Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (21 page)

She kept her eyes on the darkened country road until she reached city limits twenty minutes later and turned down the highway that led to the medical center. She snagged the first parking space she could find and rushed to the E.R. entrance.

Once inside, she told the receptionist to alert Dr. Betsy Nielson of her arrival. It gave her some comfort to know that Dave was under the care of one of the best doctors at BVMC.

After making several visits to the emergency department with Teresa Cummings, Dave's mother, and also with some of the elderly residents at the Sheltering Arms Rest Home, where Chloe had once worked as a nurse's aide, Dr. Betsy Nielson and Chloe had become well acquainted.

Fortunately, within a matter of minutes, Betsy, an attractive redhead wearing a pair of light blue scrubs came out to the waiting room personally to find her. “Thanks for coming in, Chloe.”

“No problem. I'm glad you called. How is he?”

“He's conscious now, but I'm afraid he's not going to be any help. He has amnesia—and no ID.”

“And you think it's Dave?”

“I've never met Teresa's son, so I have no idea what he looks like. But the patient is in his mid- to late-twenties. A tattoo of the marine insignia on his left biceps indicates he is or was in the military. So I made the assumption. Sheriff Hollister is checking into that.”

Chloe hadn't heard from Dave in months—not since she'd had to take a direct approach and tell him that a couple of shared dinners in the hospital cafeteria didn't mean they were altar-bound. She'd felt badly about hurting him, especially with him being so far from home, but each letter he'd sent her from Afghanistan had included more and more marriage plans. And she'd needed to make it clear that she only wanted to be friends.

“How badly is he hurt?” Chloe asked. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He's bruised, with cuts and lacerations. But there aren't any broken bones. His most serious injury appears to be a concussion.”

“Where did it happen?”

“On the highway outside the Stagecoach Inn.”

Chloe had worked at the honky-tonk for a while, hoping to earn some spare cash so she could go back to nursing school once Dave got back home and was able to run the ranch himself. But she'd never liked getting involved in confrontations and tried to avoid them at all costs. Needless to say, she'd gotten tired of having to put some of the rowdier patrons in their places as the night wore on. So she'd quit last month.

“Did anyone inside the Stagecoach Inn know who he was? I mean, Dave wasn't much of a drinker—unless that changed while he was deployed.” Had he stopped by the bar to look for her? He hadn't liked the idea of her working there, but since he'd quit writing to her and her last letter to him had been returned, he might not know that she'd quit.

“From what I understand,” Betsy said, “he might have gone inside, but he never ordered a drink.”

“So what happened? How'd he get hit by a car?”

“The sheriff's department is still investigating, so I'm not entirely sure. Apparently he was on foot. A bystander heard the squealing wheels and the thud, but only caught sight of the taillights of the vehicle. She called 9-1-1, and he was rushed to the hospital. But because he has no wallet, the only clue to his identity was the letter he was carrying.”

“The letter?”

“Apparently it was written by Dave Cummings and addressed to you. That's why I called the ranch and wanted you to give us a positive ID.”

“Where is he?” Chloe asked. “Can I see him?”

“Of course. Come with me.”

The doctor led Chloe through the E.R. door and along a maze of exam rooms until she reached a small area just off the nurses' station and slowed to a stop. “He's right here.” She pulled the curtain back.

But when Chloe spotted the man lying in bed and took in his dark hair—clipped short but not in the customary military high and tight—as well as his olive complexion and square cut jaw, she froze in her tracks. His eyes were closed, and he had a couple of scrapes on a notably handsome face.

While she'd like to be of help to the doctor, she realized that she wouldn't be. “I'm sorry, Betsy, but that's not Dave Cummings.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“I've never seen him before.” She certainly would have remembered if she had. Even asleep and with bumps and bruises, the man definitely aroused a woman's soul and would leave a lasting impression.

Upon hearing their voices, he stirred. When his eyes opened, her breath caught at the sight of their stunning sky-blue color.

He zeroed in on her, and his brow furrowed. “Who are you?”

“My name's Chloe Dawson. You had a letter addressed to me.”

He merely studied her, his gaze laced with confusion.

“Do you know Dave Cummings?” she asked.

“I suppose I should, since they tell me that's who wrote the letter I had in my pocket. But the name doesn't ring a bell.” He reached up and stroked his head, massaging the temple.

“You could be one of Dave's friends,” Chloe said. “I'd have to ask him, but I'm not sure how to get in touch with him. He was in Afghanistan the last I heard, although he could be back in the States now.”

The handsome but wounded marine looked at the doctor, then back to Chloe. “Apparently, my brains were scrambled in that accident. And the pain medication the nurse gave me is really kicking in.”

