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Under the Mistletoe with John Doe
Judy Duarte
When the unconscious, well-dressed stranger was brought into the Brighton Valley E.R., Betsy Nielson couldn't help but notice how irresistibly attractive he was.He might not remember who he was, but the mysterious John Doe was already turning the dedicated Texas doctor's head. Now something was telling her to trust in him even if it meant risking her heart again…. The last thing he remembered was being struck from behind and going down for the count.Now he was lying in a hospital bed with a red-haired angel tending to him. Though John might have lost his memory, he knew he wanted Betsy in his life - permanently. But how could he offer her a future until he'd figured out his past?



Unable to help herself, Betsy reached out and stroked his cheek, fingering his solid, square-cut jaw, the faint bristle of his beard.
His gaze locked on hers, stirring up something deep within her, and any reservations about getting involved with him flew out the window.
As he lowered his mouth to hers, his musky, masculine scent assaulted her better judgment and set her mind swirling in a maelstrom of desire.
This was so not what she’d planned, but it no longer seemed to matter.
He brushed his lips against hers—once, twice, a third time. Then he took her mouth and claimed it.

Dear Reader,
I don’t think there could be a better setting for a Christmas romance than Brighton Valley, Texas.
Within the pages of the book you’re holding, you’ll meet Dr. Betsy Nielson, a dedicated physician at the Brighton Valley Medical Center. Betsy, who was betrayed by her ex-husband, is facing the holiday season head-on, determined to focus on her work and her patients. But when a tall, dark and handsome mugging victim is brought into the E.R., battered and suffering from amnesia, Betsy is tempted to do something she’s never done before—get involved with a patient. Still, can she trust a man who doesn’t even know his own name?
I don’t know about your life, but mine gets busy and hectic during November and December. So I try to take time for myself and relax whenever I can. One good way I relax is by curling up with a book whenever I get a chance. I hope you’ll do the same.
Merry Christmas and happy reading,
Judy

Under the Mistletoe with John Doe
Judy Duarte



JUDY DUARTE
always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.
Her dream became a reality in March of 2002, when Silhouette Special Edition released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then, she has published more than twenty novels.
Her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. And in July of 2005, Judy won the prestigious Readers’ Choice Award for The Rich Man’s Son.
Judy makes her home near the beach in Southern California. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous but delightfully close family.
To Janet Elmore, who reads every book I write.
This one’s for you, Janet! I hope you like it, too.

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
Epilogue

Chapter One
A Texas honky-tonk was the last place Jason Alvarez could have imagined himself being on a Wednesday night. But here he was, turning into the graveled driveway of the Stagecoach Inn.
It had been a long day, starting with an early morning workout at the gym, followed by an executive board meeting at Alvarez Industries. After having a business lunch with his brothers at an upscale restaurant in downtown San Diego, he’d flown to Houston on the corporate jet, then rented a car and made a two-hour drive to Brighton Valley.
He’d stopped once he’d reached the sleepy little town and asked where he could find a local watering hole. Apparently this backwoods cowboy dive was the nearest and the most popular.
The parking lot was only half-full, though, so finding a spot was easy. He pulled in between a white Chrysler LeBaron with a missing taillight and a beat-up Chevy pickup with gun racks and pasted decals in the rear window that said the driver’s name was Eddie and his passenger was Arlene.
Without even stepping inside the place, Jason had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the music or fit in with the crowd. But he was on a mission, and personal preferences didn’t matter.
So he shut off the ignition of the rental car, a black Cadillac Seville, and unhooked his seat belt. But he didn’t get out right away.
Instead, he reached for the bottle of aspirin he’d tucked into the pocket of his sports jacket and opened the child-resistant cap. Then he threw a couple of tablets into his mouth and chased them down with the remainder of the bottled water he kept in the built-in cup holder.
His head was aching again, a result of the concussion he’d suffered earlier this week in an automobile accident.
He’d been using the Bluetooth device on his cell phone when it happened, distracted by a business matter, his mind on everything but the road. His Mercedes had zipped right through the intersection, T-boning a minivan and injuring a pregnant blonde as well as her little girl.
Jason, who’d suffered only a concussion and some minor bruises and lacerations, had rushed to help the other victims, calling 9-1-1 as he did so.
Then he’d stood by helplessly as firemen used the Jaws of Life to remove the woman from the driver’s seat and the paramedics treated the child. The police had questioned him, and he’d clearly been at fault—the officers had known it, and Jason had known it.
