by Judy Duarte
Head injuries could be very serious. Maybe she ought to reconsider and have Pete drive him to the hospital. God forbid the man up and die on her. “Maybe we can transport you to an ER in Austin.”
The man shook his head. “No hospital. Just let me get some rest, and I’ll be okay.”
“Can you walk into the house?” she asked, hoping that she and Pete, who had a bum knee, wouldn’t have to carry him up the porch steps and down the hall.
He nodded, then slowly sat up and climbed from the truck. Louanne and Pete helped him into the house, but by the time they reached the spare room, he wobbled on his feet.
“I don’t know about this, Louanne.” Pete scrunched his craggy face and adjusted the weathered Stetson he rarely removed. “You better go call Doc Haines and let him decide what to do with this feller.”
Pete was probably right. What was she going to do with a stranger in her spare room?
She hoped Doc would take over from here. Maybe he could have the man airlifted to the hospital, which would leave Louanne out of the limelight.
The stranger glanced at the crocheted coverlet on the bed that had once been Lula’s and sighed heavily. “I’ll get it dirty.”
Louanne pulled back the bedding, revealing white cotton sheets that had been bleached by the sun while hanging on the clothesline to dry. “Sit here so Pete and I can take off your boots.”
“We better take off more than that,” Pete said, looking at the dirty jeans and bloody shirt.
Undress him? Louanne froze in her tracks. The man’s devilish good looks stirred the feminine feelings she’d long since buried—after her baby’s father made her fear for her life.
“I need a shower,” he said.
Well, Pete with his bum knee wouldn’t be able to support him.
“Maybe we ought to wait until the doctor gets here,” Louanne said. If Doc decided to take him to the city, undressing the man would be someone else’s responsibility.
Yet for some crazy reason, she felt a bit disappointed handing the chore over to someone else.
His head hurt like hell. And each time he opened his eyes, the ache seemed to grow worse. But he didn’t complain. In fact, he didn’t do anything but try not to be stiff and unyielding while the woman—Louanne—removed his shirt. Her hands were roughened from work, yet gentle.
She looked familiar, like he really ought to know her. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out who she was. Maybe it was those golden-brown eyes that seemed to peer deep inside of him.
As she wiped his face, the wet, warm cloth scratched against the bristles of his beard, making him wish he’d shaved this morning.
Her scent was something earthy and floral, something he hadn’t ever smelled before. Something kind of nice.
Unable to help himself, he opened his eyes again, trying to catch another glimpse of her, giving himself a chance to remember where he’d seen her before—if he actually had.
Her brows, delicate arches of brown, furrowed as she ministered to him. And when she glanced up and spotted him looking at her, her breath caught. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.”
“Good.” Their gazes held a bit longer than necessary, then she dipped the washcloth into the warm water and wrung it out. “Can you sit up? I’d like to remove your shirt.”
He nodded, then pushed himself forward. Slipping a T-shirt over his head was an easy chore, but he wasn’t sure he could have managed without her help.
“You make a great nurse,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. Trying to stay on an even keel.
“Thank you.” She continued wiping him down, and he found himself enjoying it a bit more than he should.
She was attractive, in a down-to-earth sort of way. And he was hard-pressed not to watch her work over him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
His name?
She expected a response, and he meant to give her one. But his brain went dead. And his mind went blank.
Her hands slowed. “You do remember your name, don’t you?”
He wondered if his expression looked as dumbstruck as he felt.
Probably so, because she merely stared at him with the damp rag hanging limp in her still hand.
She was waiting for an answer, but he couldn’t give her one.
He didn’t have any idea who the hell he was.
Chapter Two
Where was he?
Louanne had placed the call over an hour ago, and it wasn’t like Doc to tarry.
The early afternoon sun poured through the bay window, but that still didn’t seem to light the walnut-paneled living room. And even though a gentle breeze filtered through the screen of the open front door, Louanne was reminded of how dark and musty the house had become.
But with finances what they were, she wasn’t sure when she’d be able to budget a gallon of paint, let alone a remodel.
She paced the living room floor, feeling as though she was beating down a path in the worn, pea-green carpeting, while waiting for medical reinforcements to arrive.
A small voice suggested that she should have called 9-1-1, that she should have set aside her concerns about anyone knowing she was back in town. But she reminded herself the country doctor had an abundance of experience under his belt. And that he would be able to determine the extent of the man’s injuries.
More folks than Louanne could count said that there was no better diagnostician than Dr. Archibald Haines. Of course, they did tend to be the older folks in the community who were resistant to change. But Louanne’s parents had also believed it to be true. And she had no reason to doubt the claim.
Aggie and Pete, who were among the chorus of Pebble Creek citizens singing Doc’s praises, said they found comfort in seeing the grandfatherly man standing at their sickbed, the worn leather satchel that once belonged to his dad clutched in his capable hands.
Doc was a big man, with a full head of white hair, broad shoulders and a ready smile. A widower in his early eighties, he still stood fairly straight and tall, lived a full life and maintained a small, private practice.
