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The Stranger in Room 205
GINA WILKINS
EXTRA! EXTRA! HOT OFF June THE PRESSThe Evening Star's Local Chatter…EDSTOWN, Ark.–Yesterday evening, Serena Schaffer, owner of our town newspaper, found an injured man in a ditch near her home in Edstown. He'd been beaten, robbed and left for dead. Schaffer rushed him to the Edstown hospital, where he's recovering in room 205. The word around town is that it won't be long before those two give in to their powerful attraction to each other….The man in question–Sam Wallace–is a drifter with a vague past. Something tells this reporter that he's not who he claims to be, but one look into his blue eyes and you'd believe anything he said. Although, when it comes to Schaffer and her irresistible smile, there may not be many words spoken!



Sam pulled Serena closer to his lean, hard body….
She didn’t respond this way to other men.
“There’s something about you,” he said after a long moment, “that makes me forget every promise I made to myself. Something that completely destroys my willpower.”
“Trust me,” she said after moistening her tender lips. “I know the feeling.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, lifting his head.
This was definitely not the time to talk about anything important. She could barely speak, much less think clearly. Still, she was curious. She studied his face. That lost look was in his eyes again—the one that sneaked behind the few defenses she had left against him. There was a sadness in Sam she didn’t understand and didn’t know how to alleviate.
Realizing she was still standing in his arms, their bodies still intimately pressed together, she eased away from him. “We’ll talk tomorrow….”
Dear Reader,
Many people read romance novels for the unforgettable heroes that capture our hearts and stay with us long after the last page is read. But to give all the credit for the success of this genre to these handsome hunks is to underestimate the value of the heart of a romance: the heroine.
“Heroes are fantasy material, but for me, the heroines are much more grounded in real life,” says Susan Mallery, bestselling author of this month’s Shelter in a Soldier’s Arms. “For me, the heroine is at the center of the story. I want to write and read about women who are intelligent, funny and determined.”
Gina Wilkins’s The Stranger in Room 205 features a beautiful newspaper proprietor who discovers an amnesiac in her backyard and finds herself in an adventure of a lifetime! And don’t miss The M.D. Meets His Match in Hades, Alaska, where Marie Ferrarella’s snowbound heroine unexpectedly finds romance that is sure to heat up the bitter cold….
Peggy Webb delivers an Invitation to a Wedding; when the heroine is rescued from marrying the wrong man, could a long-lost friend end up being Mr. Right? Sparks fly in Lisette Belisle’s novel when the heroine, raising Her Sister’s Secret Son, meets a mysterious man who claims to be the boy’s father! And in Patricia McLinn’s Almost a Bride, a rancher desperate to save her ranch enters into a marriage of convenience, but with temptation as her bed partner, life becomes a minefield of desire.
Special Edition is proud to publish novels featuring strong, admirable heroines struggling to balance life, love and family and making dreams come true. Enjoy! And look inside for details about our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.
Best,
Karen Taylor Richman, Senior Editor

The Stranger in Room 205
Gina Wilkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Books by Gina Wilkins
Silhouette Special Edition
The Father Next Door #1082
It Could Happen To You #1119
Valentine Baby #1153
† (#litres_trial_promo) Her Very Own Family #1243
† (#litres_trial_promo) That First Special Kiss #1269
Surprise Partners #1318

(#litres_trial_promo) The Stranger in Room 205 #1399

Previously published as Gina Ferris
Silhouette Special Edition
Healing Sympathy #496
Lady Beware #549
In from the Rain #677
Prodigal Father #711
§ (#litres_trial_promo) Full of Grace #793
§ (#litres_trial_promo) Hardworking Man #806
§ (#litres_trial_promo) Fair and Wise #819
§ (#litres_trial_promo) Far To Go #862
§ (#litres_trial_promo) Loving and Giving #879
Babies on Board #913

Previously published as Gina Ferris Wilkins
Silhouette Special Edition
‡ (#litres_trial_promo) A Man for Mom #955
‡ (#litres_trial_promo) A Match for Celia #967
‡ (#litres_trial_promo) A Home for Adam #980
‡ (#litres_trial_promo) Cody’s Fiancée #1006
Silhouette Books
Mother’s Day Collection 1995
Three Mothers and a Cradle “Beginnings”

GINA WILKINS
is a bestselling and award-winning author who has written more than fifty books for Harlequin and Silhouette Books. She credits her successful career in romance to her long, happy marriage and her three “extraordinary” children.
A lifelong resident of central Arkansas, Ms. Wilkins sold her first book to Harlequin in 1987 and has been writing full-time since. She has appeared on the Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and USA Today bestseller lists. She is a three-time recipient of the Maggie Award for Excellence, sponsored by Georgia Romance Writers, and has won several awards from the reviewers of Romantic Times Magazine.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
“S ir? Are you awake? Can you hear me?”
The woman’s voice was nice, but muffled, and there was a funny buzzing noise underlying it. Like static, he thought without opening his eyes. The darkness was intense, cocooning him like a warm, heavy comforter. He wanted to wrap it more tightly around himself and drift back into oblivion, but the voice intruded again.
“I know you’re in pain, but you really should try to open your eyes,” the woman advised him. “You need to let us know you’re awake.”
He wanted to tell her to leave him alone. He was tired. He would appreciate it if she went away and let him rest. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but only a hoarse croak emerged from his dry throat.
“Oh, good, you are waking up. Can you tell me your name?”
It seemed there would be no rest for him until he acknowledged her. Maybe if he opened his eyes—just for a moment—she’d go away. He forced his lids apart, then groaned when light assaulted his pupils, causing an eruption of pain inside his head.
He glared at the woman leaning into his face. This was her fault. She’d nagged him out of the tranquil darkness and brought this pounding to his temples. All in all, he thought it would be better if he went back to sleep.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Wake up and tell me your name. I want to know you’re all right before I leave you here.”
Leave him where? Suddenly he realized that he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. He opened his eyes again and tried to ask, but the results of his attempt at speech were pathetic. Sounded like a bullfrog had mistaken his tongue for a lily pad. The woman touched his face. Her hand was cool. Soft. Felt good. Too bad about her face, though. It kept …changing. Four eyes, then three, then four again. They were rather pretty eyes. Blue. Or maybe green. However many of them she had.
He allowed his own to close again, welcoming the relief of the darkness. The light was too painful to deal with for now.
“Sir? Before you go to sleep again, isn’t there someone you’d like me to call? Your family, perhaps?”
His family? Did he have a family? Funny—at the moment, he couldn’t remember. Probably because the pain drowned out everything else. It seemed so much easier to slip away from it. He allowed himself to do just that.

