Pregnant by the Colton Cowboy

by Lara Lacombe

  “Yes. Carson Lane.” She didn’t look familiar to him, but something in the way she studied him, something about the way she said his name, made him uneasy. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t know.” Under the denim jacket and pale blue T-shirt, her shoulders shuddered as she sucked in another breath and tremors set in.

  Carson looked around. “I’ll go find a blanket or something.”

  “I’ll do it.” Grant moved faster than Carson, leaving him alone with the woman again.

  A dozen questions rolled through his mind, but considering her physical and emotional state, he kept them to himself. He wished she would at least give them her name.

  Grant returned with a blanket and Carson draped it over the woman’s narrow shoulders, tucking it around her and pulling it down as far as it would go to cover her legs. Her feet were likely still chilled, but it was the best they could do at the moment. She needed real medical attention at a hospital. Was she afraid of one particular hospital or all hospitals?

  “Do you have a wallet or purse with you?” Grant asked, settling behind his desk this time rather than on it.

  Fat tears spiked her dark lashes and rolled down her cheeks. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember anything.” She clutched the ice pack in her lap again.

  “Only the matchbook,” Carson answered, showing it to Grant. Every instinct hammered at him to make this better, but he didn’t know how.

  “Hmm.” Grant was doing something on his computer, likely checking for any breaking reports involving a woman of her description. “No missing persons,” he murmured almost to himself. “I could run prints.”

  “She’s been through something,” Carson said. “If she doesn’t want to talk about it...” He left the implication hanging out there. He wished there was a woman around who could ask if she’d been raped. He wasn’t comfortable with those questions in this particular setting. “She doesn’t know what day it is, not the year or season.”

  “What is the last thing you do remember?”

  Grant’s query was met with another fat tear trailing the others. “I remember getting out of the cab. Seeing you.” She turned that good eye to Carson again.

  He knew concussions could mess up a person’s memory, but she didn’t have symptoms of that problem. This sounded more as if there had been significantly more emotional trauma involved. Without a battery of tests, there was no way to know the validity, cause or even prognosis of her amnesia.

  He reached out and took her hand. “You need to be seen by a doctor.”

  “Please. No. I...” She struggled with something and gave up. “I don’t know why. I just know I can’t do that. No doctors, no hospitals. Whatever you’ve done for me is enough. I’ll be okay.”

  Carson disagreed. The stark terror in her good eye at the mention of more comprehensive medical care worried him. Had she been attacked at a hospital or possibly escaped a psych ward?

  “How about this?” Grant said with infinite calm and patience. “Carson can keep an eye on you for a few hours. Just until morning.”

  Carson gawked at his boss. “You can’t be serious. I’m no doctor.”

  “A point in your favor based on the patient’s preference. You can handle the observation through the night, right?”

  “Anyone here can do that.” Someone else, anyone else, should have done that. Grant’s wife, Katie, had been at the club earlier, and rumor was she always waited up for Grant to get home. The two of them would be a better team to help this woman through the night than Carson.

  “You’re the most qualified. You know what symptoms require her to go to the ER.” Grant held up a hand as the woman protested. “Whether you want that or not, I’m not taking a chance you’ll get worse after coming to us for help. Carson is the best person to watch over you tonight.”

  She sighed, her lips tight.

  “I understand it’s uncomfortable, and I’m open to another option. Would you like us to take you home or call a friend or family member for you?”

  * * *

  A fresh bolt of panic shot through her like white-hot lightning streaking through a dark sky. The sensation left her gasping. She knew what they were asking. She knew what it meant to call someone. She just couldn’t remember the numbers or names that would connect her to someone familiar. The concept of family made her feel marginally better and a thousand times worse, though the word didn’t induce quite as much dread the way friend did. Alexander was the name on the matchbook, and Grant and Carson were here and had been kind to her. Those three names were the extent of her world.

  She fought against the tremors of fear skipping through her body. She wanted answers as much as the men asking the questions.

  “No. I guess not.” She studied the man named Grant sitting behind his desk, struggling against the idea that she should know him. The hard jaw and thick build gave off an air of no-nonsense toughness, but his warm brown gaze didn’t induce any fear, and the gray hair salting his temples added a trust factor.

  Dropping her gaze to the floor again, she said, “I can’t tell you where I live. I mean, I don’t know the answer.” She fisted her hands in frustration, and her short fingernails bit into her palms. “I don’t know who to call. The names...” Her breath rattled in and out of her chest. How could her head feel so full and empty at the same time? “The names are just gone,” she finished in a hoarse whisper.

  The man who’d cleaned the blood from her face scooted closer. “Pushing to remember won’t help. You need to let your brain rest and give your body time to recover.”

