by Linda Conrad
Cami's pout turned into a whine, but the doctor still held on to Carley's arm. "That young man means the world to me. I wouldn't take kindly to anyone who thought to hurt him." She narrowed her eyes and made sure Carley understood her change of topic.
Carley understood perfectly.
* * *
Carley climbed the carpeted stairs leading from the front hall to the employees' bedrooms and lounge area. Where the downstairs living and sleeping rooms were typically institutional, with linoleum floors and sturdy metal or plastic furniture, the upstairs wing was tastefully decorated and homey.
Well, okay, the walls appeared in need of a coat of paint, and the carpet had worn spots with a few frays around the edges—but everything was spotless. The warm woods of the floors and furniture were polished to a high, glossy gleam. The place reminded Carley of her grandfather's house in New Orleans—right down to the smell of lemon oil and vanilla.
When she carried Cami into their room, Carley noticed someone had put fresh flowers on her dresser and had made up both the double bed and the roll-away crib. Grateful for the reprieve from homemaking duties, she lowered Cami into the crib and whispered a few soothing words, hoping she'd close her eyes for a rest.
The poor little tyke was so overtired she barely had the energy to cry. But cry she did—as if her heart were breaking.
Carley pulled open the diaper bag and hauled out a change of clothes, diapers and a half-size baby bottle. She changed Cami and went into the bathroom to fill the bottle with water. When she returned, Carley nearly stumbled over the open bag. She heard a clink and remembered that she'd crammed her framed photograph of Witt into the side pocket.
Of course! No wonder Cami seemed to recognize the man. Carley had kept his picture on her dresser for all these months. Smart kid. Houston Smith was no stranger to her. In fact, Carley had told her over and over that he was her daddy. No doubt Cami was brokenhearted because the man she thought of as "daddy" had not recognized her.
Carley gave Cami the bottle of water and her favorite stuffed toy, a pink crayfish that Carley's mother had given her. Before long, sleep closed the baby's eyes and quieted her sobs.
Carley knew she'd better not keep Witt's picture in plain sight here at the ranch, so she buried it inside one of her suitcases for storage. Then she reached for the mobile phone she'd also stuffed in the pocket of the diaper bag.
Slightly warm in the closed room, Carley pulled open the window, then punched in the many numbers necessary to reach Reid Sorrels. A hot, stiff breeze blasted her as it came from off the range, and she took a deep breath as Reid answered her call.
Before saying hello, he spat the question at her. "Is it Davidson?"
"You knew all the time it was. But, yes, I can confirm he's Witt." She gave her boss a pithy statement of what she'd found, then cut to what she needed from him.
"Run complete backgrounds on a local pediatrician, Dr. Luisa Monsebais, and on the home's administrator, Gabriel Diaz. See if you can get hard copies to me without anyone knowing."
"They'll arrive in the local field office no later than tomorrow. Someone will get them to you on the ranch." Reid fell silent for a minute. "He didn't recognize you at all?"
"Not that I could tell. It's so strange here, Reid. Otherworldly. And what with Witt being this Houston Smith person, I feel cut off and alone."
"Try plugging your laptop into the Bureau's satellite link. Maybe you'll be in range there. And check in with me twice a day by phone."
Carley smiled grimly at Reid's no-nonsense reply, but she wasn't through with her requests. "Contact a Dr. William Fields at the Cannon Neurological Institute in Chicago and arrange for a conference call today. Both of us need to pick his brain on this one." She stared absently out the open window at the scruffy live oaks and prickly ebony trees. "Call me back when you've reached him. I'll wait here."
Carley cut the connection and cradled the instrument against her breast. Reid had bent the rules for Witt. By all rights, he should have picked Witt up and carted him off in custody to interrogation the first moment Manny had ID'd him. But Reid waited for her report—and now he'd wait a little longer.