“He’s out again.” Serena sighed and sat back in the straight chair beside the wounded man’s bed. She was alone in the small hospital room with him, and she glanced at her watch, thinking of the hour that had passed since he’d been brought to the hospital by ambulance, with her following in her own car. The stranger had drifted in and out of consciousness several times, but never fully enough to really consider him awake.
She’d missed her morning meeting, of course. She simply hadn’t been able to abandon this poor guy until she was reassured that there was someone who knew or cared where and how he was. He’d had the misfortune to be brought in at almost the same time a bus full of teenagers returning from a church-sponsored field trip had run off the road and into a ditch on the way home. None of the passengers was critically injured—broken bones and abrasions the most severe consequences of the accident—but the little hospital was in chaos with hysterical adolescents and parents crowding the hallways. Her stranger, as she’d taken to calling him until she had a better name for him, had been examined, pronounced in fair condition except for a concussion and left in this room until one of the overwhelmed small staff had time to deal with him more fully.
Serena knew she had no obligation to sit by his side, since she had done no more than find him in a ditch and summon help for him, but something kept her there. That overdeveloped sense of responsibility of hers, most likely. It seemed like most of her life was spent doing things she felt obligated to do, rather than things she truly wanted to do.
She was becoming concerned about his continued unconsciousness. Sure, he was wired to all sorts of monitors and such, but was anyone really keeping a close eye on him with everything going on outside this room? She could hear an overwrought parent shouting down the hall, demanding attention for his daughter even as an exasperated nurse tried to assure him that someone would be with him as soon as possible. The guy sounded like Red Tucker, Serena thought with a wince, pitying the poor nurse. Everyone knew Red had a temper that matched his nickname, and a severe patience deficiency to boot.
As if the noise outside had disturbed his fitful sleep, her stranger muttered something, bringing Serena’s attention back to him. She studied his face curiously. Though presently disfigured with swelling and bruises, she would bet his features were usually quite handsome. His hair, when clean and styled, was probably a rich gold, and the eyes she had seen so briefly were a bright blue. He was slim and fit, probably in his early thirties—only a year or two older than herself, she would guess. His hands were well-tended, except for the abraded knuckles that indicated he’d fought back when he’d suffered the vicious beating that had landed him here. His nails were clean and neatly trimmed. She doubted that he’d ever done much manual labor.
He wore no watch or other jewelry, had been dressed only in a ripped pullover and a pair of jeans, had carried nothing in his pockets and had worn no shoes or socks. If robbery had been the motive for the vicious beating, his attacker had taken nearly everything. She didn’t recognize this man and neither had anyone else who’d seen him so far, which was unusual for such a small community. So where had he come from? What had he been doing on the side of a gravel road that led nowhere outside of this off-the-beaten-path little Arkansas town?
Someone opened the door behind her. She expected to see a doctor or a nurse when she looked around, but discovered Dan Meadows walking in, instead. “I wondered when someone would get around to calling the police,” she murmured.
“’Evening, Serena,” the chief of police said. He showed no surprise at seeing her there, which meant he’d already talked to someone outside. “Heard you found a wounded stray behind your house.”
She tucked a strand of her chin-length brown hair behind her ear and nodded. “He was in the ditch beside Bullock Lake Road. My sister’s dog got out of my yard and I was chasing him when I found this man lying facedown in the grass.”
A tough-looking, slow-talking man in his mid-thirties, Dan crossed the room with his trademark rolling amble and studied the man in the bed. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Neither have I. I have a feeling he’s not from around here.”
“Got any other hunches you’d like to share with me?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I can’t imagine what he was doing there. There was no ID on him—or anywhere around him in the ditch. I looked.”
“Looks like someone beat the hell out of him.”
“Apparently. Dr. Frank said he has a concussion, a few broken ribs, a badly sprained wrist and several painful cuts and bruises.”
“Stitched up his head, did they?”
“He had a deep cut to the scalp at his right temple. It took six stitches to close it.”
Dan nodded, still looking at the man on the bed. “Has he been awake?”
“Not for more than seconds at a time. I thought he was waking up a few minutes ago, but he drifted off again. They’ve pumped him full of antibiotics and who knows what else. I suppose the drugs could be affecting him.”
“More likely the concussion. LuWanda said she’d be in to check on him as soon as she gets Red Tucker calmed down. I’d better get out there and help her. Nothing like a hospital full of panicky parents to keep everyone hopping.”
“Thank God none of the students was seriously injured.”
“Yeah. My niece was on that bus,” Dan admitted with a grimace. “Scared the stuffing out of me when I heard about it.”
“Polly’s okay?”
“She’s fine. Got herself a bloody nose and a black eye, but she’ll be okay once she gets over the scare.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yeah. By the way, your scoop girl’s out there making a nuisance of herself. Want me to send her in to keep you company?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Let Lindsey do her job.”
“Asking all the parents how it feels to almost lose a child in a bus accident? Hell of a job, if you ask me.”
Dan had never made any secret of his opinion of the reporters who worked for the Evening Star, the newspaper Serena’s great-grandfather had started, and which she now owned through a set of circumstances that still bewildered her. Before she could defend the importance of the press to him—for perhaps the thousandth time—an outburst in the hallway caught their attention.
Dan sighed. “Sounds like Red’s getting wound up again. I’d better go give LuWanda a hand with him. You going to stay around awhile?”
She nodded. “I feel as though I should stay until things calm down a bit and someone has time to spend with this poor man.”
“‘This poor man?’” Dan’s expression was quizzical. “You know something about him that I don’t?”
“No, of course not. I just—well, you know. I found him and now I feel sort of responsible for him.”
“Mmm. That’s the kind of thinking that gets well-intentioned folks in trouble. Better find out who he is before you adopt him.”
Fully aware that Dan was always suspicious of outsiders in his town and would be particularly wary of anyone who showed up under these circumstances, Serena nodded. She was as vigilant as Dan about keeping their hometown free from the crimes that had taken hold in so many places even as small and unremarkable as this.
Dan glanced again at the man in the bed on his way out of the room. “Have someone call me when he wakes up, will you? I have a few questions for him.”
Serena watched him leave. He left the door open a couple of inches, so she could hear him speaking in his measured, authoritative manner, his voice fading as he moved away with Red Tucker and whoever else had been in the hallway outside the room. And then she ran a hand through her hair again and turned to keep watch over the man in the bed—only to find that his eyes were open and focused intently on her face.
“Oh. So you’re awake again. Are you able yet to talk to the chief of police, or would you like me to give you a few minutes before I call him back in?”

The woman was sitting in a chair very close to the narrow bed on which he found himself. She leaned slightly toward him as she spoke, and there appeared to be concern in her eyes. He knew those eyes. Blue. Or maybe green. Pretty. There were only two of them this time. One nose. One mouth. All very nicely arranged in an oval face framed in a soft brown bob. Whatever had happened to him—and he was awake enough to realize that he was lying in a hospital room—he was still able to recognize that this was a very attractive woman. He found that observation reassuring. He couldn’t be damaged too badly if he was still interested in the opposite sex.
“Sir?” she repeated when he continued to stare at her rather than answering. “Did you hear me? Can you speak to me?”
He blinked, trying to recall what she’d said. Something about…police? He frowned, then winced when his swollen, sore face rebelled against the expression. “Uh—yeah, I can hear you,” he managed to say, his voice gruff, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
The sound of it seemed to encourage her. “How do you feel?”
The only appropriate phrase he could come up with in answer seemed inappropriate for mixed company. He settled for, “Not great.”
“I don’t doubt it. You have several very painful injuries, but the doctor said you’ll be fine. Things are rather hectic here tonight because of a school bus accident, but it’s a decent little hospital. They’ll take good care of you.”
“Where…?” He swallowed to clear his thick voice, then tried again. “Where is this hospital?”
“Edstown,” she answered.
“Ed’s town?” he repeated blankly. “Who’s Ed?”
“I’m sorry, I thought you…it’s Edstown,” she said again. “Edstown, Arkansas.”
“Arkansas.” He repeated the name of the state slowly, trying to make it mean something to him. “How did I get here?”
“I found you lying in a ditch near my house. You had been severely beaten—perhaps left for dead. I called an ambulance and accompanied you here. Do you remember any of this?”
Actually, there were quite a few things he didn’t remember—but he wasn’t ready to get into that. Not with the word “police” still echoing hollowly in his mind.
She was studying him with a frown. “Maybe I’d better go get a doctor….”
“No.” He tried to hold up a hand to stop her, but both his arms seemed to be strapped down, the left wrist in a splint or bandage of some sort. “Wait. Don’t go yet.”
For some reason, he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to lie here alone, hurting and fighting the confusion that was steadily threatening to overwhelm him. He was sure everything would come back to him once he’d had a chance to rest and recover for a few minutes. Considering the circumstances, it was no wonder he couldn’t even remember his…
“Your name,” the woman was saying. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
Tom? Dick? Harry? Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. How the hell could he forget his own name? he wondered in mounting frustration.
She seemed to go suddenly tense. “You do remember your name, don’t you?”
He pictured her reaction if he admitted that his mind was achingly blank. She’d probably panic. She’d start calling doctors and nurses…maybe that chief of police she’d mentioned. The medical staff would rush in, poking and peering and treating him like some kind of freak, and who knew what the cop would believe. “Of course I remember my name.”
She waited.
“Sam,” he said, seizing the first moniker that came to him.
“Sam?” Her smooth brow wrinkled again. Obviously, his hasty answer hadn’t satisfied her.
He groped for a surname. Nothing. His gaze skimmed the room as if searching for an answer. Bed. Chair. Floor. “Wall,” he murmured. “Er…Wallace,” he amended quickly.
He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to admit the truth. Just tell her he couldn’t for the life of him remember his name—or anything else that mattered. Actually, maybe he should be worried. He could be suffering brain damage. Something a doctor should look into immediately. Could be bleeding from the brain. God only knew what else. But something kept him quiet. He felt so stupid…he was sure it would all come back to him in a minute. He just needed a little time.
Whoever he was, he apparently believed in handling his own problems in his own way.
“Sam Wallace?” she repeated, a bit doubtfully.
Hell, why not? It would work until something better occurred to him. Like his real name. “Yeah. Sam Wallace. Who are you?”
“Serena Schaffer.”
Serena. It suited her, he decided. “Thank you for rescuing me, Serena Schaffer,” he said.
“I didn’t do that much, but you’re welcome. Now I really should get someone in here. The doctor will want to know you’re awake…and Dan Meadows, our chief of police, wants to talk to you. Just to ask you a few questions about what happened to you.”
The word police made him tense again. He wished he knew why. It was like…an instinct. Something inside him that told him to be very careful. At least until he remembered—
The door opened and a very large woman in a white uniform bustled in, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “What a night. I swear, if that Red Tucker says one more cross word to me, I’m going to snatch him bald-headed. We’re taking care of all those kids the best we can, and he’s out there… Oh, my, he’s awake.”
“Yes, we’ve been talking,” Serena replied.
The nurse nodded. She leaned over the bed and peered into his eyes. “Headache?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“He seems a little disoriented,” Serena added, proving she hadn’t been entirely fooled by his act.
The nurse didn’t look surprised. “That’s to be expected with the concussion. The doctor will be in soon, but they’ve got him running out there now.”
He tried to nod, but went still when his head hammered in protest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She didn’t smile. “How bad is the disorientation? Do you remember how you came to be here?”
According to Serena, he had been severely beaten. Left for dead in a ditch. “I know what happened.”
“Do you remember the attack itself?”
It seemed safe enough to say, “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“That’s to be expected. Any other memory loss?”
He looked straight into her dark eyes. “No.”
She seemed to believe him. Her pen hovered over the clipboard cradled in her left arm as she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Sam Wallace.”
“Middle initial?”
“None. Just Sam.” The parents he’d just invented for himself weren’t particularly creative. He wondered what his real parents were like. Were they even now looking for him, frantic with worry? Was he being a total idiot not to tell someone what was going on between his ears? The answer, of course, was yes. Still, he didn’t change his mind.
“Birth date?”
As far as he could remember, he’d been born less than half an hour ago. He chose a date at random, finding it mildly curious that he could remember things like names and months and numbers, even though they held no personal meaning for him. “June twenty-second.”
“Yeah? Today’s the twentieth, so that means you’ve got a birthday coming up in a few days. What year were you born?”
Year? He wasn’t even sure what year it was now. He couldn’t remember what he looked like, whether his hair was dark or light or gray—if he even had hair. He didn’t feel old…but he didn’t feel young, either.
Damn it, what was going on here? Why the hell couldn’t he remember?
He groaned.
Serena stood and rested her hand on his shoulder, the gesture oddly protective. “He’s obviously in pain, LuWanda. Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”
LuWanda closed the clipboard. “I’ll get the doctor.”
He was grateful for the brief reprieve. He gave Serena a shamelessly pitiful look. “My head’s killing me,” he said.
She brushed a lank strand of hair off his forehead, her fingertips cool against his skin. So he did have hair. Nice to know.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Someone I can call for you?”
He thought again of the family that could be searching for him. With a mental apology to them—if, indeed, they existed—he shook his head. “There isn’t anyone to call, but thank you for offering.”
What he really wanted right now was to be alone. A chance to think. To break through the mental barrier that was keeping him from his memories. He was certain that he could do so if he only had the time to work at it a bit…on his own, without disruptions. But as the door opened again and a short, squarely built older man he assumed to be the doctor strode briskly into the room, he knew it would be a while yet before he would be left alone. Now he had only to keep up his pretense until his mind cleared, which he fervently hoped it would do before he had to deal with the police. If the memories didn’t return soon… Well, he would take this one step at a time.
Seeing the doctor, Serena smiled and stepped back. “I’ll get out of the way now and let Dr. Frank take care of you. You’re in good hands here, Sam.”
Sam. The name sounded strange…but maybe just a little familiar? Was it possible that it really was his own? “You’re leaving?”
Again, he found himself reluctant to see her go, perhaps because she was, for now, the first thing he remembered.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again before you leave,” she said lightly.
“I hope so,” he murmured, and realized that he meant it. At the moment, she felt very much like his only friend.

