"You’re going to be all right," he said firmly, meeting her gaze. "The answers will come. Don’t push too hard. Just rest and let your body recuperate from the trauma."
"What if the answers don’t come?" she whispered. "What if I’m like this forever?"
He frowned, unable to hide the concern in his eyes. "Let’s take it one step at a time. There’s a deputy from the sheriff’s office down the hall. He’d like to speak to you."
A police officer wanted to talk to her? That didn’t sound good. She swallowed back another lump of fear. "Why? Why does he want to talk to me?"
"Something to do with your accident. I’ll let him know you’re awake."
As the doctor left the room, Rosie stepped forward. "Can I get you anything—water, juice, an extra blanket? The mornings are still so cold. I can’t wait until April. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the rain. I’m ready for the sun to come out."
That meant it was March, the end of a long, cold winter, spring on the nearby horizon. Images ran through her mind of windy afternoons, flowers beginning to bloom, someone flying a kite, a beautiful red-and-gold kite that tangled in the branches of a tall tree. The laughter of a young girl filled her head—was it her laughter or someone else’s? She saw two other girls and a boy running across the grass. She wanted to catch up to them, but they were too far away, and then they were gone, leaving her with nothing but a disturbing sense of loss and a thick curtain of blackness in her head.
Why couldn’t she remember? Why had her brain locked her out of her own life?
"What day is it?" she asked, determined to gather as many details as she possibly could.
"It’s Thursday, March twenty-second," Rosie replied with another sympathetic smile.
"Thursday," she murmured, feeling relieved to have a new fact to file away, even if it was something as inconsequential as the day of the week.
"Try not to worry. You’ll be back to normal before you know it," Rosie added.
"I don’t even know what normal is. Where are my things?" she asked abruptly, looking for more answers. Maybe if she had something of her own to hold in her hand, everything would come back to her.
Rosie tipped her head toward a neat pile of clothes on a nearby chair. "That’s what you were wearing when they brought you in. You didn’t have a purse with you, nor were you wearing any jewelry."
"Could you hand me my clothes, please? "
"Sure. They’re a bit bloodied," Rosie said, as she gathered up the clothes and laid them on the bed. "I’ll check on you in a while. Just push the call button if you need anything."
She stared at the pair of blue jeans, which were ripped at the knees, the light blue camisole top, the navy sweater, and the gray jacket dotted with dark spots of blood or dirt, she wasn’t sure which. Glancing across the room she saw a pair of Nike tennis shoes on the floor. They looked worn-out, as if she’d done a lot of running in them.
Another memory flashed in her brain. She could almost feel herself running, the wind in her hair, her heart pounding, the breath tight in her chest. But she wasn’t out for a jog. She wasn’t dressed right. She was wearing a heavy coat, a dress, and high stiletto heels. She tried to hang on to the image floating vaguely in her head, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. She supposed she should feel grateful she’d remembered something, but the teasing bit only frustrated her more.
She dug her hands into the pockets of her jeans and jacket, searching for some clue as to who she was, but there was nothing there. She was about to put the jacket aside when she noticed an odd lump in the inner back lining. She ran her fingers across the material, surprised to find a flap covering a hidden zipper. She pulled on the zipper and felt inside, shocked when she pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. There had to be at least fifteen hundred dollars. Why on earth had she stashed so much cash in her jacket? Obviously she’d taken great care to hide it, as someone would have had to examine the jacket carefully in order to find the money. Whoever had undressed her had not discovered the cash.
A knock came at her door, and she hurriedly stuffed the money back into her jacket and set it on the end of her bed just seconds before a uniformed police officer entered the room. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him, and it wasn’t with relief but with fear. Her instincts were screaming at her to be cautious, that he could be trouble.
The officer was on the stocky side, with a military haircut, and appeared to be in his mid-forties. His forehead was lined, his skin a ruddy red and weatherbeaten, his gaze extremely serious.
"I’m Tom Manning," he said briskly. "I’m a deputy with the county sheriff’s department. I’m investigating your car accident."
"Okay," she said warily. "I should tell you that I don’t remember what happened. In fact, I don’t remember anything about myself."
"Yeah, the doc says you have some kind of amnesia."
His words were filled with suspicion, and skepticism ran through his dark eyes. Why was he suspicious? What reason could she possibly have for pretending not to remember? Had something bad occurred during the accident? Had she done something wrong? Had someone else been hurt? Her stomach turned over at the thought.
"Can you tell me what happened?" she said, almost afraid to ask.
"Your car went off the side of the road in the Santa Ynez Mountains, not far from San Marcos Pass. You plunged down a steep embankment and landed in a ravine about two hundred yards from the road. Fortunately, you ran into a tree."
"Fortunately?" she echoed.
"Otherwise you would have ended up in a boulder-filled, high-running creek," he told her. "The front end of your Honda Civic was smashed, and the windshield was shattered."