The country physician talked about retirement like it was on the horizon, but he’d become a part of Pebble Creek, and most of the citizens who clung to his counsel and skill wouldn’t let him take more than an occasional weekend fishing trip.
The drone of a heavy-duty engine sounded out front, and Louanne hurried to peer out the large picture window that bore dusty smudges from a year or more of neglect. It was Doc, thank goodness. But what was he doing in that brand-new, family-size Winnebago?
It didn’t matter, she supposed, just as long as he’d arrived.
She met him on the front porch. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Glad I could. I was on my way to Norman, Oklahoma, for the Haines family reunion, and if you would have called me thirty minutes later, I would have been too far along to turn around.”
“Then I’m glad I caught you in time.” Louanne led him through the small entry and down the hall to the guest room. There, the wounded man lay without his shirt and boots. He still wore his dusty, frayed jeans, but he was cleaner than when she and Pete had found him wandering in a daze.
Those eyes, just as mesmerizing as when she first saw him, snagged her gaze, touching not only her sympathy, but also jogging an awareness of herself as a woman.
The man was just as enigmatic, just as attractive as she remembered. Maybe more so.
Always the romantic and a writer at heart, Louanne imagined him standing on the moors—Heathcliff as Emily Brontë had surely imagined him.
Doc introduced himself, then began a thorough exam. For some reason, Louanne stood in the doorway, unmoving—as though she had every right to hear the diagnosis.
Finally, after probing around the gash near the man’s temple, the white-haired country doctor took a seat beside the bed. “What happened to you, son?”
The stranger looked at Doc with those stunning eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You have any idea what day it is?” the physician asked.
The dark-haired man blew out a sigh, then shook his head.
“You have a name?”
The stranger furrowed his brow, appearing perplexed, then felt for the pockets of his jeans. He reached into the front, right-hand side and withdrew a fold of bills held by a red rubber band.
Unlike men who liked to keep the largest denomination on the outside of a gold money clip to flash impressively, the stranger kept quite a few hundred-dollar bills on the inside, tucked around a silver credit card and a driver’s license.
If Louanne had to wager a guess, she would estimate he had close to a thousand dollars on him. Maybe more.
For that reason, she suspected his injuries hadn’t been the result of a mugging. Unless he’d come out on top. Still, her gut instinct told her he wasn’t a thief.
When he withdrew the driver’s license, he studied it momentarily, then glanced at the doctor. “I guess my name is Rowan Parks. And I’m from California.”
Doc nodded slowly, then crossed his arms, resting them on an ample belly. “Does that trigger any other recollections?”
The man—Rowan—slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not. And the motor vehicle mug shot doesn’t look familiar, either.”
“Well, let’s not worry about it just yet. I think, with some rest and quiet, things will come back to you.” Doc withdrew a light from his bag, then proceeded to shine it in Rowan’s eyes.
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked, realizing she should have kept the question to herself. Or asked the doctor in private.
“I don’t see anything worrisome.” Doc clicked off the light, took a seat in the chair next to the bed, then turned to Louanne. “He may have a slight concussion, and he’ll need a couple of stitches. But the rest of the injuries appear to be minor abrasions and bruises. I’ve got to go back to the motor home. I’ve got some supplies that I can’t carry in my bag packed away, including what I’ll need to flush out that wound.”
Louanne followed the white-haired doctor to the door. “What do you think happened to him?”
“Who knows? Car accident, maybe. Or a barroom brawl. He’s hurt, but I don’t think it’s serious. No internal bleeding or broken bones. The biggest concern is the head, but his pupils are responsive, and I don’t see any indication of a skull fracture. I think he’ll be all right.”
Thirty minutes later, after flushing out the wound and washing it with an orangy-brown soap, Doc applied a local anesthetic and carefully placed about five or six stitches to close the gash. Then he took off his rubber gloves and asked Louanne to step outside the guest room.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“He’s strong, young and healthy, so I expect him to be back to fighting weight in the next couple of days.”
“Do you think he needs to go to the hospital?” she asked.
“Not unless his wound gets infected. But I’ve got some sample packets of an antibiotic I’ll leave with you.”
“And what about his memory?” she asked.
“I suspect once he lets his mind rest, things will slowly start making sense to him again. The brain doesn’t like getting jostled around like that, so that might account for some confusion.”
“And what if his memory doesn’t return?” What was she supposed to do with him then?
“Then take him to one of the bigger medical centers in Austin.” Doc placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Unless you’d rather get rid of him.”
Get rid of him?
It would probably be a smart move. But Louanne—crazy as it may seem—actually welcomed the unexpected interruption to her dull routine, especially since she hadn’t left the ranch in nearly a year and a half. “I don’t mind if he stays a day or two.”
“Good. I’d rather not move him. In fact, I’m going to give him a mild sedative to help him rest.”
“And what should I do when he wakes up?” she asked, knowing she had a ton of chores left on her daily list and an infant son to look after.
“Offer him something mild, like broth. And keep him quiet, if you can. Bed rest ought to do wonders.”
As Louanne followed Doc to the door, she wondered what she’d gotten herself into.