The hospital was quiet, all the school bus passengers treated and released to the care of their relieved families. At the end of the hallway, Dan Meadows stood talking to an attractive young woman who was scribbling in a battered notebook. Serena could tell from the police chief’s posture that he was rapidly growing impatient answering the reporter’s questions. She moved to rescue him.
“As I said,” she heard Dan saying in a flat, clipped voice, “no charges will be filed against the bus driver or anyone else until a full investigation of the accident has been conducted. Now I really don’t know what else you want me to say, but—”
“What have I told you about hassling the local authorities, Lindsey?” Serena asked with a faint smile.
Her employee grinned with the irreverence Serena had come to expect from the youngest member of the Evening Star staff. “You wouldn’t deny me one of my favorite pastimes, would you?”
“For the sake of the newspaper’s future dealings with the police department, I’m afraid I’m going to have to. Is there anything else you need for your article?”
“I’ve got everything I need about the bus accident,” Lindsey answered. “But I hear we have another interesting story in Room Two Oh Five. Who’s the mysterious stranger, Serena?”
“I’m waiting to hear that, myself,” Dan said, giving Lindsey a repressive look. “Until we have all the facts, there’s really nothing for you to write about him.”
“Dan’s right, Lindsey. All we know now is that he was found on Bullock Lake Road, suffering injuries from what appears to be a severe beating. I think you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for further details. He’s not strong enough to deal with the police and the press this evening.”
“Is he awake yet?” Dan asked.
She nodded. “I talked to him for a few minutes. He said his name is Sam Wallace. I’m afraid that’s pretty much the extent of what I learned about him. Dr. Frank’s with him now.”
“He refused to talk about what happened?” Dan frowned, as if that confirmed his suspicion that Sam Wallace had been involved in something shady.
Serena shook her head. “He didn’t refuse. He’s groggy, in pain. It seemed difficult for him to concentrate. He was quite pleasant, actually, just a bit confused. I’m not sure he even remembers what happened.”
“He’s claiming amnesia?” Dan’s lip curled in open disbelief.
“No.” Honestly, sometimes Dan took his official skepticism a bit too far. One would almost accuse him of being paranoid—if anyone had the nerve to do so to his face. “He’s simply disoriented, Dan. I would imagine that’s a fairly common reaction to a concussion.”
He nodded reluctantly. “I’ll try to talk to him when the doc’s through with him. If he can identify his attackers, we’ll have a better chance of finding them if we don’t wait too long.”
“He’s in a lot of pain.”
He gave her one of his rare smiles, though it didn’t quite reach his glittering dark eyes. “Don’t worry, Serena. I won’t browbeat your stray. Just want to ask him some questions.”
“So do I,” Lindsey agreed.
Serena gave her a look. “Go file the school bus story. Everyone in town’s going to want the details of that tomorrow.”
Lindsey’s expression implied that a mysterious wounded stranger was of as much interest to her as the mercifully minor school bus accident, but she had the discretion not to say so. She nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Serena. You, too, Chief. I’ll be wanting details of your investigation into this guy’s story, of course.”
Dan glared after Lindsey as she sauntered into an elevator. “Have I ever mentioned that I really don’t much like being questioned by your reporters all the time?”
“You’ve alluded to it a time or two,” Serena replied. She knew Dan didn’t mean anything personal against Lindsey, whom he’d known since she was a toddler. There were times she even suspected Dan was rather fond of Lindsey in his own gruff way—but he did not like reporters in general.
Dan had already turned his attention to the hospital room at the other end of the hall. “Okay, Sam Wallace,” he murmured as if to himself. “Time to find out just who you are—an innocent crime victim, or someone we don’t want in our town.”
Serena had been wondering that herself. For some reason, she was having trouble picturing Sam Wallace—wounded or otherwise—as an innocent victim.