Which explained the cuts and bruises on her face.
"You’re a very lucky woman," the deputy added.
"Who found me?" she asked.
"A witness saw your car go over the side and called nine-one-one. Does any of this sound familiar?"
The part about going off the side of the road sounded a lot like the dream she’d been having. "I’m not sure."
"Were you alone in the car?"
His question surprised her. "I think so." She thought back to her dream. Had she been alone in the car? She didn’t remember anyone else. "If I wasn’t alone, wouldn’t that other person be here at the hospital?" she asked.
"The back door of your car was open. There was a child’s car seat strapped in the middle of the backseat, a bottle half-filled with milk, and this shoe." Officer Manning held up a clear plastic bag through which she could see a shoe so small it would fit into the palm of her hand. Her heart began to race. She had the sudden urge to call for a time-out, to make him leave before he said something else, something terrifying, something to do with that shoe. "Oh, God. Stop. I can’t do this."
"I’m sorry, but I need to know. Do you have a baby?" he asked. "Was your child with you in the car?"
Buy SILENT RUN
Excerpt from ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS
© Copyright 2017 Barbara Freethy
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
From #1 NY Times Bestselling Author Barbara Freethy comes a romantic new contemporary series about the Callaways, a big, blended Irish family born to serve and protect.
The second oldest of the Callaway clan, Aiden Callaway veered from the family tradition of urban firefighting and became a smokejumper, never questioning his choice until the job took the life of his friend Kyle and left Aiden with injuries and fractured memories.
Sara had always been untouchable, sweet, innocent, his sister's best friend, and the girl next door. But one reckless night in their youth took their relationship to a new level. Sara has never forgiven or forgotten the way Aiden brought it crashing down, but she's no longer that girl with the crazy crush. She's a woman in search of her own truth.
The sparks between Aiden and Sara have been smoldering for a very long time. Sara is afraid to take another chance on a man who broke her heart, and Aiden knows better than anyone how dangerous an int
ense fire can be. As teenagers they weren't ready for each other. Are they ready now?
Chapter One
As a teenager, seeing her father’s car in the driveway when she came home from school had always made Sara Davidson uneasy. She would steel herself for the evening to come, never quite sure why she felt afraid. Stephen Davidson had never physically abused her, but he had been demanding, and his words cut like a knife. It wasn’t always what he said that was the worst part; it was the rejection in his gaze, and the cold quiet that usually followed his disappointment in her.
It would be different now, Sara told herself as she got out of her rental car. She was twenty-nine years old, a successful lawyer, and she hadn't lived at home in ten years. So why did she feel trepidation?
Because her relationship with her father had never been quite right.
They were biologically connected, but emotionally they were as distant as two people could be. Her mother, Valerie, had been the buffer between them, but her mom had died when Sara was nineteen years old. For the past decade it had been just her and her dad. Actually, it had mostly been just her.
While her father had paid for her education and living expenses, he hadn’t come to her graduations—not from college or from law school. The last time she’d seen him in person had been five years ago when they’d both attended the funeral of her grandmother, her father's mother.
She walked up the path, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, her hand tightening around the bottle of wine she’d brought for her dad’s sixty-fifth birthday on Sunday. She’d tried her best to get him something a wine connoisseur would appreciate – a bottle of 1989 Chateau Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux. The wine had cost as much as her monthly car payment; she hoped it would be worth it. Her father was her only living relative, and she still, probably foolishly, wanted to believe they could find a way to connect with each other.
Her nerves tightened, and she had to fight back the urge to flee. She'd flown all the way across the country to see him; she couldn’t back down. Trying to calm her racing heart, she looked around, reminding herself that this had once been home.
Her father’s two-story house with the white paint and dark brown trim was located in the middle of the block in a San Francisco neighborhood known as St. Francis Wood. Not far from the ocean, the houses in this part of the city were detached and had yards, unlike much of the city where the homes shared common walls.
Her family had moved into this house when she was nine years old, and one of her favorite places to be was sitting in the swing on the front porch. She’d spent many hours reading or watching the kids who lived next door. The Callaways were a big, Irish-Catholic blended family. Jack Callaway, a widower with four boys, had married Lynda Kane, a divorcee with two girls. Together, they’d had fraternal twins, a boy and a girl, rounding out the family at eight kids.
As an only child, Sara had been fascinated by the Callaways and a little envious. Jack Callaway was a gregarious Irishman who told great stories and had never met a stranger. Jack was a San Francisco firefighter, following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. The Callaways had been born to serve and protect, and all of the kids had been encouraged to follow the family tradition. At least two of the boys had become firefighters, and last she'd heard her friend Emma had done the same, but she hadn't spoken to Emma in a long time.
A wave of nostalgia hit her as her gaze drifted down the block. She'd let her childhood friends go—not that there had been that many, but she could still hear the sounds of the past, kids laughing and playing. The Callaway boys had run the neighborhood, taking over the street on summer nights to play baseball, football, or any other game they'd invent. She'd occasionally been part of those games, but not often.