When they’d told him he should be checked out by EMTs and taken to the hospital just to make sure he was okay, he’d declined treatment, saying he’d see his personal physician later.
The memories were just as clear now as they’d been on Saturday afternoon—the shattered glass, the twisted metal, the moans of the pregnant driver, the cries of the frightened little girl.
The guilt had just about sucked the life out of him, and he’d finally confided in Mike, his older brother, telling him that he thought he should take a leave of absence. He’d just wanted some time to sort out a few things—and he wasn’t just talking about the guilt he was dealing with because of the accident. He wondered if the concussion he’d suffered might have done something to his thought process because he was questioning a whole lot of things the past few days, things he’d never even blinked at before.
But Mike, who was facing a false accusation and a few legal problems of his own, had said, “Don’t worry about it, little brother. Accidents happen, and what’s done is done. I’ve got the company attorneys on it already.”
Yeah, right. The same attorneys who were already at work on the allegation of sexual harassment against Mike—a charge he was probably guilty of. And one that would make the family look bad.
Jason raked a hand through his hair, glanced into the rearview mirror at his haggard reflection, then shook his head and blew out a sigh. No matter how badly he felt about the tragic accident he’d caused, his brother had been right about one thing—there wasn’t much he could do about it after the fact.
But the guilt and the memory of the whole surreal scene was something he’d have to live with for a long, long time.
Now, as he got out of the car and hit the lock button on the key-ring remote, he glanced at the orange-neon open sign that hung off-kilter from a front window of the cowboy bar. He sure hoped his hunch had been right, that Pedro Salas had returned to his hometown. And that the former employee would agree to come back to California to testify on behalf of Mike and the entire Alvarez family—if he needed to.
To make the request even more appealing, he’d been told to offer Pedro his old job back—if he wanted it.
Of course, that smacked of a bribe, as far as Jason was concerned. And if it was, he’d have to deal with the reality of his oldest brother’s fall from grace—at least, in Jason’s eyes.
He supposed that a lot had to ride on just what Pedro had to say.
As Jason’s leather soles crunched upon the graveled parking lot, he hoped that he’d find Pedro here, drowning his sorrows in a bottle. It certainly seemed likely, because drinking on the job had led to Pedro’s discharge from Alvarez Industries. And that was why looking for him in one of the local bars seemed to be the logical first step.
Jason had always liked Pedro. He’d sympathized with him, too. The poor guy had lost his wife and son in a fire back in 2002 and had never gotten over the loss.
It was easy to see, especially now, how a man might want to escape painful memories and grief any way he could—at least for a while.
Jason was tempted to shake his own demons, too—the nightmares of sirens, the blood, the cries. The fact that his focus on business, rather than the road ahead, had caused the whole thing.
Hell, even his ex-wife had accused him of being so obsessed with work that he was incapable of loving anyone more than he loved Alvarez Industries.
At the time, he’d wanted to argue with her, but a piece of him had been afraid that she might be right.
As Jason stepped into the darkened bar, music blared from an old jukebox and hoots of laughter tore through the room, its air heavy with stale smoke and booze.
For a moment, it seemed as if he’d stepped onto a movie set, and he couldn’t help pausing in the doorway for a beat, watching the people cut loose and have fun. But the sooner he found Pedro, the sooner he could go home.
When he spotted an empty table, he made his way across the scuffed and scarred hardwood floor. He’d hardly taken a seat when a cocktail waitress with bleached-blond hair approached. He guessed her to be in her late thirties, but it was hard to tell. Nicotine, booze or a hard life had a way of aging a person beyond his or her years.
She offered him a smile that failed to take the load off her shoulders. “What’ll you have?”
He wasn’t sure if a bar out in the sticks would carry imported beer. “Do you have Corona?”
She nodded. “You want lime with it?”
“Yes, thanks.” He watched her walk away, but not because he fancied her. Instead, he noted the way she rolled her shoulders as if her back ached.
When she returned, she set his drink in front of him.
“I’m looking for a man named Pedro Salas,” he said. “From what I understand, he was born and raised in Brighton Valley and had planned to retire here.”
“Is he an old guy?” she asked.
“About forty-five or fifty.”
“That’s pretty young to retire.” She glanced at Jason’s sports jacket, probably noting the expensive fabric, the stylish cut. “Well, unless he’s rich or something.”
For the first time, he began to realize his hunch might have been wrong, that Pedro might have stayed in California and found another job. But the last time they’d talked, he’d had such a yearning, wistful look in his eyes when he’d talked about ranches and horses that Jason made the assumption that he’d run home.