Chapter Two
T wo hours later, Sam—the name he was still using for lack of a better one—was lying on his back in the hospital bed staring at the ten o’clock evening news on the TV mounted high on the wall across from his bed, hoping something would trigger the memories that had so far eluded him. He’d been straining to come up with even the foggiest detail, but the only result thus far was a pounding headache and a mounting frustration tinged with panic.
It was beginning to seem inevitable that he was going to have to admit the truth to someone—probably the cop who’d been in earlier, asking questions that Sam had deliberately answered as vaguely as possible. The chief had left with a promise that he would be back—or had it been a warning?
Sam wasn’t at all sure Meadows had bought his story that he’d been passing through this area in search of work and had been mugged by a couple of guys who’d given him a lift. Claiming pain, fatigue and confusion, he hadn’t given any details that would get anyone arrested, and Chief Meadows was not pleased with the sketchiness of the tale. Hell, for all Sam knew, it could be true. He just didn’t remember any of it.
He cringed at the thought of saying aloud that he had lost his memory, that his mind was a blank, that he was utterly at the mercy of the staff of this tiny, apparently rural hospital. So far the characters he had encountered—with the exception of the cop—had been friendly, cheerful, laid-back and unpretentious. He had obviously landed in Smallville, U.S.A.—but from where?
He knew somehow he wasn’t from around here; his speech patterns sounded different even to his own ears. Besides, he just didn’t feel…Arkansan. Whatever the hell that meant.
But why was he here? Why had no one come forward to identify him? To ask about him? Was he really so alone that no one knew where he was? Was he as nameless and mysterious to everyone else as he was to himself at the moment?
He didn’t like the idea that there was no one who cared whether he lived or died. Nor did he like lying in this bed wearing nothing but a backless hospital gown, a sheet so thin he could probably read a book through it, with a couple of bags of liquid dripping through a needle taped to his arm. Maybe if he could just see whatever he had been wearing when he’d been found, it would trigger his memory.
“What happened to my clothes?” he demanded of a thin, pale-skinned male who came in carrying a tray of vials and needles.
The man looked startled. He blinked almost lashless blue eyes. “Er, what clothes?”
“The ones I was wearing when I was brought in.”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask someone as soon as I get a blood sample.”
“My blood’s all been sampled. There’s none left.”
The technician looked as though he didn’t know whether to smile. “Er…”
Sam sighed. “Hell. Just stick me and then find my clothes, will you?”
He was beginning to lose patience with all of this. The hospital, its staff—and his own stubbornly closed mind.
He was informed a short while later that he hadn’t been carrying a wallet, at least not that anyone from the hospital staff had found. There had been, he was assured, nothing in the pockets of his jeans or shirt. While his lack of personal items backed up his story of having been robbed, it gave him no clue as to his identity.
“Damn,” he growled as soon as he was alone again. Why couldn’t he remember? What was wrong with him?
Another nurse came in, this one tall and bony. “I’m Lydia, your nurse for this shift. How are you feeling?”
He eyed her warily. “That depends. What are you planning to poke into me?”
She smiled and held up a thermometer. “Only this. Pain free, I assure you.”
He reluctantly opened his mouth.
“Oh, and I have to ask you some questions,” she added, opening a clipboard and snapping a ballpoint. “LuWanda never finished filling out these papers and admissions is having a hissy fit.”
He nearly swallowed the thermometer. “Mmph.”
“Hold on a second.” She waited until the electronic thermometer beeped, then pulled it out and glanced at it. “Normal.”
He wouldn’t have advised her to bet money on that.
“Now, about this form. All we’ve got so far is your name, Sam Wallace, and the month and day of your birth. June twenty-second. Correct so far?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What year were you born, Mr. Wallace?”
He managed a smile. “How old do I look?”
She rolled her eyes. “He wants to play games,” she murmured. “Okay, I’m supposed to humor the patient. You look…” She eyed him consideringly while he held his breath. “Thirty-three?”
“Thirty-one,” he corrected with an exaggerated grimace. It sounded like a nice age. Not too young, not too old.
“So you were born in nineteen…” Her voice trailed off as she scribbled numbers on her form.
“Address?”
“I’m, um, between addresses right now. Between jobs, too,” he added to answer her next question.
“Do you have insurance?”
Lady, I don’t even have a name. “No.”
“Next of kin?”
He closed his eyes. “None.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Just a mother of a headache.”
“I’m sorry. Only a few more questions. Are you allergic to any medications?”
He was tired. So damned tired. He should tell her the truth. I can’t remember. There’s nothing between my ears but dead air. Call in your experts, lady. One genuine freak, here for their viewing pleasure.
He couldn’t do it. Maybe he’d tell someone tomorrow. Or maybe by then it wouldn’t be necessary.
“No,” he murmured. “I’m not allergic to anything.” And it would serve him right if they injected him with something and he died a horrible, painful death from an allergic reaction.
She asked him other questions about his medical history. Keeping his eyes closed, he made up answers in a lethargic monotone.
You’re an idiot, Sam. Or whoever the hell you are. A coward. A fool. A liar. A jerk. Tell the lady the truth.
But still he lied. For he, himself, was afraid of the truth.
He heard her close the cover of the clipboard. “All right,” she said. “That’s enough for now.”
Sam let out a long, ragged breath when he was finally alone again. He was so fatigued he could hardly move, both mentally and physically exhausted. Every inch of him ached. He needed rest. He wanted out of this place. He hadn’t a clue where he would go when he left.
He didn’t even know what he looked like, but there were a few things he’d learned about himself during the past couple of hours. He had more pride than was good for him, he didn’t like admitting weakness or vulnerability and he utterly hated being at the mercy of others.
All those traits felt familiar to him. Felt right. So who the hell was he? And why couldn’t he remember?

He really was a nice-looking man beneath the bruises. Even flat on his back in a hospital bed, there was a sort of…well, grace to him, Serena mused the next morning, studying Sam from the chair beside the bed. His lips were slightly parted, and he wheezed a little when he breathed—a result of the blows he’d taken to his chest. His lashes were long against his scraped cheeks, oddly dark in contrast to his golden hair. Those thick curling lashes were the only softening feature on his firmly carved face.
She thought of the sketchy history he’d given Dan. He’d implied that he was a rootless drifter, rambling from place to place, supporting himself with temporary jobs. No permanent home, no family. Looking again at his beautifully shaped hands, marred only by the abrasions across his knuckles, she wondered what the odds were that those temporary jobs had involved sitting behind desks crunching numbers. She found it hard to believe those rather elegant hands had ever wielded a shovel or a sledge hammer. And if his clean oval nails hadn’t been professionally manicured recently, she’d kiss her sister’s dog—right on his slobbery mouth.
Raising her gaze from the man’s hands to his face, she was momentarily disconcerted to find his brilliant blue eyes open and trained unblinkingly on her. “Oh. Good morning.”
“Serena.”
He said her name as if it was important that he had remembered it. She nodded. “Serena Schaffer.”
“You’re the one who found me.”
“Yes. How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Have you ever tried to sleep in a hospital?”
“No. I’ve never been hospitalized.”
“I don’t recommend it. Every few minutes someone comes in to draw blood, take your blood pressure and temperature and listen through a stethoscope that feels like it’s stored in a freezer. They’re obsessed with my bodily fluids—intake and output. Every time I try to move into a more comfortable position, this damned IV pump starts beeping, nagging at me to be still.” To demonstrate, he bent his right arm, kinking the thin tube that ran from the IV pump to the needle taped into the back of his hand. A moment later the pump began to beep, and darned if it didn’t sound petulant. Sam sighed and straightened his arm. The machine went silent.
Serena had waited patiently through his litany of complaints. “Does it feel better to have that off your chest?”
His bruised mouth quirked. “A bit.”
“Then I’m glad I was here to listen.”
“I guess I unloaded on you because you’re the first person to come into this room in hours who wasn’t carrying a needle.”
“Are you sure there isn’t someone I can call for you? A friend or family member who could be with you while you recover?”
“There really isn’t anyone I want notified right now. But thanks for offering.”
She wouldn’t want to be so alone in a hospital. She knew if anything happened to her, she would have legions of family and friends around her, giving her sympathy and support. She felt sorry for anyone who didn’t have that emotional base to draw strength from.
He must have read her expression. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’ll just be glad to get out of here.”
“Where will you go then?”
The corners of his mouth tightened. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with her questioning or unhappy with the answer. Was it true that he had no place to go? No one to turn to? Serena would hate to find herself in that position.
When it became obvious that he had no answer for her, she changed the subject. “I talked to Chief Meadows earlier. He said he hasn’t made any headway in finding the two men who robbed and beat you. There’s been no sign of that pieced-together pickup truck you described.”
“I’m not surprised. I don’t think they were from around here. Probably just passing through the area, looking for trouble.”
“Like you?” she asked in a murmur.
He met her eyes without blinking. “I wasn’t looking for trouble. Unfortunately, it found me, anyway.”
She knew that feeling. She hadn’t been looking for trouble when she’d found Sam Wallace in that ditch, either. But she had found him—well, her sister’s dog did—and now, for some stupid reason, she felt rather responsible for him.
The sounds of the hospital drifted in through the door she’d left partially open. Nurses talked, equipment beeped, someone coughed, someone else cried. Illness seemed to creep through the hallways like a malicious spirit, constantly trying to outsmart the few overworked doctors in this small, outdated and under-funded institution. The staff did the best they could with what they had, but most folks in these parts went elsewhere for serious medical attention, into bigger towns with more financial advantages. Serena hoped her stranger was getting the care he needed here. Head injuries were so unpredictable.
LuWanda, the heavyset nurse who’d taken care of Sam when he’d arrived, marched in. “Time to take your vitals, Mr. Wallace.”
He scowled. “You can just damned well leave my vitals alone.”
LuWanda laughed as though he’d made a lighthearted jest. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch anything I haven’t touched before. Oh, and I want to get a pulse ox reading. The doc’s still concerned about those blows you took to the chest. Have to make sure you’re getting plenty of oxygen.”
He gave Serena a look as the nurse clipped something around his right index finger. “Pulse ox,” he murmured.
She stood. “Whatever that is, I hope yours is good.”
“Ninety-nine percent,” the nurse announced when something chirped. “Better than mine—I smoked for twenty years. Guess you’re not a smoker, huh, Mr. Wallace?”
“Guess not,” he answered vaguely.
Serena took a step closer to the bed. “I have to go. Is there anything I can get for you, Sam? Books, magazines, personal items?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Definitely the independent sort, she thought. He had nothing to his name but a backless hospital gown and he still didn’t ask for anything. A very intriguing man, this Sam Wallace—whoever he was.
“Well, then—I’ll see you later.” She moved toward the door. She had no doubt that she would be back. Something about the lonely, slightly confused expression in his bright blue eyes kept pulling her here.
Was she being a complete fool to let herself get involved with him, even on this temporary and casual basis?