Witt had been one of the best agents on the task force. His loss set the operation back years, and his unexplained disappearance caused a black mark against Reid. Not to mention the fact that Reid had unfortunately lost her, in a way, to the same calamity.
Carley had spent months searching fruitlessly for word of Witt among the lowlife gathering spots and bars near Houston where they'd been investigating the kidnapping ring. She'd researched Witt's background, even visiting the little town in West Texas where he'd grown up.
Digging further, she'd located his former teachers, the grave sites of his family and talked to some old neighbors and friends. All the checking gave her a better picture of the man who'd disappeared—but didn't give her the man.
Carley found that he'd been scarred in many ways because of his childhood. She'd worked with children from similar backgrounds, children who'd shut off their emotions rather than take a chance on being hurt again. Many turned into adults afraid to commit, afraid to trust.
Because his mother had died early and his abusive father had been killed in a drunken rage, Witt might never have been able to give her the love she craved. But she'd been sure he was a responsible and honorable man who would never just deliberately disappear. Still, he was gone without a trace.
As the time neared for Cami to be born, the doctors had ordered Carley to bed. She'd collapsed with exhaustion and despair.
Cami's birth had rallied Carley's spirit. Her little girl was a constant reminder of the man she loved. Carley knew that as long as she and Cami were together, they'd someday find the answers. She never gave up on finding him. Never.
But now she wanted to know what had happened to keep him from her that night eighteen months ago. How he'd lost his memory, and what had become of him during the unaccounted month when he'd first disappeared.
She figured the man calling himself Houston Smith was the only one who could give her all the answers. But Carley needed to find a way to help him remember—and to bring Witt back to her.
* * *
The conference call came through two hours later.
Dr. Fields took the time for explanations. In the end, his descriptions were thorough, if not hopeful.
"Please, Doctor," she begged. "We can give you a couple of hypothetical causes for the amnesia. Can't you give us some possibilities?"
After a long-winded, ten-minute lecture on one possible cause, Reid broke into the doctor's explanation. "Hold it. I need a translator."
"The doctor's simply saying that a person can have something so horrible happen to him that his mind refuses to acknowledge it," Carley explained to her boss. "Sometimes the person might even blank out not only the terrible event but also everything that came before."
Carley tried to make the doctor spell out that kind of malfunction for Reid's benefit. "This would be more a psychiatric problem, wouldn't it Dr. Fields?"
"Indeed, but it would be recognized under the branch of medicine called cognitive neuropsychology. Unfortunately, for the condition to continue for a period of eighteen months would, by definition, mean the person had immersed himself in a drastic, multiple-personality disorder that would take literally years of intense therapy to conquer."
The idea of Witt having such a dire mental illness made Carley shudder. "Let's hope that's not the case here. What if it was not the denial of an event but rather an actual physical trauma that's caused this amnesia?"
"That's the other possibility. Any trauma to the head can cause brain damage, bruising the cerebral cortex and causing problems with memory retrieval. I would naturally need to study the brain scans before I could attempt to assess the extent of such damage."
Carley was getting impatient with the doctor's hedging. "Yes, but can't you tell us in general the symptoms and recovery time?"
After a few seconds of indignant
silence, the doctor continued. "Brain trauma can cause temporary loss of personal memories … for instance, one's identity, while other memories like language skills and word recognition that are stored in a different part of the brain are not lost."
"Right. I've seen movies where this happens." Reid sounded as eager to get to the point as Carley felt. "But those memories do come back, don't they?"
"Normally, following trauma, patients have what are called 'islands of memory.' These isolated events can act as anchors for memory recovery. In most cases, all old memories, except for the actual trauma itself, are recovered. It's conceivable, though, that large areas of memory will be permanently irretrievable."
"What?" Reid sounded stunned. "Carley, is he saying that Davidson may never remember who he is or what happened to him?"