“He mentioned that his father used to work on a small spread in this area,” Jason added. “He grew up on the place and went to school here.”
She seemed to give it some thought, then slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell. And there’re quite a few ranches in these parts—both big and small.”
She could have left it at that, but instead, she hung back, as though hoping for an invitation to sit with him, to chat awhile longer, to rest her tired feet.
But he wasn’t up for company. And even though he wasn’t a loner or a drifter by nature, he’d just as soon finish his beer and then find a room for the night.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Well, my name’s Trina. Just give me a holler when you want another beer.”
“I will.”
As she went on her way, he took a healthy chug of the ice-cold Corona and scanned the bar crowd, most of whom didn’t appear to have noticed him.
There was a part of Jason that just wanted to find Pedro and get a declaration that the attorneys could work with. But rather than flying home immediately after completing the task, it seemed a whole lot more appealing to hang out in a small town like this for a while, in a place where no one knew him or his family, where he’d have the peace and privacy to sort out a few things.
But he couldn’t afford to take the time away from the office long enough to lick his wounds.
He supposed Renee, his ex, had been right about him. He was too focused on business. But his family had always been important to him, and his loyalty ran deep. Of course, he wasn’t going to cry in his beer over the divorce—or the accident. Not here, not now.
Instead, he decided to make his way through the honky-tonk and ask people about Pedro.
Ten minutes later, he hadn’t learned squat. So far, no one seemed to know the man he’d been looking for. He wasn’t sure if his lead on Pedro had been false or if people had collectively clammed up in a small-town effort to protect their own.
Either way, neither the aspirin nor the beer had taken the edge off his headache, and he decided to call it a night.
He reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. After leaving it on the table for Trina, he got to his feet.
He’d no more than started for the door when a tall, lanky cowboy entered the bar, along with a short, stocky companion. Jason wondered if it was worth talking to either of them, but before he could make a move one way or the other, Trina approached the men.
When she faced them head-on, she slapped her hands on her hips. “Unless you two are carrying more than counterfeit bills this time, your money’s not welcome here.”
“You can’t blame that on us,” the chubby guy said. “We got ’em right out of the ATM down at the filling station.”
“Yeah, right,” Trina said. “Are you going to leave? Or do I have to call security?”
“You mean that scrawny old geezer you called last time?” The slim one laughed. “He couldn’t throw my ninety-eight-pound granny across the room.”
Chubby headed for the bar, clearly not listening to the waitress and apparently not worried about whoever provided security at the honky-tonk.
“I told you to get out of here,” Trina said, raising her voice above the din of music and all the barroom chatter.
Ignoring Trina’s words and tone, Slim stood tall and threw his chest out. “What do you care, baby? You don’t own the place. And that quarter tip we left after your lousy service was the real deal.”
Jason scanned the cowboy joint, looking for security or for a sign that someone would back him up, but the jukebox blared with a lively beat and the hoots of laughter continued. So finding someone to step up to the plate and take his side wasn’t likely.
When Slim grabbed Trina’s arm and gave it a jerk and a twist, Jason’s protective instinct kicked in and he made his way toward them.
“Why don’t you guys just back off and leave the lady alone,” he said.
“She ain’t no lady.” Slim released his grip on Trina and turned to Jason. “And who in the hell are you?”
“Just a man who doesn’t like to see women mistreated.” Jason preferred to use his head instead of his brawn, but that might not be an option tonight.
Fortunately, at that point, a big burly guy stepped in—a bouncer, it seemed.
And this one wasn’t a scrawny old man.
At about six-foot-six and probably weighing close to three hundred pounds—nearly all muscle—he could have taken on a couple of linebackers for the Houston Texans without breaking a sweat.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the bouncer said, “so you guys will have to take your squabble outside. Or better yet, go on home and call it a night.”
Slim mellowed right out and tossed the man a chipped-tooth grin. “We were just havin’ a little fun.”
The bouncer crossed his muscular arms, his biceps stretching the cotton fabric of his T-shirt to the limit. “Yeah, well, take your fun somewhere else.”
“Come on,” Slim called to his buddy. “Let’s go on down to Larry’s Place. The help is a lot friendlier there.”
Apparently, Chubby saw the wisdom in Slim’s suggestion, and they both headed out the door like a couple of docile pups, their tails tucked between their legs.
When they were gone, the bouncer turned his gaze on Jason, as though he wasn’t all that welcome here, either.
“It’s okay,” Trina said on Jason’s behalf. “This guy hasn’t been any trouble. He stepped in to defend me while you were in the stockroom.”