“Well? What did you find out about him?” Petite, red-haired, green-eyed Lindsey Gray pounced the moment Serena walked into the Evening Star offices. “You went to see him at the hospital again, didn’t you? Did you talk to him? Did you learn more details about what happened to him?”
“Lindsey, take a breath or something,” Serena ordered, shaking her head in exasperation. “Geez, you’d think we’d never seen a stranger in this town before.”
“We haven’t very often. And never quite like this—so what did you find out?”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Serena gave a little shrug. “You’ve heard as much as I have. He said he was hitching through this area looking for temporary work when two men in a patched-together pickup truck gave him a ride, robbed him, beat him up and left him for dead in that ditch. He can’t describe the men very well because he has very little memory of the beating—a slight memory loss due to the concussion, which the doctor said is normal.”
“Where’s he from? What’s his story?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask many questions. He’s in a lot of discomfort, Lindsey. He isn’t up to being interviewed.”
Lindsey pouted. She was the only twenty-five-year-old woman Serena knew who could actually pout and get away with it.
To her disgust, Lindsey was destined to be thought of as cute, when what she really wanted to be was sharp and sophisticated. After obtaining a degree in journalism, she had gone to work for a newspaper in Little Rock for a couple of years before moving back to her little hometown to be close to her father, who was in ill health. She’d taken a significant pay cut to work for the Evening Star, but she took the job very seriously, attacking it with the same dedication she’d have given a position with the Washington Post or New York Times.
Sometimes Serena thought Lindsey took her job too seriously. She was constantly on the lookout for the “big story”—and the truth was, there just weren’t that many big stories in Edstown. With the exception of a recent rash of burglaries, not much happened around these parts. She mercilessly hounded the mayor and poor Chief Meadows, both of whom held a deep distrust of reporters and an ingrained aversion to any bad press about their town. But there was no doubt that the newspaper had been better since Lindsey arrived.
Speaking of which, Serena glanced around the unarguably shabby offices, which were quiet and deserted now that the evening edition had been printed and delivered. She knew some people were born with ink in their veins, that the smell of newsprint and the sounds of press machines gave them an almost sexual thrill. Serena looked around and saw only clutter and chaos.
She had never wanted to own her great-grandfather’s newspaper. That had been the destiny of her older sister, Kara. Serena was a lawyer, not a newshound, and she would just as soon have kept it that way. Unfortunately, there’d been no one else to take over after their father died last year, and three months later Kara left town with a wanna-be country music star, leaving Serena with Kara’s stupid dog and full responsibility for Great-granddad’s newspaper. Her first impulse had been to sell, but the very idea had distressed her mother so much that Serena had reluctantly agreed to give it a shot.
“Where’s Marvin?” she asked, glancing at the managing editor’s empty office. “He and I were supposed to discuss last month’s ad revenues this evening.”
Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Where do you think he is? He decided to pop over to Gaylord’s for a ‘quick nip’ before your meeting. That was two hours ago.”
There would be no discussing anything with Marvin tonight, Serena thought with a grimace. The aging editor—a longtime crony of her late grandfather’s—had been spending more and more time at Gaylord’s since his wife died two years ago. Marvin was tired and lonely and burned out, resistant to modern technology, nostalgic for the old days, but he didn’t want to retire. He’d said he would have no reason at all to get out of bed if he didn’t have a job to go to. As much as she truly hated the very thought, Serena was beginning to believe that she was going to have to pressure Marvin into retirement. It broke her heart, but it was rapidly becoming necessary.
Damn it, Kara, this should be your job.
Pushing a hand through her hair, she sighed heavily. “I’ll try to catch him tomorrow, I guess. Are you finished for the night?”
Lindsey shook her head and hoisted her oversize macramé bag onto her shoulder. “I’m going to the town council meeting. I’d better get moving, it starts in ten minutes.”
“I thought Riley was covering the council meeting tonight.”
“He is. I’m just going out of curiosity. Maybe I’ll have a chance to corner Dan after the meeting to ask what he’s found out about the men who mugged your stranger.”
“He isn’t my stranger,” Serena protested, though she was uncomfortably aware she’d fallen into the habit of thinking of him that way.
Lindsey waved a hand dismissively. “I’d just like to know exactly what Dan has done. What he’s found out—about the muggers or the victim. And what he’s going to do tomorrow.”
“You know how Dan hates it when you badger him about the way he does his job.”
Lindsey broke into a bright, impish smile—the one that transformed her face from cute to strikingly attractive. “I know. Why do you think I keep doing it?”
Though she would never mention it, Serena had long suspected that Lindsey carried a secret torch for the police chief. If it was true, Lindsey’s case seemed pretty hopeless. Dan was ten years her senior and a lifelong friend of Lindsey’s older brother. He tended to regard Lindsey as his own kid sister—when he didn’t see her as an annoying member of the press. Dan had also been through a divorce so ugly and bitter the townspeople were still talking about it two years later. He had said he was in no hurry to get seriously involved with anyone again. If ever.
All in all, it seemed a distinctly unlikely match. But maybe she was wrong about Lindsey’s feelings. Maybe Lindsey just enjoyed watching Dan foam at the mouth while she buzzed around him with her stubbornly persistent questions.
“Okay, go ask your questions,” Serena said with a quick laugh. “And, Lindsey, if you find out anything, let me know, okay?”
Lindsey sketched an impudent salute. “You got it, boss.”

Twenty-four hours. The man who had dubbed himself Sam Wallace shifted restlessly in the hospital bed, tried to lift his left hand to his face, winced, then raised his right hand instead. The IV pump bleated at him to straighten his arm. He cursed it beneath his breath but laid his arm down just to shut it up.
It had been just over twenty-four hours since Serena found him in that ditch. And his head was still as empty as the tiny closet provided for the belongings he hadn’t brought with him.
Frustration was beginning to eat at him. How could he remember so many trivial details—the president of the United States, the taste of chocolate ice cream, the irritation of too-starched shirts—yet not remember his own damned name? How could he recall the name of every bloodthirsty nurse he’d encountered since he’d arrived in this place and not remember his own mother?
Maybe he should just give in and confess the truth to the next person who entered that door. Let ’em poke him and probe him, X-ray his brain and find the holes there, bring in the shrinks and neurologists and whoever else they wanted to study him like a strange bug on a microscope slide. Amnesia, they would call it, and then they would look at him like he was some sort of freak or faker, because true amnesia was damned rare. He remembered that fact. He didn’t know how.
There was a quick rap on the door and then the night nurse entered. “You doing okay, Mr. Wallace?”
“Just peachy,” he drawled. He knew he wouldn’t be spilling the truth tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if the condition hadn’t already corrected itself by then. Or maybe he’d be dead by morning, felled by obstinacy and pride. At the moment, he was finding it real hard to care.

Chapter Three
“T he poor man. We have to do something to help him.”
Serena wasn’t at all surprised by her mother’s words. Marjorie Schaffer was an obsessive do-gooder. She belonged to every charitable organization in the area, had been president of most of them, had chaired every community outreach committee at her church, was still active in PTA more than ten years after her youngest daughter finished high school and would willingly give the clothes off her back to help someone in need. She had just decided that Sam Wallace fit that description.
“We have to be careful, Mother. We don’t really know anything about this guy,” Serena said, shaking a finger warningly at her mother. Dressed in baggy pajamas, she sat at the table in the kitchen, a cup of tea in front of her and her sister’s dog snoring at her feet. Her mother sat across the table in a matched peignoir set, her hair and makeup so perfect she looked as though she was posing for a photograph in a women’s magazine.
Marjorie didn’t seem at all concerned about Serena’s admonition. “You’ve spoken with him twice. You said he seemed quite pleasant.”
“Right. And Ted Bundy was known for his charm,” Serena retorted. “Really, Mother, this Sam Wallace could be a con man or a criminal, for all we know. It doesn’t make sense that he was just drifting through this area without a car or a destination. He hasn’t divulged anything about who he really is or where he’s from.”
“Obviously, he’s a man who’s down on his luck and in need of compassion. We’ll have to see what we can do to help him.”
Serena grimaced. “At least wait until Dan finishes his investigation before you get involved, will you? As suspicious as Dan is of outsiders, he’ll make it a point to find out if there’s any reason for us to be wary of Mr. Wallace.”
Marjorie murmured something noncommittal, then changed the subject before Serena could nag a promise from her. “Did I mention that Kara called while you were at work today?”
That too-casual announcement made Serena sit up straighter. “She did? How is she? Has she come to her senses? Is she coming home to take her place at the paper and reclaim this idiot mutt of hers?”
Marjorie’s laugh was tinged with just a hint of wistfulness. “I’m afraid not. She is still desperately in love with Pierce and determined to help him become a country music star. She’s waiting tables at a little nightclub outside of Nashville while he sings there three nights a week hoping to be discovered.”
Serena groaned. She honestly wondered if her older sister had lost her mind. Kara had always been as responsible and dependable as Serena, outwardly content to settle in Edstown and take over the family-owned newspaper. She’d been engaged briefly during her senior year of college, but that hadn’t worked out, and she’d seemed in no rush to get involved again.
Marjorie had often fretted that neither of her daughters was anxious to marry and start families, both focused more on establishing their careers and their independence than finding the right men. “Too picky,” she had called them, reminding them often that there weren’t many single males to choose from in this area and advising them to grab a couple before they were all gone.
Eight months ago, thirty-one-year-old Kara had met twenty-six-year-old Pierce Vanness during a girls’ night out at a bar in a neighboring town. Pierce had been the entertainment that evening, singing with a local band. Like a star-struck groupie, Kara had approached him between sets—and the rest was history. Kara had convinced Pierce to give up his day job working in his father’s shoe store and head for Nashville in search of stardom. She’d named herself his business manager—which seemed to involve supporting him while he pursued his dream.
Serena just couldn’t understand it.
Marjorie spent the next twenty minutes filling Serena in on all the details of Kara’s call. It occurred to Serena only after she’d gone up to bed that Marjorie had never promised to stay away from Sam Wallace until after Dan had thoroughly investigated him.

