A Child on the Way

by Janis Reams Hudson

  Jack breathed a silent prayer that she was right, that she and the baby were both fine. He was certainly no stranger to birth, but his experience was with four-legged creatures. This woman didn’t look far enough along to be ready to give birth. If she had trouble at this stage, that’s what it would be—trouble. With no one to help but him. So she better be fine. She just damned sure better be.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve taken care of my horse. You just—” he offered a lame gesture toward the couch, the baby, whatever “—take it easy.”

  Taking it easy sounded like a good idea, she thought as she watched him step back out into the howling wind. She looked out the window and saw him trudge through the snow to his horse.

  She would just sit back and contemplate the uniqueness of having been carried through a blizzard by a gorgeous cowboy.

  They were going to get a good laugh out of this when she told…when she told…when she told who? The name was right there on the tip of her tongue, but it wouldn’t come.

  Ridiculous. How could she forget the name of her…

  Her what? Friend?

  Yes, she thought, frowning. It made sense that she would want to tell a friend about konking herself out, coming to in a daze and being rescued by a knight in a cowboy hat.

  But how could she forget that name? Why, she knew it as well as she knew her own. All she had to do was relax and let it come. She took a deep breath and let it out. “She’s…and I’m…”

  Oh…my…God. She did not know her own name!

  Her heart leaped, landed in her throat and flopped around fast and hard like a hyped-up fish out of water.

  “Easy,” she said aloud. “Take it easy.” Without thought, she reached into her purse for her cell phone. Finding it, she held it up. The little screen read No Service. She stared at the phone a moment. Obviously she was used to using it. She hadn’t thought, Do I have a cell phone? She’d simply reached for it as if out of long habit.

  No Service.

  Striving for calm, she dropped it back into her purse. It really didn’t matter, since she couldn’t remember who to call. And No Service, no kidding, she thought, looking out the window again at the empty land. What communications company would build a cell tower out here where there were no people? As far as the eye could see—which admittedly wasn’t far, what with all the snow—was emptiness. Vast, snow-covered emptiness.

  Except for the car. The car that was nose-down in the ditch and obviously not going anywhere. The car she didn’t recognize.

  Despite the warmth of the room, she shivered.

  Dammit, she knew what a cell tower was, knew she had a cell phone. Why didn’t she know what her own car looked like? Or something even more basic, such as the name that had been hers from the day she’d been born? Why didn’t she know how old she was? Or where she was?

  Think. Think.

  Her purse. Surely there was something…Ah, a driver’s license. Now she was getting somewhere.

  Lisa Hampton. Was that her? Was that her photo?

  A mirror. She needed…There. She found a compact and flipped it open. The face that stared back at her made her squeak in shock. It was as unfamiliar to her as Jack Wilder’s face had been when she’d come to in the car.

  But it matched the photo on the driver’s license. The hair was the same—long and thick and auburn. The mouth was the same. The shape of the eyes. Still, it was hard to tell if they were the same person. Driver’s-license photos were notoriously bad.

  Why did she know that and not her own name?

  Okay. Stay calm. She was Lisa Hampton. She was twenty-seven years old, her eyes were green—Yes, the ones in the mirror were green. A deep emerald.

  Denver. According to the license, she lived in Denver.

  She dug through her purse again. Surely something there would trigger a memory, fill in this awful terrifying blankness that threatened to swallow her.

  Judging by the gold and platinum credit cards, she obviously had good credit. Or had had, until she got the credit cards. After that, who knew?

  She had a library card. Good for her. And a checkbook that showed a balance of just over a thousand dollars.

  Now if only she had a memory. Any memory. Any at all.

  Sticking out of a side pocket of the purse was an envelope, unsealed, with the return address of Flying Ace Ranch, Route 2, Box 37, Hope Springs, Wyoming. None of that meant anything to her.

  Inside the envelope was a note. It shook in her hand as she read it.

  Lisa,

  Sorry I missed you. The key to the section house is on the sill above the door. I hope you don’t get too lonely out there all by yourself. The phone’s shut off, but should be turned on by tomorrow. Take care. We’ll be home next week.

  See you soon.

  Love,

  B

  If she was Lisa, it appeared she had come here on purpose. If this was the section house. Whatever that was.

  And she knew someone whose initial was B. Knew her—or him—well, by the tone of the note and the way it was signed.

  Love. Did B love her, or was it just a friendly closing, written out of habit?

  And good grief, what was she going to tell Jack Wilder when he came back in and started asking questions?

  And just who was this Jack Wilder, anyway, and what was he doing here if she was supposed to be staying in this house? If this was the right house.

  She had to give him credit for being right about one thing, though—it did indeed appear that they were stuck with each other for the duration of this hellacious blizzard.

  A sense of vulnerability threatened to swallow her whole. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice warned her that he was a man, and men lied. Men cheated. Men did whatever they could get away with to get what they wanted. They did their best to make fools of women, to encourage women to make fools of themselves.

  Damnation. What a sucky attitude.

  With a gentle hand she stroked the mound of her belly. “I sure hope it wasn’t your daddy who taught me to think like that.”