She might have grown up next door to the Callaways, but she'd lived in an entirely different world—a world of quiet structure and discipline, a world where expectations for grades and achievement were high, and having fun didn't factor into any equation.
Sighing, she pushed the past back where it belonged and walked up the stairs. Time to stop procrastinating.
She rang the bell, and a moment later the front door swung open. She drew in a quick breath as she met her father's dark gaze. At six foot four, Stephen Davidson was a foot taller than she was, and had always scared the hell out of her. He had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and wiry frame. Today, he wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt that had always been his uniform during the week. He seemed thinner than she remembered, although he’d always been fit. His sense of discipline extended to every part of his life.
"Surprise!" she said, forcing a smile on her face.
"What are you doing here, Sara?"
"It's your birthday on Sunday."
"You should have called."
"You would have told me not to come."
"Yes, I would have done that," he agreed. "It's not a good time."
It hadn't been a good time in over a decade. "Can I come in?" she asked.
He hesitated for a long moment, then gave a resigned nod.
She crossed the threshold, feeling as if she'd just gotten over the first hurdle. There would be more coming, but at least she'd made it through the door. Pausing in the entry, she glanced toward the living room on her right. It was a formal room, with white couches, glass tables, and expensive artwork. They'd never spent any time in that room as a family, and it didn't appear that that had changed. Turning her head to the left, she could see the long mahogany table in the dining room and the same dried flower arrangement that had always been the centerpiece.
The fact that the house hadn't changed in ten years was probably a sign that her father hadn't changed either.
"You shouldn't have come without calling, Sara,” her father repeated, drawing her attention back to him.
"Well, I'm here, and I brought you a present." She handed him the wine.
He reluctantly took the bottle, barely glancing at the label. "Thank you."
"It's very rare," she said, wishing for a bigger reaction.
"I'm sure it is." He set the bottle down on a side table.
She squared her shoulders, irritated by his lack of enthusiasm. But she knew it would take more than a bottle of wine to crack the iceberg between them. "I'd like to stay for the weekend."
"You want to stay here?" he asked, dismay in his eyes.
"Why not? You have the room." She headed up the stairs, figuring it would be best not to give her father time to argue. He was an excellent attorney who knew how to win an argument. But she was pretty good, too.
When she reached the upstairs landing, her gaze caught on the only two family pictures that had ever hung in the house. On the left was a family shot of the three of them, taken when she was about eleven years old. She remembered quite clearly how desperately her mother had wanted a professional family picture and how hard her father had fought against it, but it was one of the few battles that Valerie had won.
The other photo was of her and her mother taken at her high school graduation. Her mother had a proud smile on her face. They looked a lot alike, sharing many of the same features: an oval-shaped face, long, thick light brown hair that fell past their shoulders, and wide-set dark brown eyes. A wave of sadness ran through her as she realized this was the last photo of her and her mother. Valerie had died two years later.
Turning away from the memories, she moved down the hall. Her room was at the far end of the corridor. It had been stripped down to the basics: a mattress and box spring, her old desk on one wall, her dresser on the other. The bookshelves were empty and so were the drawers. Only a few nails revealed that there had once been pictures on the wall. There was absolutely no trace of her childhood.
She shouldn't be surprised. Her father had shipped her several boxes a couple of years ago, but it still felt a little sad to see how her early life had been completely erased.
Moving to the window, she looked out at a familiar view – the Callaways' backyard. The large wooden play structure
that was built like a fort with slides and tunnels was empty now. Like herself, the Callaways had grown up. She wondered if any of them still lived at home.
"As you can see, I'm not set up for guests," her dad said, interrupting her thoughts.
She turned to see him standing in the doorway. "I'm sure there are some extra sheets in the linen closet. I don't need much."
He stared back at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Why are you here, Sara?"
"I wanted to be here for your birthday. It's been a long time since we've shared more than an email. We should talk, catch up with each other."
"Why on earth would you want to talk to me?"
The confusion in his eyes made her realize just how far apart they'd drifted. "Because you're my father. You're my family. We're the only ones left."
"Do you need money?"
"This isn't about money. Mom would not have wanted us to end up like strangers. We need to try to improve our relationship."
He stared back at her for a long moment, then said, "There's nothing left for you here, Sara. I wish you well, but we both need to move on. If you stay, it won't go well. We'll only disappoint each other."
Her chest tightened, the finality of his words bringing pain as well as anger. Her father was like a brick wall. She kept throwing herself at him, trying to break through his resistance, but all she ever achieved was a new batch of emotional bruises.
"You're a grown woman now," he added. "You don't need a father."
"Not that I ever really had one," she countered, surprising herself a little with the words. She was used to holding her tongue when it came to her dad, because talking usually made things worse.
Perilous Trust Page 28
