idea who I was.

I stared at her, waiting for the flash of recognition.

The gasp.

The smile.

The anger.

Hell, I would’ve taken a slap.

Instead, she just looked at me like I was a stranger standing too close on a public sidewalk.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

That hit harder than it should have.

“You don’t recognize me?”

Her gaze moved over my face.

Slow.

Careful.

Searching.

Then she shook her head.

“No.”

Flat.

Certain.

Impossible.

“You’re telling me you don’t remember me?”

Her arms crossed, but not in fear. More like she was planting herself in place.

“I’m telling you I don’t,” she said. “And I think I’d remember someone who looks like you.”

Fair.

Didn’t change anything.

“You sat in the back row of Mr. Hanley’s class,” I said. “Always had your notebook open. Blue pen. Never black. You hated black ink because you said it made everything look too final.”

Her expression changed.

Not much.

But I saw it.

A flicker.

Then it was gone.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” she said carefully.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t.”

Her eyes cooled. “You just listed details about my high school, so yeah… I’m a little concerned.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “You should be.”

That didn’t help.

“At least you’re honest,” she said.

That pulled the faintest smirk out of me.

Didn’t expect that.

The Felicity I remembered used to do that too. Toss humor into the middle of a tense moment just to see if she could make me break.

Except this woman wasn’t playing.

She was guarded.

Too guarded.

She’s not faking it.

That was the problem.

If she were lying, I’d see it. I’d spent too many years reading faces in bad places not to know when someone was hiding the obvious.

But this wasn’t obvious.

This was something else.

Either she truly didn’t remember me…

Or she had a damn good reason to pretend she didn’t.

“You drink your coffee black,” I said.

She blinked. “What?”

“No sugar. No cream. You used to say anything else was a waste.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then, slowly, she lifted the cup in her hand.

Black coffee.

Her eyes sharpened now.

“How did you know that?”

Good question.

One I didn’t have an answer for anymore.

I should’ve walked away.

That would’ve been the smart move.

Instead, I stayed.

Mistake number two.

She turned toward the parking lot like we were done.

Like she hadn’t just flipped my past upside down and left me standing in the pieces.

“Wait.”

She paused, then looked back.

More cautious now.

Good.

“What’s your full name?” I asked.

Her chin tipped slightly. “That’s a strange follow-up.”

“Still need it.”

She studied me for a beat.

Then said, “Felicity Ward.”

That punched me right in the chest.

Because that wasn’t the name I remembered.

Not the last one.

“Not what you expected?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then you’ve got the wrong person.”

“I don’t.”

I didn’t hesitate.

That got her.

“You ever go by another name?” I asked.

She laughed under her breath, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Wow. We’re really doing this?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve always been Felicity Ward.”

Always.

That word stuck.

Because I knew what I remembered.

I remembered Felicity McKenna sitting on the hood of my truck, bare feet on the bumper, telling me she’d wait as long as it took.

I remembered writing her every week for a year after I left.

I remembered waiting for letters that never came back.

I remembered finally accepting the truth.

She’d moved on.

She’d forgotten me.

Except now she was standing in front of me, looking like she’d never known me at all.

“Then you’ve got a twin,” I muttered.

“I don’t.”

“Then explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“This.” I gestured between us. “Because I know you.”

“No,” she said, firmer now. “You think you do.”

That landed.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Not entirely.

For sixteen years, I’d known a girl in my memory.

This woman?

This woman was all sharp edges and locked doors.

She hesitated.

She should’ve walked away.

She didn’t.

Curiosity got her.

I could see it.

“You said high school,” she said. “What was your name again?”

The name sat heavy on my tongue.

“Hersh. Everyone here calls me Blaze.”

Her lips parted slightly.

There.

Another flicker.

Small.

Fast.

But real.

I stepped closer before I could stop myself. “You remember.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. “No.”

Too fast.

Too automatic.

Yeah.

She felt it.

She just didn’t trust it.

I stepped back, forcing space between us before I did something stupid, like reach for her.

“Look,” I said. “Either I’m losing it… or something’s off.”

She huffed. “Those are not the only options.”

“They’re the only ones I’ve got.”

That almost made her smile.

Almost.

She looked away first.

Not toward the café.

Toward the street.

Like she was checking exits.

Something cold slid down my spine.

“You’re not just asking random questions,” she said.

“No.”

“You’re looking for something.”

“Yeah.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“Then tell me what you think happened.”

I held her gaze.

Because now?

Now it mattered.

“Right now,” I said quietly, “it feels like you forgot me.”

Her chest rose slightly.

Subtle.

But I caught it.

“People don’t just forget someone like that,” she said.

I didn’t look away.

“Exactly.”

For one long second, neither of us moved.

Then she turned and walked away.

I watched her go.

Every Ranger instinct I had screamed at me to follow her.

Every piece of the boy I used to be stood there bleeding.

Because Felicity McKenna had just looked me in the eye and pretended I’d never existed.

And the worst part?

I didn’t believe her.

Not for a damn second.