Jason wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from the bouncer—a thank-you, maybe. But he didn’t get anything.
He did, however, make a mental note to check out Larry’s Place tomorrow. He certainly wasn’t going to follow Slim and Chubby anywhere tonight.
“Do you know where I can find a motel?” he asked Trina.
“The Night Owl is a couple of blocks down the street.”
“Thanks.”
“It doesn’t look like much on the outside,” she added, “but it’s clean and the beds are soft.”
He didn’t ask how she knew that. Instead, he thanked her, then strode toward the door. On his way out, he reached into his pocket for the keys to his rental car and headed for the parking lot.
A streetlight at the road was flickering, yet it gave off just enough light for him to see someone near the driver’s door of his vehicle, as if trying to break in.
“Hey!” he called out, picking up his pace.
Chubby looked up, but he didn’t appear to be too concerned about being caught in the act.
Where was Slim?
Footsteps sounded behind him, but before he could turn around, his head exploded with pain—then everything went black.

The E.R. at the Brighton Valley Medical Center had been unusually quiet, even for a weekday night, but Dr. Betsy Nielson wouldn’t complain.
While doing her internship, she’d learned to use her downtime wisely, so she went into the break room and poured herself a cup of coffee.
But as usual, the peace and quiet didn’t last long.
Dawn McGregor, one of the nurses on staff, poked her head in the doorway. “Dr. Nielson? We’ve got an ambulance on the way with an unconscious man in his late twenties–early thirties. He was robbed and beaten up outside the Stagecoach Inn.”
Betsy took another sip of coffee before pouring it down the sink. “What’s the ETA?”
“Three-and-a-half minutes.” Dawn handed Betsy a list of the man’s vitals that had been relayed to the hospital via the radio in the ambulance.
Betsy glanced at the readings, making note of them, then headed for the triage area.
Moments later, the automatic door swung open as paramedics rushed the victim into the E.R.
Showtime, Betsy thought, as she met them partway and began a visual assessment of the patient while they all moved into the exam area.
Blunt-force trauma. Lacerations and bruises…
As she moved in closer, she realized that the man had gotten some of his injuries before today. One wound near his hairline already had sutures.
She guessed them to be about a week old—maybe less.
A bar fight? she wondered, coming to that conclusion because of where he’d been when he’d gotten this beating. That and the fact that the Stagecoach Inn had had more than its share of scuffles lately, resulting in their hiring an ex-marine as a bouncer.
She smelled alcohol on the patient, but it wasn’t as though he’d been stewing in it all day, like a lot of the other drunken Stagecoach regulars who ended up in one of the E.R. exam rooms during one of her nighttime shifts.
“What happened?” she asked Sheila Conway, the head paramedic, as she ordered lab work and an MRI.
“He was hit from behind and rolled. No wallet, no cash, no credit cards on him. And he’s completely out of it.”
His clothing, while bloody, was expensive and stylish. Definitely not the usual patron of the Stagecoach Inn.
“Anyone know his name?”
“Nope.”
“What about his vehicle?” Betsy asked. “Did they check the registration?”
“If he had a car, it might have been stolen. From what we were told, all the cars in the parking lot have been accounted for.”
“Didn’t anyone know who he is?”
“Apparently, he walked in alone, asked about a guy no one recognized, had a beer and left. But he didn’t get far. Someone hit him with a tire iron and left him in a pool of blood. The bouncer found him and called us.”
The patient moaned, and Betsy decided to quiz him. They had no idea of his medical history or allergies. Nothing to go on but what they uncovered here and now.
The police, who’d most likely been called already, would be here shortly. And they’d want to question him, too.
“Hi, there,” she said. “How are you doing?”
Another moan. A blink.
She flashed a light into his eyes, saw his pupils—dilated. She’d be ordering that MRI stat.
When he looked at her through bloodshot eyes, she said, “I’m Dr. Nielson. Can you tell me what happened?”
He jerked and stiffened. His eyes grew wide and panicked. “How’s the kid? Is she okay?”
“What kid?” she asked, wondering if a child had been in the vehicle that was stolen. She couldn’t imagine someone being so negligent that they’d leave a youngster in the parking lot of a bar. But it happened.
“The stop sign,” he said. “I didn’t see it… I’m sorry.”
He was rambling and confused. Did he think he’d been involved in a car accident?
She studied his pained expression, the raw emotion on his face, the concern in his striking blue eyes.