"Shh, Reid. Let the doctor finish, then we'll discuss this rationally." Carley was amazed her voice seemed so calm when inside she was a mass of nerve endings. "Would it do any good in such a case to force the person to try to remember, Dr. Fields? Or to try something drastic like hypnosis or drugs, perhaps?"
"Absolutely not. Any further emotional or physical shock could cause the victim's memories to retreat even further. No, the best course of action is to provide a safe environment where familiar things can be introduced slowly. If the patient inquires about his past, do not lie or confuse the issue, but gently steer him toward self-revelation."
Carley thanked the specialist for his time, clicked him off and tried to placate Reid. Her boss was chomping at the bit to bundle Witt up and drag him off to an institution for examination and second opinions, exactly as she'd feared.
She managed to dissuade Reid by begging for some time to ease herself into Witt's trust. Carley figured once Houston Smith trusted her, getting his memory back might come along naturally with the familiarity between them.
Finally Reid calmed enough to foresee the dangers he'd missed before. "I'm sorry I got you and Cami into this. I'd imagined that when you showed up, Witt would see you and remember everything. Guess that's not going to happen. What do you want to do now?"
She couldn't believe he would even need to ask the question. "Why, stay with him, of course."
Reid's voice softened when he said, "Carley, he has another life now. What if it takes a year … two … or more?"
"I'll be here to help him, no matter how long it takes."
Her boss lowered his tone to where she could barely hear him. "What if he never remembers you?"
For a moment she hesitated, but every strand of human frailty that held her to this unjust planet screamed the same answer throughout her body. "Then we'll just have to make new memories," she whispered. "I believe he loved me once. Deep down he's the same person. With enough time, perhaps he'll grow to love me again."
"Sorry, Charleston. I can only give you a couple more weeks." Reid's voice had grown strong and professional once more.
"Being without Davidson has been a challenge," he added. "Having to do without you, as well, would be more than the operation can stand."
"Only a couple of weeks?"
"That's more than I should give you. In the meantime, watch your back … and his. Whoever or whatever caused this amnesia is bound to come back sooner or later to finish the job. You want to stay there with him for a few weeks? Okay. But you're totally responsible for his welfare. In his condition, he's completely defenseless."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Fifteen minutes and dozens of instructions later, Carley snapped closed her mobile phone and took a deep breath. Reid had agreed to wait and to let her and Cami stay on the ranch—for now. But that wasn't her biggest worry.
Despite what she'd told Reid, deep inside she was frozen with the fear that perhaps Witt would never remember. What if she never again felt his warm breath on her cheek or thrilled to the electric shock of having his body pulled tightly against hers?
Hearing herself make a noise somewhere between a muffled sob and a sigh, Carley fought the lump forming deep in her throat. At that moment another tiny sob penetrated the stillness of the dusty sunset pouring through the open window.
Carley spun to see Cami standing in the crib, one hand holding the rail and the other fisted in her mouth.
Silent, sad eyes stared at Carley through the shadows of the room. "Mama … home?"
Carley crossed the room and picked up her sleepy-eyed child. "Oh, baby," she crooned, as she bent her head to gently kiss the soft, fuzzy cap of straw-colored curls. "It looks like this is home for a while. We're just going to have to make the best of it."
A quiet knock disturbed Carley's reverie as she stood in the middle of the room, gently swaying back and forth, patting Cami's flannel-covered back.
"Yes?"
"Miz Mills?" The door inched open enough to allow Rosie, the teenage caretaker, to stick her head in the room. When she saw Carley holding the baby, she stepped further inside. "Preacher Gabe said to tell you the senior staff's supper hour is at seven o'clock."
Cami turned from her mother's shoulder to gaze at the intruder. When Rosie spotted Cami, Carley was amazed to see the short, dark-haired teenager grinning back at her daughter.
"Um. Do you think maybe Cami would give me another chance to be friends?" Rosie took a step in their direction.
Carley couldn't help but smile. "You'll have to ask Cami. But she has a forgiving nature. And I think she and I both could stand to have a new friend right now."