Sam sat in a chair in his hospital room, gazing out the window at the uninspiring view of the parking lot. The doctor had said it would be good for him to get out of bed, that it would help him build up his strength. Sam was more than ready for that, but he saw no evidence of it yet. His limbs were still as rubbery as a jellyfish. He didn’t want to believe that was a normal condition for him.
The ever-present IV pump stood on its wheeled stand beside his chair, chugging liquids into him through the needle still taped into the back of his hand. He was idly considering using the heavy metal stand to break the window and escape this place when someone tapped on his door and then pushed it open. Expecting one of his nurses, he was a bit surprised when his caller turned out to be a comfortably rounded woman in her mid-fifties with beauty-parlor curls lacquered into her salt-and-pepper hair and soft blue eyes behind plastic-framed glasses. She wore a pale green knit pantsuit and she carried a large black purse in one small hand.
“Mr. Wallace?” she asked.
Without confirming the name, he responded, “What can I do for you?”
She bustled into the room. As far as he could remember, he’d never actually seen anyone bustle before, but it was the only word that seemed to describe this woman’s quick, almost fluttery steps. “Actually, I’m here to find out what I can do for you. I’m Marjorie Schaffer.”
Shrink? Social worker? Had someone figured out his problem already? Acutely aware of his scratched bare legs sticking out from beneath the gown and paper-thin robe the hospital had provided, Sam cleared his throat. “Um—yes?”
“I’m Serena’s mother. She told me all about you.”
Relaxing a little, he murmured, “Did she?” It must not have been much of a conversation, considering how little there was to tell about him at this point.
Marjorie Schaffer bobbed her head. “She said you were passing through looking for work when two evil men robbed you and beat you up. I’m so sorry, Mr. Wallace. I hate to think anyone around here would do such a terrible thing.”
Just what he needed to flood him with guilt—this sweet little woman apologizing for a crime he’d concocted from thin air. He tugged his robe over his bare knees, trying to decide what to say in response.
She didn’t give him a chance to speak, but sank almost royally into the other chair and gazed at him kindly. “You have no family to turn to in your time of need, Mr. Wallace?”
“Um…no. No close family, anyway.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve lost both my parents, as well as my husband. It’s very difficult to be left so alone, isn’t it? I don’t know what I would do without my daughters.”
“Serena has a sister?”
“An older sister, Kara. She’s living in Nashville, Tennessee, now. She calls often, though. And she knows she’s always welcome to come home—and that Serena and I would both be there immediately if she needs us.”
Because she seemed to expect a comment, he said, “You’re very fortunate to have each other.”
Was there someone even now frantically searching for him? Ready and willing to offer him the type of comfort and support Marjorie Schaffer had just described? Someone who loved him enough to drop everything to come to him? He strained to remember, but the only result was a throbbing headache and a hollow feeling in his chest. If he had a loving family somewhere, they were as lost to him now as his real name.
The memories would come back when his injuries healed, he assured himself. And then he would offer a sincere apology to anyone who might have suffered because of his unplanned absence. But if there was someone who loved him—someone he loved in return—wouldn’t he sense it? Somehow?
“Mr. Wallace?” Marjorie broke into his torturous self-questioning, her soft face creased with concern as she leaned toward him. “Are you in pain?”
He immediately cleared his expression. “Just a headache.”
“Poor dear.” She patted his braced left hand, exactly as if he were a wounded six-year-old. “Should I call a nurse?”
Reacting instinctively to her tone, he answered, “No, ma’am. That isn’t necessary.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, thank you. Someone will be in soon enough.”
She sat back with a sympathetic smile. “If you’re anything like my late husband, you hate being in the hospital. He couldn’t abide the loss of privacy and dignity, even for his own good.”
That was a sentiment Sam heartily shared. “The doctor told me this morning that I’ll probably be released tomorrow. Most likely before noon.”
“So soon?”
Having seen himself in the bathroom mirror, he understood her surprise. The colorful scrapes and bruises that covered most of his exposed skin looked every bit as bad as they felt. He didn’t know whether it was those bruises or the amnesia that had made his face look so much like a stranger to him. But the injuries weren’t life-threatening, and the hospital administrators were probably growing a bit nervous about his lack of insurance. There was little more that could be done for him here. Time and patience were the best medicines for him now.
He just wished he knew where the hell he would go when he was ushered, barefoot and penniless, out of this place. If his memory had not returned by that point, he would be forced to admit the truth to someone. What else could he do?
“Where will you go when you leave here?” Marjorie asked, as if she’d somehow read his thoughts.
“I’m not sure.” He kept his tone deliberately nonchalant. “I guess I’ll play that by ear.”
“What sort of work were you hoping to find before those awful men attacked you?”
Again, he didn’t know quite how to answer her. It was harder, for some reason, to lie to this kind-eyed woman than it had been with the others. Yet something deep inside him refused to let the truth come out. Pride? Fear? He didn’t know what instinct held him back, what repercussions he feared most, but he was no more willing to confess his amnesia now than he had been before.
“As long as it’s legal, I’m not particularly selective about the jobs I take,” he said, bluffing.
“What about waiting tables? Is that a job you would consider?”
“Waiting tables?” He had a vague image of himself sitting in a dimly lit restaurant while white-coated servers set plates of food in front of him. Obviously a glimmer of memory—but where was that restaurant? And who had been sitting on the other side of the table for two he’d envisioned? “I can wait tables.”
She nodded, looking curiously satisfied. “Good. If you’re interested, I have a job for you. You can start as soon as you’ve recovered sufficiently to be on your feet for several hours.”
“You, uh, have a job for me?”
“Yes. I own a little diner downtown. The Rainbow Café. We’re open Monday through Saturday for breakfast and lunch, and we do a brisk business on week-days. I’ve just lost two employees. You can work for me when you’re released—or as soon as you’re physically able, if you need a few days to recover first.”
Sam blinked a couple of times. “Um…a diner?” He couldn’t seem to stop foolishly parroting her.
She nodded brusquely. “I can’t pay you a lot, of course, but you’re in no shape to work at construction or other more physically challenging jobs. You can work for me at least until you recover all your strength, which might take a few weeks.”
“Why are you offering this, Mrs. Schaffer?” He was pretty sure this generous offer was unusual from a complete stranger.
Her smile was angelic. “Because I need your help, Mr. Wallace. And because you need mine. That seems like a fair trade, doesn’t it?”
Surely his memory would return by tomorrow. Maybe he would remember that he did, indeed, have insurance—or a couple of million dollars set aside for emergencies. But just in case… “Thank you. I accept your offer.”
She nodded as if there’d never been any doubt. “You’ll need a place to stay, of course.”
“I’m sure I can—”
“I have a place you can use until you get something more permanent. It’s a little one-bedroom guest house my late husband built for my mother a few years before she passed away. It’s completely separate from the house Serena and I share, so you would have your privacy. You’re welcome to stay there rent-free while you’re working to pay off your medical bills. If you want to stay longer than that, we can discuss rent then.”
“You’re being very kind.” Scary-kind, actually. Did normal people really do things like this?
She beamed at him. “I’ve been accused of making snap judgments, but I’m almost always correct in my instincts about people. I know you’re a good man, Sam. You just need a little help right now.”
He was humbled by her blind faith in him. He hoped she was right. He wanted to believe he was one of the good guys, but for all he knew, he could be a bum or a con man. If the latter was true, he was pulling a hell of a scam this time. He’d even managed to fool himself.
Marjorie stood. “That’s all settled, then. I’m sure my daughter will be by to visit you later. You let her know if you need anything, you hear? We’ll take care of it.”
“Mrs. Schaffer—” He wanted to stand, but that didn’t seem like a very good idea just then, since he would probably fall flat on his face. “Are you sure about all this? As touched as I am by your faith in me, we both know I’m still very much a stranger to you. I would hate to disappoint you.”
She patted his head—exactly as though he were that sick child in need of reassurance, he couldn’t help thinking again. “My husband’s favorite quote was the one that says there are no strangers, only friends we haven’t met yet. Now that we’ve met, I’d like to think we’ll become friends, Sam. I’ll see you soon.”
Some time later he was still staring at the door through which she had disappeared, and still utterly bemused by her unexpected offers. Just what kind of place had he landed in, anyway? Very little so far seemed real to him.
The name Brigadoon flitted through his mind, and he had a vague idea that it was a fictional town with strange, magical properties. From a book he’d read, perhaps, or a film he’d seen—he couldn’t quite remember. He did remember that the people who lived there could never escape.
Was Edstown, Arkansas, his own personal Brigadoon?