“You were robbed outside the Stagecoach Inn,” she said, trying to shake the sympathy that drew her to him and was making it difficult to keep a professional distance. “What’s your name?”
He stared at her blankly. Then confusion spread across his face. “I don’t know.”
In spite of the blood and dirt on his brow and cheek, he was an attractive man, and her heart quivered with the realization.
Get over it, she scolded herself. He was a patient. A victim. And a complete stranger.
“Do you know what day it is?” she asked.
A furrowed brow suggested that he didn’t, and his eyes sought hers. “No, but the…kid? Her mom? Are they okay?”
“There wasn’t anyone with you.” At least that was the word she’d gotten. She looked to Sheila for confirmation.
The head EMT nodded. “As far as we know, he went in and out of the Stagecoach Inn alone.”
Betsy returned her attention to her patient. “You were the only one hurt. And it wasn’t a car accident. Someone assaulted you when you left a local bar and stole everything but the clothes on your back.”
The tension in his expression softened, but only slightly. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off again.
The head injury could account for the temporary amnesia, and while she didn’t suspect a fracture, she knew his brain had experienced some serious trauma tonight.
Betsy glanced across the gurney to Dawn, who usually worked the evening shift with her in the E.R. “Let’s get an MRI and see what’s going on.”
The nurse nodded. “Anything else?”
Betsy issued the rest of her orders, and as soon as Dawn left to make sure they were fulfilled, Betsy took another look at her patient.
She reached for his nearest hand, which just happened to be his left. He wasn’t wearing a ring, wedding or otherwise.
It might have been stolen along with his wallet and other valuables, she supposed, but she didn’t see an indention or a tan line. His fingers were straight, sturdy and they appeared to have been manicured recently.
She turned his hand over. Too bad she couldn’t read palms. It would be helpful to know more about him—medically speaking, of course, although her curiosity was mounting. Who was this guy? And what had he been doing in a rip-roaring honky-tonk on a Wednesday night?
A hardened ridge of calluses marred his lifeline, suggesting that he might lift weights or swing a golf club regularly. Or maybe it was from gripping the handlebars of a bike.
His build, while sturdy and strong, seemed more in line with sports than with weights and gym equipment, but it was hard to tell.
Who are you? she wondered.
He appeared to be a city boy, so it was easy to assume he was a stranger in town—a tall, dark and handsome one at that.
She had a feeling that he’d be drop-dead gorgeous when he was in full form and had all of his senses about him. The kind of man who could even turn the most dedicated doctor’s head.
Cases like this didn’t drop into town or the E.R. very often, and Betsy was glad that they didn’t. After her unexpected and painful divorce, she’d sworn off romance, especially with someone who might not be the man he pretended to be.
She released John Doe’s hand, trying to shake her interest in him. The sooner she admitted him to the hospital and sent him up to the third floor, the better off she’d be.
The last thing in the world she needed to do was to befriend a man who couldn’t even remember his name.

Chapter Two
Betsy’s shift ended at seven o’clock the next morning. But instead of going home, fixing herself a bite to eat and unwinding with a cup of chamomile tea as usual, she rode the elevator up to the third floor to check on John Doe.
Betsy took a personal interest in each one of her patients. Typically, after they left the E.R. and were handed over to other doctors, she was able to set her concern aside. But this particular patient had really tugged at her heartstrings and she wasn’t sure why.
She supposed it was only natural to sympathize with a man who’d been robbed of his valuables, as well as his memory, even if the amnesia proved to be temporary.
When the elevator doors opened, letting her off on the third floor, she headed to the nurses’ desk, where Molly Mayfield sat, her head bowed as she studied a patient’s chart.
It was both nice and reassuring to see her friend and coworker on duty today. Molly was one of the top nurses at Brighton Valley Medical Center, but she only worked part-time. After marrying race-car driver Chase Mayfield and giving birth to their baby girl, she’d cut back her hours at the hospital. But it was great having her stay on staff, even if it was only two or three days each week.
When Molly looked up from the chart and spotted Betsy, she brightened. “I thought you were working nights this week. Did you change your schedule?”
“No, I just stopped by to check on a patient.” Betsy rested her arm on the counter, next to a lush poinsettia plant, its red-and-green leaves a reminder that Thanksgiving had just passed and that Christmas was right around the corner.
Her gift list wasn’t very long—only three people this year—but she put a great deal of thought into each present she gave, which meant she’d have to start shopping soon.
Her interest in the poinsettia didn’t go unnoticed, as Molly smiled and leaned forward. “Isn’t it pretty? Chase brought it the other day when he and Megan came by to have lunch with me.”