  Daddy.

  There was another thing she couldn’t seem to recall—the father of her child. Why wasn’t he here with her? Why had she come to this isolated place alone?

  A sense of unease crawled across her shoulders. She would have given almost anything to understand its cause. God, how was she supposed to function without her memory? She had nothing to go on but sheer instinct, and that ugly little voice inside her head that told her not to trust even that much.

  Her instinct was to trust this Jack Wilder. Hadn’t she felt inordinately safe in his arms as he’d carried her to the house?

  But the very fact that she was so willing to trust a man she’d never met alarmed her. Somewhere in her past she must have learned the hard way not to trust men. That seemed like sound, safe advice, considering she was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with no phone, with a stranger. And she was pregnant.

  Seven months.

  There. A memory. She remembered that she was seven months pregnant. If she remembered that, the rest would come.

  Surely the rest will come. Soon.

  For now, she would just keep this problem to herself. No sense burdening a stranger with an itty-bitty thing like amnesia. She could always trust him later, after her memory returned. If he proved trustworthy.

  For now, she would be on guard.

  By the time her rescuing knight came back in bearing a suitcase and an overnighter she didn’t recognize, she—Lisa, she reminded herself forcefully—was on her feet and ready to fake it for all she was worth.

  Since she thought she would have noticed the luggage if it had been on the back of the horse, she assumed he’d retrieved it from her car. She crossed the room toward him. “Thank you. Jack, isn’t it? I believe I’ve forgotten my manners.” She held out her right hand. “I’m Lisa Hampton.”

  With a slight nod, he tugged off one glove and shook her hand. “You picked a heck of a day to go sightseeing.”


  She looked pointedly out the window. “So it seems.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little bump on the head. Along with a bruise to my pride for ending up in the ditch.”

  “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?”

  She arched a brow and smiled slightly while trying her best to ignore the way her insides shook. “I was just going to ask you the same question. You picked a heck of a day to go horseback riding.”

  “Me?” He pulled off his hat and ran his gloveless fingers through his thick black hair. “I live here.”

  Startled, Lisa blinked. “Here? In this house?”

  “No, but on the Flying Ace. I’m part owner. Were you aware you were on private property?”

  Lisa’s mind started a mad scramble. The Flying Ace. That’s what it said on the envelope she’d found in her purse. She brazened it out. “Of course. I came here on purpose.”

  “You came to a vacant house on the back side of the ranch during a blizzard on purpose?”

  “Well, I hadn’t counted on the blizzard.” Taking a gamble, she crossed to her purse and retrieved the envelope. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “This should explain.”

  Curious, Jack took the envelope and stared down at the Flying Ace return address. He pulled the piece of paper from inside, and the light dawned. “You’re that Lisa—Belinda’s friend. That explains the furniture and electricity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The section foreman who lived here quit a couple of months ago. Last time I saw this place it was bare as a bone. Belinda must have brought this stuff out for you and had the electricity turned on.”

  She looked around the room as if in dismay. “She went to a lot of trouble for me.”

  Jack shrugged. “Why wouldn’t she? You’re her best friend, right?”

  She gave a small jerk, as if someone had just pricked her with a pin. Or maybe the baby kicked, Jack thought.

  “You, uh, know a lot about her.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “We Wilders are funny that way. One brother generally knows who another brother is married to.”

  The blink the woman gave him reminded Jack of a confused baby owl. For a minute it seemed that her eyes—or more specifically, the mind behind them—went blank. Then she blinked again and her eyes cleared. She gave him a tremulous smile. “Oh. You’re that Jack.”

  He paused. There was something wrong with that smile, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what. With a shrug, he said, “That’s me.”

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as if preparing to meet some dreaded challenge. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. But if you’ll excuse me—” she reached for the suitcase beside his leg “—it’s been an, uh, eventful day. I’ll just go find a place where I can freshen up.”

  “I’ll get it.” He whisked up the suitcase before she could grasp the handle.

  Slowly she straightened. “Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.”

  “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t doubt it.” He picked up the overnighter as well, before she could get to it.

  She looked affronted. “You think because I bumped my head, that renders me incapable?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Why was it, he wondered, that women were such contrary creatures? “But you planted your car in that ditch pretty good, and the car doesn’t have an air bag. You could have a mild concussion. You could have injured something else you aren’t aware of yet. You’re—what?—about six or seven months pregnant, we’re stranded in a blizzard, the nearest doctor is more than fifty miles away, and between us we’ve got one horse for transportation. If it’s all the same to you, I’d appreciate it greatly if you didn’t lift anything any heavier than your hand.”

  Slowly her brows lowered from their affronted arch and a smile curved those soft lips. “I believe that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “Then, darlin’,” he said as he carried her luggage toward the bedroom, “you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people.”

  His voice may have been teasing, but Jack couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing out here alone. What kind of man would impregnate a woman, then let her go off into the wilds of Wyoming alone? Where was the man, anyway? Why wasn’t he here with her, lifting her suitcase, putting ice on her head, rubbing her shoulders. Holding her. Taking care of her. Making sure she was safe and warm.