God knew she no longer craved the drama she and her sister had always wanted in their lives. And she didn’t need the additional work or worry.
Still, that wasn’t her biggest concern.
For a woman who’d sworn off men for life, the raven-haired hunk had a way of stirring a feminine interest she’d once thought dead.
A curiosity that had once gotten her in a slew of trouble.
The injection Dr. Haines had given the stranger, or rather Rowan, had knocked him out for most of the afternoon, which allowed Louanne to get to some of the household chores she never seemed to have time for.
She washed the windows, mopped the yellowed linoleum in the kitchen and polished the furniture. If anything, her efforts only made her realize how run-down the house had become since her mother’s death. Not that it had been a decorator’s dream before, but her mother had a way of making the best out of a sorry situation—a trait Louanne was trying hard to acquire as of late.
Maybe that’s why her mom had been content—happy, even—with a mason jar full of wildflowers, while Louanne and Lula had wanted crystal vases and long-stemmed red roses.
But those days of youthful discontent were long gone.
Noah’s father had seen to that.
A light rap sounded at the screen door, and Louanne looked up from her dusting to see Aggie and Noah on the front porch.
“Hey, there.” She set down the bottle of lemon oil and the dirty rag, then wiped her hands on the cotton apron she wore and invited the older woman inside.
Louanne brushed a kiss across Noah’s chubby cheek. “Have you been a good boy for Aggie?”
“He’s always good for me.” The woman, who hadn’t been able to have children of her own, adored the baby and never complained. “Of course, he didn’t nap very well. I think he’s cutting another tooth.”
Louanne tugged at her son’s little foot and smiled. “We’re going to be feeding you corn on the cob in no time at all.”
As Aggie handed the squirmy infant to Louanne, she asked, “How’s that fellow doing?”
“He’s been sleeping all afternoon, which I think was Doc’s intent.”
“Mind if I look in on him?” Aggie asked. “You know how Pete is always teasing me about those romance books I read? Well, he said the guy you found looks like one of the cover models.”
Rowan Parks was definitely attractive, with a roguish appeal, although Louanne doubted he was a model. But then again, she didn’t know who he really was, or what he did for a living. “I put him in Lula’s room.”
Aggie chuckled. “Bet he thinks he’s in Hollywood, with all those old movie posters Lula left on the walls.”
“I doubt whether he took much stock in the decor. And, if he did, he didn’t say anything.”
“Did his memory come back?” Aggie asked.
“Not yet. After Doc left and while he was sleeping, I tried to get his phone number by calling information in the San Francisco area. But it must be unlisted.” Louanne blew out a weary sigh. “I’d like to help, to get in touch with his family. They’re probably worried about him.”
“Why don’t you give it a day or so? Maybe he’ll be able to remember who he is and call his family himself.”
Louanne hoped so. She’d hate to have to contact the sheriff and ask about people reported missing in the area. She suspected Richard had filed a report on her.
Of course, she’d call the sheriff, if she had to. “You’re probably right, Aggie. Maybe he’ll wake up after a good sleep and remember who he is.”
The gray-haired woman grinned. “Then I’d better take that quick peek now.”
“Maybe you should.” Louanne watched as Aggie tiptoed down the hall and headed toward the room that was avai
lable for the guests Louanne would never have, since this old ranch house wasn’t the kind of place Lula, or rather Tallulah, would be likely to visit.
It would be nice to see her older sister again, but a trip to California in the near future didn’t seem any more likely than a coat of new paint for the inside of the house. Or new carpeting.
And even if Louanne struck black gold or stumbled upon a buried treasure chest in the south pasture, she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until she knew Richard Keith was no longer a threat.
As Aggie peered at the sleeping stranger in the guest room, a slow smile tugged at her lips. “Pete was right. That’s one good-looking man, even all beat up like that.”
Louanne had come to a similar assessment. And she couldn’t help wondering what Rowan Parks would look like all decked out for a night on the town.
“Are you sure about him staying here?” the older woman asked. “We don’t know anything about him.”
Louanne appreciated her friend’s concern. But something inside told her the man could be trusted. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
Aggie pressed a kiss upon Noah’s cheek. “You call me and Pete if there’s a problem, and we’ll come lickety-split.”
“I will.”
Having Aggie and Pete nearby was truly a comfort, although, on occasion, Louanne still woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding from a nocturnal race to flee the man who threatened to kill her if she ever left him. It had become a familiar nightmare, and one she prayed would never come true.
When Aggie left, Louanne placed Noah in his playpen in the kitchen while she prepared a pot of chicken broth, noodles and vegetables.
There were a ton of things she ought to be doing, but she never had enough quality time to spend with the baby boy who was fast becoming a toddler. And she relished what little time they had together.
Louanne fed Noah his supper, then gave him small chunks of banana to feed himself, while she sat at the table and dined on a bowl of soup.
When her son squished the last few pieces of ’nana into a gooey mess and smeared them across the tray of his secondhand high chair, she cleaned him up then removed him from his cracked, red vinyl seat.