“Good,” Betsy said. “Maybe you'll wake up fresh in the morning and remember who you are and what you're doing in Brighton Valley.”

“About that letter that was addressed to me,” Chloe said. “I'd like to see it. To be honest, I haven't heard from Dave in months, and I've been worried about him.”

“I don't have it. The paramedics told me about it when they brought him in. From what I understand, the sheriff is using it as part of his investigation.”

“You mean he thinks that letter may give him a clue as to who the driver was?” Chloe asked. “That doesn't make sense.”

“It was probably just a random hit-and-run. But they want to rule out any criminal motivation.”

Chloe stiffened. Had there been a crime committed? Had the handsome G.I. Doe done something illegal?

As if sensing Chloe's concern, Dr. Nielson placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. Sheriff Hollister used to be a detective with the Houston Police Department, so he's just being thorough. He's going to check with any witnesses or people working at any of the nearby businesses. He'll get to the bottom of this—probably by morning, if not sooner.”

Chloe hoped so. She couldn't imagine how the poor guy must feel—injured, alone, confused.

“If the letter doesn't give us a clue to his identity,” Chloe said, “it might let us know where we can find Dave. He ought to be able to shed some light on the problem.”

“So I take it I'm the problem you're trying to solve,” the handsome marine said. “That's a little unsettling.”

“I didn't mean to imply that.” Chloe eased closer to the bed. “Besides, I'd think that you'd want to get to the bottom of this.”

“To say the least.” G.I. Doe blew out a weary sigh. “So how do you know that guy—Dave Cummings?”

“I'm a family friend. I live on his ranch and have been house-sitting until he comes home. That's all.”

Betsy glanced at the chart in her hand, then back to Chloe. “If you'll excuse me, I'm going to complete the paperwork to have him admitted for the night.”

“All right. But under the circumstances—and assuming that he's a friend of Dave's—will you make a note of my name and number in his paperwork? I'd like to be kept informed about his condition.”

The doctor addressed her injured patient. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“As long as you don't list her as next of kin, I'm okay with it.”

“Why would it bother you to think that I was related to you?” Chloe asked.

A slow grin stretched across his face. “Because you're too damn pretty. If we were related by blood, I'd have to fight the guys off you—rather than fight to be at the top of your consideration list.”

“Would you, now.” So G.I. Doe was not only handsome, but a flirt. She glanced at his left hand, checking for a ring and not finding one.

Not that it mattered if he was already taken. She had enough on her plate these days without stressing over a romance.

Still, he was more than a little attractive, even in his injured state. But she wouldn't think about that now. The important thing was that he was her only link to Dave. And until Dave came home and could take over the ranch, Chloe was stuck in limbo and unable to get on with the future she had planned.

Chapter Two

T
he ranch foreman, Tomas Hernandez, had just left for the day when Chloe's cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She recognized the number to the Brighton Valley Medical Center and slid her finger across the screen. “Hello?”

“Chloe? This is Dr. Betsy Nielsen. Joe Wilcox is in stable condition and we're going to be discharging him soon.”

She switched the phone to her other ear, thinking she hadn't heard correctly.
“Who?”

“Joe Wilcox. The hit-and-run patient you came in to see last night.”

“His memory returned?”

“No, I'm afraid it hasn't. Sheriff Hollister called shortly after you left the hospital last night. During the investigation, he learned who our patient is. Apparently, Mr. Joseph Wilcox arrived in town yesterday evening and checked into the Night Owl Motel. When the manager let the sheriff into his room, they found his wallet and the keys to a rental car, which also had been leased to Joseph Wilcox. The name on his California driver's license is a match, as well. I was told the photo bears his likeness. But they've yet to uncover any other information, so they still don't know much about him—or why he's in Texas.”

Dave mentioned something about a buddy in the corps named Joe. The last name might have been Wilcox, but she wasn't sure.

“A deputy took his fingerprints,” the doctor added, “Apparently he has a military record, although it will take more time to get any classified information. Unfortunately, we don't know how long that will be. And, like I said, physically, he's stable. So there's no legitimate reason for me to keep him another night.”

Chloe knew Betsy wouldn't release a patient before it was wise to do so, but she didn't have the same confidence in the hospital administration who might be worried about him not being able to pay the bill. Her experience with the administrator of the Sheltering Arms Rest Home gave her cause to worry.

“Surely the hospital won't turn him out on the street,” Chloe said. “He has no memory, nowhere to go and no one to take care of him.”

“Of course not. That's why I called you. Since you left your name and number as his emergency contact, I was hoping that we could release him into your care.”

Chloe didn't want to say no. After all, helping people was her natural calling, an intrinsic part of who she was. But she was living in the ranch house alone. And the man was a stranger.