  Not your business, pal.

  And that was the plain truth, he told himself as he strode down the short hall. He checked the back bedroom and found it empty of furnishings, but the front bedroom held a dresser, chest, two nightstands and a king-size bed. He used his shoulder to flip the light switch, then placed the luggage on the bed.

  “Thank you.”

  Jack turned and found Lisa just inside the doorway. “You’re welcome. While you get settled, I’m going to check out back and make sure we’ve got plenty of firewood in case we lose power.”

  “Is that likely to happen?”

  “If this storm doesn’t let up soon, it’s not only likely, it’s probable.” Well, hell. He hadn’t meant to make her nervous, but from that wary look that came into her eyes, that was exactly what he’d managed to do. “But it’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “The oven in the kitchen is gas. Between that and the fireplace, we’ll have plenty of heat.”

  “Well, then.” She clasped her hands together over her stomach, pulled them apart, then clasped them again. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He had to assume that if Belinda had gone to the trouble to haul in furniture and turn on the power, she’d surely stocked the kitchen with food. “Nothing to worry about.”

  With a final nod, he left her there.

  Lisa held her breath and watched him go. She listened to the hollow thud of his boots on the oak floor of the hall. Heard the change of tone when he reached the kitchen. Heard the back door open, the wind howl. Heard Jack curse.

  At the sound of the back door shutting hard, Lisa jerked. Like a bolt shot home, she flew to the bedroom door and closed it, pressing her back against it and squeezing her eyes shut.

  Why was this happening to her? Why couldn’t she remember?

  In desperate fear of forgetting the few things she had just learned, she silently repeated them to herself.

  Her name was Lisa Hampton, she was from Denver, and she was seven months pregnant.

  She was Brenda—no, Belinda—Wilder’s best friend, and Belinda was a generous person.

  Belinda’s husband had a brother named Jack, who liked to take charge, seemed genuinely concerned for Lisa’s welfare, and had eyes as blue as heaven.

  “Oh, great,” she muttered. With everything that was going on, she had to get hung up on a man’s eyes.

  Shaking her head at herself, she steadied her nerves and crossed to the suitcase. Maybe something there would jog her memory.

  She got a jog, all right. Not to her memory, but to her heart when she opened the suitcase and found enough cash to choke an elephant. Twenties, fifties, hundreds, all stuffed into a black duffel bag beside her clothes.

  A violent trembling seized her. What had she done? Good Lord, what had she done? Why was she carrying so much cash when there was clearly no place around to spend it?

  Running, came the thought. Hiding.

  From what? From whom? From someone she might have stolen it from?

  Her heart was pounding so hard and fast that she had to sit on the bed and wait for her pulse to slow before she could think past the shock of finding the money. Gradually her heartbeat slowed, as did her breathing. After all, she thought, what was a little unexplained money when she couldn’t remember her own name?

  Lisa Hampton. Lisa Hampton.

  But why didn’t it sound familiar?

  From beyond her closed door she heard the kitchen door open and close again, heard the thump and thud of heavy bo
ots on the floor.

  On the outside chance that Jack Wilder might come into the bedroom, she quickly started stuffing handfuls of money under the mattress. Even with no memory, she knew that hiding place was worse than a cliché, but short of just tossing it into an empty dresser drawer, she couldn’t think of anyplace else to hide it.

  And she wanted it hidden. From Jack, from herself. Out of sight, out of mind. Since she didn’t know what she was doing with that much cash—roughly seven thousand dollars, she’d counted—she didn’t want to think about it. It was just one more giant question mark in the black void of her memory.

  With that chore finished, she looked through the rest of her suitcase, hoping against hope that something would trigger a memory. Even a small one would help ease the tightness in her chest.

  She wondered what it said about her that she felt relieved that the clothes she found—slacks and matching tops, all of the maternity variety, of course—were made of solid-colored fabrics, cut in simple lines. No frills or froufrous, no ruffles or bows. Good for her. She liked that.

  She did wonder about the colors, though, all browns and greys and dark greens. Did she not like red? Yellow? Berry?

  Ah, there was the color. Bras and panties in every shade of the rainbow, from startling red to pastel peach—even if the panties, with their wide elastic insets, were large enough to accommodate an expectant moose. She figured they ought to just about fit her. And here, she didn’t mind the lace. Rather liked the idea of it being hidden next to her skin, for her own private enjoyment.

  There was one pair of maternity jeans, and a long-sleeved, bell-bottomed sweatshirt with bold black letters emblazoned across it proclaiming, “Yes, I’m smuggling a basketball.” And tucked into a corner beneath a long terry-cloth bathrobe and blue flannel nightgown, a pair of bright yellow Tweety Bird slippers.

  So, Lisa Hampton had a sense of humor. That was a relief. Smiling, she slipped off her loafers and tugged on the slippers.

  She rifled through the overnighter, pursing her lips at the cosmetics she knew—without knowing how she knew—were top-of-the-line and expensive. Setting it out on the dresser, she went back to the suitcase and found a large manilla envelope beneath the last of her underwear. Inside were her medical records from her obstetrician in Denver.