Rosie's chocolate-colored eyes turned serious, but she forced a smile as she held her arms out to entice Cami to come to her. "Want to be my friend, Cami?"
Cami gazed silently at the young woman for a moment, then turned to get a hint from her mother. Carley knew her approval was crucial, so she smiled at both of them.
"It's okay, Cami. Rosie is our friend."
Cami's face broke into a big grin and she nearly flung herself from her mother's arms into the waiting arms of the surprised teenager.
Carley gathered up some of Cami's things. "Would you like to feed her dinner and sit with her while I eat, Rosie?"
The girl nodded as she brushed Cami's wispy strands into some semblance of order.
"Good. That'll give me a chance to get to know…"
The roar of an engine blasted through the quiet twilight on the range, completely drowning out Carley's words. Her body went wire tight as she stepped to the window. Through the trees, Carley caught a glimpse of a man on a motorcycle, spinning circles in the dirt of the barnyard.
To her horror a horse and its rider picked that exact moment to ride into view. When the horse spied the motorcycle, it shied back and tried to turn. The cowboy held on and refused to let the poor, scared animal have its way. Finally the horse reared up, adding its own complaint to the gunning sounds of the motorcycle.
Carley barely had time to fuss over the treatment of the horse when its rider's hat went flying. She froze. There on the back of a bucking animal bent on destruction was Witt.
My God. "No more physical traumas," the doctor had said. And Reid had warned her that she was responsible.
For heaven's sake, get off that horse!
While curtailing the hysterical scream threatening to explode from her throat, Carley threw a couple of choked instructions over her shoulder to Rosie. Flying down the stairs, she pushed through the kitchen door to the yard. Her body's jangled nerves energized her steps with a desperate need to keep Houston safe.
The screen door slammed open and snapped back, catching her heel. She cussed under her breath but kept on moving past the trees that shaded the house and temporarily obscured her view of the yard.
After clearing the trees, she came to an abrupt halt. There in the center of the open space stood Houston Smith, holding the reins of a quieted horse with one hand while he slapped his hat against the jeans covering his massive thigh with the other. And he was smiling. Smiling and chatting with the fellow clad totally in leather who'd just shut down the powerful en
gine of his motorcycle.
She picked up her pace again and raced to the middle of the expanse of dirt. The smell of sweaty animal mingled with the pungent odor of motorcycle exhaust made her wish for a fresh breath of air.
Within a few feet of the men, she had to hockey-stop before plowing right into Houston. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Ma'am?"
He turned around, and Carley felt a sucker punch to her gut. His gaze was wary and confused. Not at all the look she was used to getting from her lover. All these lonely, desperate months she'd dreamed of that cocky grin and the sexy inspection he usually bestowed upon her. Now, here he was, only a few feet away, and he practically looked right through her.
"You might have been killed. You shouldn't be riding a horse." She sucked in a breath and tried to stem the shakes causing her voice to quiver. "Stick to walking and cars, why don't you?"
"Ma'am?" His eyes took on a rather quizzical, dancing quality, as if he suddenly found her quite amusing.
She'd be amusing, all right. If he didn't quit calling her ma'am, she might have to ignore the doctor's orders and punch him right in that gorgeous, grinning mouth. How was she supposed to explain to him why he had to be careful—why another blow to the head might kill any chance for him to remember his past life—his past love?
"Uh. You were too rough on the horse. He almost threw you. You're too important to the ranch to be doing anything so dangerous."
"Ma'am?" This time the tone of his voice was more than casual but less than cordial.
She ground her teeth and stepped closer to him. "Stop saying that. I'm only trying to make you think about being more careful, that's all."
A roar of raucous laughter erupted behind her. She spun to face the other man, still seated on the chrome and black motorcycle. His eyes were covered by reflector-type, aviator sunglasses, and he was grinning widely.