Later that day, Serena paused in the doorway of the hospital room in a very uncertain frame of mind. Sam was lying in his bed, staring at the television mounted high on the wall. The TV was tuned to a cable news network, and he was watching as intently as though he would be tested on the subject matter later that evening. His expression was similar to the one that had tugged at her heartstrings before. The one that looked…lost.
“Mr. Wallace?”
He didn’t quite start, but she’d obviously taken him by surprise. He turned his head to look at her, then offered a faint smile of greeting. “Ms. Schaffer.”
“You called me Serena before,” she reminded him, stepping farther into the room.
“And you called me Sam before.”
“Yes.” She perched on the edge of the straight-backed visitor’s chair beside his bed. “I heard you met my mother today.”
“Yes. She’s quite…unusual. A delightful woman.”
“Both adjectives are correct,” she assured him. “She is delightful…and most definitely unusual.”
“Is she always so trusting of strangers?”
Watching his face closely, Serena shook her head. “She isn’t particularly gullible, if that’s what you’re asking—though I can see why you might think she is. She really is a shrewd judge of character, and a sharp businesswoman. She simply makes her decisions about people very quickly.”
“And she’s never been swindled by anyone she trusted so quickly?”
“Not as far as I know. At least, not in any significant way.”
He shook his head in obvious amazement. “That’s hard to believe. Did she tell you she offered me a job? And a place to live?”
She had, actually—and Serena’s first response had been dismay. “Have you lost your mind?” she had asked her mother. “You’ve invited a total stranger to live in our own backyard?”
“Serena, he’s a very nice man who needs our help,” Marjorie had answered calmly. “What kind of people would we be if we turned our backs on someone in that poor man’s circumstances?”
“And what will happen to us if he isn’t a very nice man?”
Marjorie had waved off the question with typical confidence in her own judgment, leaving Serena to do the worrying.
“My mother has a soft heart and a generous nature,” Serena said to Sam. “I would hate for anyone to try to take advantage of those traits.”
“If that’s a not-so-veiled warning, I received it loud and clear.”
She kept her smile cool. “I hope so.”
“I take it you don’t share your mother’s predilection for snap judgments.”
“I tend to be a bit more cautious about giving my trust.”
He was watching her now as closely as she’d studied him earlier. “That’s very wise of you.”
“The truth is, I’m not as good as my mother at reading people. I’ve learned to be more careful.”
“Personal experience being burned?”
“Once or twice.” She quickly changed the subject. “So you’re going to work in the diner. Do you have training for waiting tables?”
He shrugged. “How hard can it be?”
She couldn’t help smiling at that. She would love to be around to watch his first encounter with her mother’s busy lunch crowd, all of them in a hurry to eat and return to their jobs. “Mom said you’re being released tomorrow. Do you know what time?”
“Sometime tomorrow morning. Before noon, they said.”
“I’ll be here to pick you up. Is there anything you need me to bring in the morning?”
His eyebrows rose. “You understand that your mother has offered to let me stay in your guest house?”
“Yes, I know. She’s probably dusting and freshening it as we speak.”
“And you have no objections to this arrangement?”
“I suppose not. After all, Mother already offered.”
“And you claim that she is the trusting one in the family?”
Serena wrinkled her nose at him, amused by his expression. “I don’t have to completely trust you to give you a hand in the morning. Not that I don’t trust you, of course,” she added quickly, in case he’d taken offense. “What I meant to say is—”
He laughed. The sound was so unexpected—and so pleasant—that it silenced her babbling. “I know what you meant,” he assured her. “And there’s no need to apologize. I appreciate your help. I hope I can find a way to repay you and your mother someday for the kindness you’ve shown me.”
Somewhat stiffly, she murmured, “I wasn’t apologizing.”
“Good.”
A young woman in teddy-bear-print scrubs carried a covered tray into the room. “Dinner, Mr. Wallace.”
He eyed the tray without enthusiasm. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a thick steak under there? Or maybe lasagna?”
With an apologetic smile, she set the tray on the wheeled bed table. “I’m afraid not. It’s macaroni and cheese with English peas and Jell-O.”
The look Sam gave Serena almost made her laugh. It was quite clear that he wasn’t looking forward to his dinner.
“There’s a corn bread muffin to go with it,” the young woman said almost anxiously, as if eager to please him. “I’ve heard the corn bread is pretty good.”
Displaying a smoothness that immediately set off Serena’s alarms, Sam gave the woman a near-blinding smile. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, then. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She almost stammered, and she was blushing when she hurried out of the room.
Serena doubted that this little hospital had seen many patients like golden-haired, blue-eyed, wicked-dimpled Sam Wallace. She’d heard gossip that the nurses had all but competed with each other to take his vital signs. LuWanda had told her in the hallway earlier that he was one of the nicest young men she’d ever taken care of. “So funny and polite,” she’d raved. “It’s such a shame about his circumstances. Something terrible must have happened to cause such a smart, obviously well-educated man to end up without a home or a job. No one to turn to in his time of need.”
“Maybe he’s just a loner,” Serena had suggested. “Someone who can’t stay in one place for very long. One of those guys who’s incapable of forming lasting attachments.”
“I don’t think so,” LuWanda had murmured thoughtfully. “Have you seen the look in his eyes? Something tragic happened to him—maybe the death of someone he loved deeply or something awful like that. He’s running from a broken heart or tragic memories. I’d bet my next week’s salary on it.”
Remembering those fanciful words, Serena studied Sam’s eyes. Once again the first adjective that came to her mind when she tried to identify his expression was “lost.” She wasn’t sure if Sam Wallace was running away from something or looking for something, but he was obviously not a happy man. But, oh, could he turn on the charm.
Before he could wonder why she was just sitting there staring at him, Serena stood. “I’ll leave you to your delicious dinner.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She chuckled at his unenthusiastic response. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sam.”
She was aware that he watched her leave—as if he was reluctant to see her go. The poor guy must really be lonely, she thought—and then realized in annoyed exasperation that she was beginning to sound just like her mother. Both of them had darned well better be careful—just in case Sam Wallace wasn’t as charming as he appeared.