“If you'd rather not take on the responsibility,” Betsy said, “I understand.”

Chloe might not know anything about the man, but he either was or had been a marine. And he had to be Dave's friend. Why else would he be delivering a letter to her?

“What time is he scheduled to be discharged?” She still needed to finish up her evening chores, and it was already pushing five o'clock.

“He should have been released a couple of hours ago, but I stalled the admin assistant until I had time to call you personally.”

So much for finishing her chores before dark. She walked to the row of hooks just inside the back door and grabbed a red barn jacket to ward off the winter chill. “Then I'll leave now.”

“That's great. He's on the third floor, in room 327. I'll have the paperwork ready for his discharge.”

Five minutes later, Chloe climbed into the faded green GMC pickup and turned on the ignition. The old ranch truck roared to life, just as dependable as Chloe herself.

To be honest, she was apprehensive about taking in a stranger, but she chided herself as quickly as the thought crossed her mind. Teresa Cummings, Dave's mom, had let Chloe move to the Rocking C when she didn't have anywhere else to go. So taking in Joe Wilcox was her way of paying it forward. Besides that, Teresa would have taken the wounded marine under her wing in a heartbeat.

One night, before Teresa's death, she and Chloe had shared a pot of tea and talked about Teresa's terminal illness, her fears and her thoughts on life. The dying woman had also shared her regrets, one of which was about a kid she'd neglected to take in and offer a home.

Apparently, years ago, when Dave had been in high school, one of his friends had needed a home. The teenager had been living in foster care and had been miserable. So Teresa had asked her husband if the boy could move in with them. Her husband had been reluctant because the kid had gotten into trouble in the past and had even been suspended from school on several occasions. Still, he'd always been polite and helpful whenever he'd been on the Rocking C, and Teresa had suspected he'd only been acting out because of his sad childhood and difficult living situation.

Dave had begged them to let the boy stay with them, but his father had been firm in his decision. Teresa hadn't pushed her husband, although she always suspected she could have gotten him to see reason.

Shortly thereafter, the boy ran away from his foster home and was never heard from again. Dave had been inconsolable for nearly a year, and his relationship with his father had suffered terribly because of it.

Teresa had wished that she would have insisted that they take the boy in. And she'd always wondered what might have happened, how he might have fared if she had provided him a loving home. She also wondered if Dave and his father's relationship might have been a happier one, especially since her husband had died of a heart attack shortly after Dave joined the Marines in his one and only act of sheer rebellion.

To appease her guilt, Teresa had promised herself that, from then on, the Rocking C Ranch would always have its paddocks open for any stray, whether it had four legs or two.

And since Chloe had resolved to keep the ranch running exactly as Teresa would have done had she still been alive, that meant letting a hit-and-run victim who couldn't recall his own name recover there.

By the time she reached the medical center, it had grown dark outside and was threatening to rain. She turned into the hospital parking lot and pulled into a spot close to the entrance.

After entering the lobby, which had been decorated with twinkly lights and a big Christmas tree near the front window, she took the elevator to the third floor, where the nurses' station was a flurry of activity, reminding her of the shift changes at the Sheltering Arms. But thanks to the administrator at the nursing home who'd fired her rather than the incompetent nurse she'd reported, Chloe was no longer a part of the staff.

She checked out the room numbers until she spotted 327. The door was open, so she walked in. But she stopped short when she saw the wounded man standing near his bed, wearing a pair of tattered jeans, his broad chest bare.

Unable to help herself, she watched as he attempted to put on a torn black sweatshirt he must have been wearing at the time of the accident. His left hand was wrapped in an oversize bandage, and his muscled form struggled with the effort.

“Would you like... I mean, I could...”

He glanced over his shoulder, those amazing blue eyes locking in on hers and exposing something deep within, something vulnerable.

“Thanks, but I've got it.” His handsome face bore a couple of scrapes, but other than that, he appeared strong and healthy. She could hardly tell that he'd been brought in on a gurney last night.

Maybe she should have taken a few extra minutes to freshen up and change out of her work clothes. Not that she was dirty or unkempt. It's just that he...well, she...

Oh, forget it. She didn't have time to let her thoughts drift into girlish, romantic notions.

“I don't mean to interfere if you'd rather do it yourself. It's just that, with the bandage and all, I thought...” She gave her head a little toss. “I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't have just barged into your room like that. But...well, you're Joe Wilcox, right?”

“That's what they tell me.” He pointed toward a stack of papers on the bed tray with his bandaged hand, yet her focus remained on his broad shoulders, on the scatter of dark chest hair that ran along taut abs and trailed into the waistband of his jeans.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

“You're the woman who came in last night to identify me. Chloe Dawson, right?”

She tossed him a smile. “Yes, that's me. I'm glad you remembered.”