  Carson. His name was Carson. She clung to the new detail as she tried to find something familiar. She didn’t recognize the silver band on her thumb or the soft floral fabric of her skirt skimming her knees. Wiggling her toes inside her scuffed blue ballet flats, she wondered why her feet felt so sore and achy.

  They’d asked for her name and information about her circumstances, and she wanted to cooperate. At least she thought she should cooperate. But where the information should have been, she had only a dark, blank canvas.

  “I don’t remember getting into the cab. Before that is just a blank.” What the hell had happened to her? “I remember getting out, feeling woozy. The matchbook,” she said, her gaze locking onto the item at the edge of the desk. Something nudged at her mind, like light seeping around the edges of a door. “I don’t think it’s mine. I don’t know why I have it or who gave it to me.”

  She pressed the heel of a hand to her temple near her good eye. Her head felt caught in a vise while her pulse throbbed in her lip and over her battered eye. Her raw throat resisted every word she spoke.

  Carson’s palm covered her other hand, peeling her fingers off the arm of the chair. “Relax. Don’t fight for it. You’ve clearly been through an ordeal.” He sounded so sure and steady, and his gentle touch calmed her.

  “My brain feels like oatmeal.” She could see a pot of oatmeal in her mind, and she could almost smell the homey scent of the dish blended with cinnamon and chunks of warm apples. “How do I know oatmeal and not my own name?”

  “There are several things that can cause this situation.” He cleared his throat, his gaze sliding away for a moment. “I’m confident your memory will return soon...” he said, looking her in the eye.

  She heard the hesitation where he would have used her name if either of them had known it. “You’re confident?”

  “Would you like a second opinion?” he asked with an eager spark in his hazel eyes. “You’d learn more from a full CT scan and workup.”

  Her heart kicked against her ribs at the thought of a hospital. “Your opinion will do,” she said. “No hospitals.” Her feet shifted. Every instinct she had told her to run, but where would she go? Her body ached from head to toe. She’d never outrun the able-bodied people here even if she could think of a direction. �
��Please, don’t make me go.” She was probably only making a bad situation worse, and she was definitely taking advantage of strangers who had better things to do, but she didn’t have another option.

  “Take it easy.” Carson encouraged her to have more water.

  She drank deeply, washing away the dry-cotton feeling in her mouth.

  The older man, Grant, made several notes on a card, then wrote a few more lines on a second card and slid that one across the desk to her. “You can trust Carson to take care of you tonight. Why don’t you check back with me tomorrow morning?”

  She blinked at the jumble of letters and numbers on the card, utterly overwhelmed. She could read it, but it didn’t mean anything. There had to be people she knew, people who knew her. Had to be, she thought, despite the void in her head. Could she trust what was happening to her now? Her sole possessions included her clothing, a matchbook and now this card. Her acquaintances were limited to the two men in this room until her brain decided to cooperate again.

  She was as eager as they were to learn how she’d ended up here.

  Carson seemed to understand what she couldn’t articulate. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. Picking up the card and matchbook, he placed both items into her palm and curled her fingers around them. “If you’d be more comfortable staying with a woman—”

  “No.” The word burst out of her, and tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision until she blinked them away. “You.” She gulped, knowing she had to calm down. “I trust you.” An absurd claim, considering she’d just met him.

  If her declaration surprised him, it didn’t show. His steady hazel eyes held her gaze. He didn’t look like a creep, he’d tended her wounds with kind hands, and the matchbook indicated that someone trustworthy had sent her here.

  “Then let’s get going,” he said.

  She nodded. No other choice without her memory. She placed her hand in his and let him guide her out of the office, keeping her head down so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the lights.

  He proceeded slowly down the hallway, and his fingers gripped hers a little tighter as he pushed open the back door. The yawning darkness and the smells of the river sent a tremor down her spine. This was the only familiar territory in her mind, and the bleak fact made her want to curl up and cry until the world made sense again. She managed to keep moving, thanks to the anchor of Carson’s strong hand enveloping hers.

  His palms were calloused and rough. Something inside her cringed from a memory of similar hands. When she tried to pluck at that thread, it dissolved.

  “Easy,” he said, opening the door of a big gray truck. “Need a boost?”

  “I can do it,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him as she stepped on the running board to get up into the seat. He checked to be sure she was settled before he closed the door.

  She caught her reflection in the side mirror and gave a start. Her face was a mess with the swelling and bandages and deep bruises. At least she knew she wasn’t supposed to look this way. In the mere seconds it took for him to get around the truck and into the driver’s seat, she fought back a swamping fear of being alone. The reaction startled her, and again something felt wrong about her reaction.

  Everything about everything felt wrong, inside and out.