Chapter Four
B y ten the next morning, Sam was free to go. The IV had been removed and he’d been given a list of instructions and a few painkillers, in case he needed them. The only thing he didn’t have was clothes. He was still wearing the backless cotton hospital gown. The shirt and pants he’d worn when he’d been brought in had been cut away, he was apologetically informed. Someone would try to find him a pair of pajamas to leave in.
He was working up to a pretty good case of self-pity when Serena came into his room, her arms filled with blue plastic discount store bags. “I brought you some clothes,” she said without preamble. “They aren’t exactly designer label, and I had to guess at sizes, but they should do until you can replace your own things.”
He eyed the pile of bags she had dumped unceremoniously on the foot of the bed. “You bought me clothes?”
She shrugged, obviously determined not to make a big deal of it. “Just a few things. Almost all of it was on sale. I picked up two pairs of shoes in different sizes. I hope one of them fits. I’ll take the other pair back for a refund.”
He was oddly touched by her actions, and by her painfully self-conscious expression. “Thank you.”
She avoided his eyes. “I’ll go have a cup of coffee or something while you get dressed.”
“I won’t take long. I’m more than ready to get out of this place.”
He’d been half afraid Dr. Purtle—the man everyone referred to as Dr. Frank—was going to change his mind about the release. Sam wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong during the exam that morning, but Dr. Frank hadn’t seemed quite satisfied with the results. He’d asked repeatedly if Sam was experiencing a headache—which he wasn’t—and if he was sure he was seeing clearly—which he was. And then he’d asked if Sam was experiencing any loss of memory other than about the attack itself, which was natural. Sam had looked the kindly, concerned older man straight in the eye and lied through his teeth.
“No memory gaps, Doc,” he had said. And it hadn’t been a real lie, he reflected bitterly. There were no gaps in his memory. There was no memory at all. Not a clue who he’d been or what he’d done prior to waking up in this hospital with Serena Schaffer sitting beside his bed.
He didn’t know if the amnesia was a sign of a physical problem or an emotional one—maybe he just didn’t want to remember his past—but it was real. Whether he was brain damaged or a candidate for a psych ward, no amount of effort on his part had brought forth a single detail about his life. He probably did belong on a psych ward. What kind of nutcase would let himself be released from a hospital without admitting to anyone that there was still something seriously wrong with him?
To distract himself from a question that had no rational answer, he dug in the bags Serena had carried in. He found underwear, T-shirts and tube socks. Two pairs of classic styled jeans, a brown leather belt and three T-shirts in assorted colors. Two button-up shirts—one white, one blue denim. A package of disposable razors, a can of shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb—things the hospital had provided for him, but thoughtful additions on Serena’s part. And the two pairs of sneakers she’d mentioned—size ten and eleven. For all he knew, he wore an eight or fourteen—his shoe size was as lost to him as his real name.
Fifteen minutes later he had to acknowledge that Serena had a good eye for sizes. He wore the denim shirt with a pair of jeans and the size-eleven shoes. The thirty-four-inch-waist jeans were a little loose, but he cinched the belt to make up for it. The shirt fit perfectly.
He was frowning at the bruise the IV needle had left on his hand when Serena tapped on the door and then entered. She appraised his appearance with one quick, comprehensive glance. “Looks like my guesses were close.”
“Everything fits fine. You can return the size-ten shoes. I’ll pay you back for everything as soon as I can.”
“There’s no rush,” she assured him, looking uncomfortable again. “You’ll need to pay your medical bills first. Actually, you could consider the clothes a birthday present.”
“A birthday present?” he repeated blankly.
She smiled. “Today’s the twenty-second. Had you forgotten?”
June twenty-second. The day he’d selected at random when the nurse had asked for his date of birth. At the time, he hadn’t even known it was June. He wished now he’d chosen a date in December. “I’ll pay you back for the clothes,” he said, and he tried to make it clear that he didn’t want any further argument about it.
Serena only shrugged and turned toward the remaining packages. “I should have thought to include a duffel bag or something. I guess these bags will have to do for now. I’ll tell LuWanda we’re ready to go. I think you have to leave in a wheelchair.”
“I think not.” The very suggestion made his lip curl.
Eyeing his expression, Serena said hastily, “I’m sure they’ll let you walk, if you prefer.”
Fortunately, LuWanda didn’t try to insist on a wheelchair. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” she said, patting his arm. “And if you have any problems, you be sure and give Dr. Frank a call. Any dizziness, headache, double vision—anything like that—you pick up a phone, you hear?”
Since he wasn’t experiencing any of the above, it seemed safe enough to agree. “Sure. I’ll do that.”
LuWanda gave him a long, rather stern look. “Your health isn’t something to take for granted, young man. The doctor can’t help you if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.”
It was entirely possible that he hadn’t been doing as good a job at fooling everyone as he’d believed. She didn’t know what his problem was, of course, but she obviously suspected there was something he was holding back. He wanted to get out of here before he somehow gave himself away. If he decided to reveal his memory loss to Dr. Frank, he wanted it to be his choice, and on his own terms.
On an impulse, he leaned over to brush a kiss against the nurse’s soft, plump cheek, ignoring the protest from his cracked ribs. “Thank you for everything,” he murmured.
He had the satisfaction of seeing the gruff-spoken, kindhearted tyrant blush as she hurried out of the room.
Sam turned to Serena, finding her watching him with a wary frown. “What?”
She shook her head and gathered plastic bags into her arms. “I’m going to be keeping a close eye on you, Sam Wallace.”
She was reminding him that she still didn’t quite trust him. Her words should have made him nervous—but instead he found the thought of being watched closely by Serena Schaffer rather intriguing….

Sam’s first glimpse of the Schaffer house made him think again of that magical fictional town that was just a bit too flawless to be real. The tidy white frame house had neat black shutters and a front porch complete with big wooden rockers. Flowers bloomed in the yard. Even the weather contributed to the overall image of unreal perfection. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across a sky so blue it looked almost like a painted movie set.
This situation had the makings of a great horror film, he decided with wry whimsy. Two generous, seemingly kindhearted women living in a house straight out of a fairy tale, offering their hospitality to a man whose memory had been mysteriously wiped clean. A half dozen chilling scenarios played through his foggy mind from that beginning. Had he written horror stories in his previous life, or had he simply enjoyed reading them?
Serena followed the driveway around the side of the house and drove into a two-car garage at the back. A small import car was parked in the other bay, and Sam assumed it belonged to Marjorie. He climbed carefully out of Serena’s low two-seater, his aching ribs and muscles protesting the movements. He was forced to steady himself with one hand against the vehicle as the garage swam dizzily around him for a moment.
Serena watched him over the hood of the car. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He had answered more curtly than he intended, but he hated being so weak in front of her. If he ever found out who had done this to him… Even more important, he’d like to know why.
She insisted on carrying most of the packages—as if he were incapable of toting a few clothes in plastic bags, he thought in exasperation. Making an effort not to limp or cradle his throbbing sprained wrist, he followed Serena out of the garage and down a brick path. The guest house, as Marjorie had referred to it, was mostly hidden from the road, so this was Sam’s first real look at it. Designed to match the style of the main house, it had a front porch just big enough to hold a wooden rocker.
Serena opened the front door with a key she then handed to Sam. Even as he accepted it, he was aware of the risk she was taking in giving it to him. He had no intention of taking advantage of her generosity—but she certainly had no way of knowing that.
The inside of the guest house was as tidy as the outside. Sam didn’t have to be reminded that an elderly lady had lived here. The old-fashioned furniture, doilies and bric-a-brac would have given that away. Feeling like the bull in the china shop, he was pretty sure this was a far cry from the way he usually lived. Yet he was so relieved to be out of the hospital that he would happily coexist with a few doilies. “It’s nice.”
“Grandma called it ‘cozy.’ One bedroom, one bath, a kitchen and this living room. There’s no phone, but you can come to our house if you need to make a call.”
He shrugged. “There’s no one I need to call.”
“Mother stocked fresh linens and a few basic grocery items for you. If you need anything else, feel free to ask.”
“I’m going to pay you and your mother back for everything,” he said, turning to look at her. “The clothes, the food, the rent—you’ll be reimbursed for all of it.”
“We’ll talk about that after you see about your medical bills.” She piled the bags she had carried on one of the two wing chairs. And then she glanced his way, and her eyes narrowed. “Did Dr. Frank send any pain pills home with you?”
“A few, but I don’t need one,” he answered, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head, his wrist, his rib cage—pretty much everywhere.
“I’ll get you a glass of water. You find your pills.”
Her tone didn’t encourage argument, but he tried anyway. “I really don’t—”
“Sam.” She cut in firmly. “You won’t recover unless you take care of yourself. If the pills will let you rest in relative comfort for the next few days, then you should take the pills.”
He lifted an eyebrow. She sounded so determined, it seemed like a waste of breath to argue any further. “Okay. I’ll take one.”
His sudden capitulation apparently caught her off guard. “All right, then,” she said after a moment, and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back with the water.”
Rather than waiting for her, he followed her into the kitchen, pulling the sample pack of pills out of his pocket. Like the living room, the kitchen was small and efficient, with not an inch of wasted space. Serena opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler, which she filled with tap water. She jumped when she turned to find Sam only a step or two away. Water splashed over the side of the tumbler. “I didn’t hear you behind me,” she said unnecessarily.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Did you find your pills?”
He opened his hand to show her the small yellow tablet in his palm.
Serena handed him the tumbler. He swallowed the pill, washed it down with half the water, then reached around her to set the glass on the counter. His arm brushed hers with the movement, and he felt her stiffen. Had the kitchen been bigger, he suspected she would have done a quick sidestep away from him. But since that move would have flattened her against the refrigerator, she stayed where she was. Sam was the one who moved away. As nice as it was to be close to her, he didn’t want to give her a reason to regret offering him a place to recuperate.
“I’ll leave you to settle in,” she said, avoiding his eyes as she moved toward the doorway. “Mother’s cooking a big lunch. She wanted me to invite you to join us—or, if you don’t feel up to that, she’ll bring a plate out to you. The meal should be ready by one, which will give you a couple of hours to rest first.”

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