“Don't be too optimistic,” he said. “I can recall everything as far back as the ambulance ride. Anything before that is a giant black spot in my mind. Besides...” He patted the paperwork one more time. “Your name is on my discharge sheet.”

“So Dr. Nielson told you that I was coming to pick you up?”

“Yep. Right before she signed off on my chart. I think she was eager to get home to her new baby. Not that I can blame her.”

So he liked children? That ought to mean he was one of the white hats and that she had nothing to worry about by being alone with him.

“Do you have kids?” she asked.

He froze, and his blue eyes darted upward as if he had to look up the answer in his cranial database. “I have no idea. But that's not what I meant. I can't blame the doc for wanting to ditch this place as soon as she could. Hospitals give me the creeps.”

Maybe, if she prodded him with enough questions, she'd latch on to the thread that would unravel all of his suppressed memories. “Have you been in the hospital before?”

“I don't know the answer to that, either. I'm going to guess that I have—and that I didn't like it.”

“Why?”

“Because I can't wait to get out of here.” He finally managed to slip on the sweatshirt. “You ready to go?”

“Sure. If you are.”

He snatched a white plastic bag off the floor by his chair and headed out the door. As she tried to keep up with his determined pace, her dusty cowboy boots clicked along the polished corridor floor.

“Wait,” she called out just before he reached the elevator. “I realize you're in a hurry to leave and would probably hitch a ride with the first ship setting sail, but Dr. Nielson is releasing you to my care. So let's slow down just a minute. Is there anything in that discharge paperwork that I need to know about before we hightail it out of here?”

“Sorry.” He handed her the top sheet off his stack for her to read. “Listen, Miss Dawson.”

When she looked up from the paper he'd given her and caught his gaze—or rather, when those amazing blue eyes caught hers—her tummy did a somersault.

He smiled. “It's
miss,
right?”

Was he asking if she was single? Or just trying to be polite?

While working at the Stagecoach Inn, she'd gotten used to men—old and young, drunk and sober— hitting on her. And she was usually pretty quick on the draw when it came to letting them know she wasn't interested.

But she'd make an allowance for the sexy marine who was still probably disoriented from the accident and the shock of having his memory banks wiped clean—at least, temporarily.

“Yes, it is. But let's make that Chloe.”

“All right,” he said. “Thanks for picking me up, Chloe. And you might as well call me Joe, although, I may not answer to it.”

Why? Had he realized that the sheriff might have mistaken him for someone else?

No, she'd been told that his photo and name lined up. “I suppose, if you don't remember who you are, your name wouldn't sound familiar.”

“That's the problem. Something about that name doesn't feel right, although I have no idea why. Maybe because my brain is still so scrambled.” He let out a weary sigh. “Anyway, you don't really have to be responsible for me. I waited for you to get here because Dr. Nielsen seems like a nice woman, and I don't want to get her in trouble with the hospital bigwigs. But you can just drop me off at a nearby homeless shelter or rescue mission. I'll be fine.”

She couldn't possibly dump him just anywhere, especially in his condition. Yet he turned his back and continued on his way, his only goal the hospital exit.

“Joe,”
she called out.

At the sound of his name—or maybe just her voice—he turned in response.

With her boots still planted in the middle of the hall, she asked, “Have you ever stayed in a homeless shelter or a rescue mission?”

“I don't know.”

For a guy who didn't seem to know very much about himself, he had no problem putting one combat boot in front of the other and pretending that nothing was wrong.

“Have you ever been to Brighton Valley?” she asked.

“Don't know that, either.”

She wondered if he was getting tired of sounding like a broken record. “We don't have any homeless shelters or rescue missions here. There's a community church that lets people sleep in the basement, but the pastor usually goes home before now, so I doubt that they're open.”

“Then I appreciate your offer to give me a ride and a place to stay for a day or two—at least, until my memory returns.”

“No problem. Dave and his family would have done the same.”

The furrow in his brow deepened as if he was reaching deep into his memory banks, only to find them empty. Then he nodded and continued to the elevator.

She followed him. When the doors opened, they stepped inside.

His fingers lingered over the panel for longer than necessary, so she pressed the
L
for lobby. Again, she reminded herself that by taking him home she was doing the right thing. After all, she couldn't very well let him wander the streets if he couldn't even operate a simple elevator.

He glanced at her, and his blank stare tore at her heart. Had the gravity of his situation finally sunk in?

“You sure you don't mind me bunking with you?” he asked.

“Of course not. You're a friend of Dave's, and honestly, it's his ranch. I'm only doing what he and his mother would have done for any of their friends.”

“I'll try to make it up to you—the inconvenience and what not—when I figure out who I am and what I'm good for.”