  “Where do you live?” she asked as he started the truck. His answer meant nothing to her, and she watched a foreign world drift by in the dark as he drove through the streets. “Have you lived here all your life?”

  “Born and raised here in Philadelphia,” he answered, giving her vital information without making her feel stupid. “I’ve traveled a little, but I haven’t found another place I’d rather call home.”

  At the next intersection, he turned off the main road, and she wished for daylight so it might have been easier to remember any possible landmark. He’d told her not to push it, yet she couldn’t stop herself from trying.

  “How do you know so much about my, um, situation?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “As a paramedic, I’ve treated more than a few victims who struggled to remember what happened at the time of their injuries. The brain often blocks out facts until we can handle them, physically or emotionally. The best term for it is trauma-induced amnesia.”

  “That’s what you think is wrong with me?”

  “Without better testing, I can give you only my best guess.” He turned down another street and then into an alley tucked between rows of tall houses with only the occasional light in a window to give signs of life.

  “And people recover? They remember who they are?”

  He slowed down a bit more. “I don’t usually hear the end of the story.” He reached up and pressed a button over the rearview mirror. The big garage door opened, a light coming on inside. “My job is to stabilize patients so they can be transported and turned over to a doctor’s care.” He backed into the garage and cut the engine, hitting the button again to lower the door.

  Another shiver raced over her skin at the mention of a doctor. Her palms went damp and her breath backed up in her lungs. “Guess I don’t like being closed in.”

  “We won’t be for long.” He opened his door, and light flooded the truck. “That’s an important detail you’ve remembered.”

  She slid out of the truck and straightened her skirt. “Do you live alone?” she asked as they walked across the narrow backyard to his house. Some distant part of her mind thought she should be wary of heading into a stranger’s home, but her intuition overrode that.

  “Yes. If that’s a problem, I can call one of my sisters.”

  “No.” She didn’t want to meet anyone, not looking like this and not at almost three in the morning. “Well, yes, I’m uncomfortable, but don’t do that.”

  Something in his face clouded over, and he seemed so sad, although she couldn’t figure out why she would recognize that emotion in him when she didn’t recognize her clothes, her reflection or any aspect of her circumstances.

  He opened the back door and flipped the switch on the wall, flooding a gorgeous kitchen with light. It was decorated in muted blue tones and pops of sunny yellow. “There’s one better option,” he said, giving her a long look.

  She knew that he meant the hospital and he believed she’d be better cared for there. Thankfully he didn’t say the words again. She stepped closer to the central island, admiring the clean lines and tidiness of his kitchen.

  “The full house tour can wait.” He led her toward the front of the house, up the stairs, pointing out a bathroom on the way to a guest room with twin beds on either side of a centered window, covered by a decorated pull-down shade. He walked into the room and turned on a bedside lamp.

  The soft glow lent a cozy atmosphere to the room, at odds with the strange turmoil in her head. Unless she’d lost her sense of direction as well as her memory, the view through the window would overlook the backyard. “This is...” Too many emotions clogged her throat. His kindness and compassion and generosity overwhelmed her. “Thank you,” she managed after a moment.

  “No problem. I’ll get you something to sleep in.” She hovered at the doorway while he moved to the opposite end of the hall and disappeared into another room, returning quickly with a T-shirt and sweatpants. “Probably too big for you. I’m sure my sisters left something closer to your size. They use my place for wardrobe overflow. Feel free to check the closet or dresser for better options.”

  She took the clothing he offered. “Thank you.”

  He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Anything you need, just ask. I’ll be checking on you a few times through what’s left of the night.”

  “You will?”

  “Just a precaution. You might not even notice.”

  He’d mentioned that. Or Grant had. Not that it mattered. Exhaustion pushed at her from every side, and she thought it might be
easier to give in and fold to the pressure. “You have to do it?” She was torn between wanting to be alone and being terrified of the same situation.

  “Yes.” He backed up a step, hand on the doorknob. “Get some rest. I’m right down the hall.”

  Rest. What an easy thing to say, but she didn’t think it would be nearly as easy to accomplish despite her rampant fatigue. With the clothing in her arms, she sat down on the edge of the nearest bed. The fabric smelled freshly laundered, and under that, she caught a whiff of the man who’d helped her. Carson.

  He had a crisp, honest scent. The scent of safety, she thought. Curling up on top of the denim-colored bedspread, she hugged the clothing close to her chest and stopped trying to think about the infinite details and information missing from her mind.

  Copyright © 2017 by Regan Black

  ISBN-13: 9781488016424

  Pregnant by the Colton Cowboy

  Copyright © 2017 by Harlequin Books S.A.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Lara Lacombe for her contribution to The Coltons of Shadow Creek miniseries.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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