“That was sweet,” Betsy said.
“I know. Chase is always doing little things like that to surprise me.”
“It’s nice to see you so happy.”
Molly grinned, her eyes sparking with love and contentment. “I never realized how much I’d enjoy being a wife and a mom.”
At one time, Betsy had entertained thoughts of mother hood, too, but not anymore. Doug Bramblett had seen to that.
Three years into their marriage, when she’d been wrapping up her internship, she’d found out that her husband was having an affair. She’d no more than come to grips with his deceit when she learned that the extramarital relationship he’d had with a receptionist at his office hadn’t been the first.
Betsy had filed for divorce, then spent the rest of her internship trying to pick up the pieces of her once-perfect life. Then, two years later, Doug was arrested and convicted for his involvement in an insider-trading scheme.
Clearly the guy she’d once loved and trusted hadn’t turned out to be the honest, loyal and ethical man she’d thought he was. But she pressed on by moving away from the big city to Brighton Valley, where the neighbors knew—and could vouch—for each other.
And now that she was here, her focus was on work, on the medical center and seeing it succeed.
“How are Chase and little Megan doing?” she asked her friend.
Molly’s grin nearly lit the entire west wing. “They’re doing great. And Megan just cut her first tooth. She’s pulling herself up and taking a few steps. You ought to see her, Betsy. She’s the cutest little thing.”
“I’d love to. We’ll have to get together soon.” Of course, Betsy didn’t have many free nights. With the financial situation at the hospital being what it was, they’d had to cut back on staff, and she’d been taking up the slack.
“Maybe, when you switch to working days, you can come to dinner some evening,” Molly said. “I miss not seeing you.”
In spite of being friends, they had never really socialized. Betsy didn’t have the time. In addition to her work at the hospital, her parents had moved into a nearby assisted-living complex. And as an only child, Betsy made sure to visit them regularly.
She’d been adopted when her mom and dad had just about given up on having a baby, and she owed all she was to them, to their love and emotional support. So every moment she spent with them now was precious.
Instead of commenting about how busy she was, Betsy smiled at her friend. “As a wife and a new mommy, I imagine your time is stretched to the limit.”
“It is, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t imagine life without Chase or Megan.” Molly closed the file she’d been reading and moved it aside. “So what—or rather who—brings you up to the third floor?”
“John Doe—unless his memory returned and he’s going by another name now.”
“No, he’s not. From what I was told, he was pretty agitated about it last night. So Dr. Kelso sedated him.”
“Is he sleeping now?”
“No. I was just in there a few minutes ago, and he was awake. But he’s still not sure who he is.”
“Which room is he in?”
“Three-fourteen.”
“Thanks.”
As Betsy made her way to John Doe’s room and peered inside, she spotted him lying in bed, his head turned toward the window, revealing the gauze that covered the wounds he’d received from the assault.
His hair, which was a bit long and curled at the neckline, looked especially dark on the white pillowcase.
When he sensed her presence—or maybe he’d heard her footsteps—he turned to the doorway, and their gazes met.
He’d been cleaned up, but no one had taken time to shave him. The dark stubble on his jaw and cheeks made him look rugged and manly, completely mocking the soft, baby-blue hospital gown he was wearing.
“Good morning,” she said, entering the room. “I’m Dr. Nielson. You may not remember me, but I treated you in the E.R. last night.”
“Actually,” he said, “I remember that.”
“Being in the E.R.?”
He nodded. “Well, at the time, while looking up into the bright lights, I saw you and assumed I was standing at the Pearly Gates with a redheaded angel. But I never figured heavenly beings would be so pretty.”
She didn’t know whether he was serious, joking or flirting. It was impossible to tell from his tone or his expression. Yet for some crazy reason, her hand lifted inadvertently to feel for loose strands of hair that might have fallen from her brass clip.
“And then,” he added, “in the middle of the night, before they drugged me—or maybe afterward—I saw you again.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t me. I spent the early morning hours in the E.R., patching up a drunk who walked through a plate-glass window and treating a toddler for croup.”
“I figured as much. The last time you appeared over my bed, you were hanging out with a gang of leprechauns. I figured you were their queen.”
“I’m afraid my days of running with the wee ones are over.” She smiled as she moved closer to his bed. “By the way, the police came by the E.R. to question you last night, and I suggested they come back in the morning. Have they been in yet?”
“No, but it’ll be a waste of their time. The only thing I remember is the color of your hair, those emerald-green eyes and the way everyone around you jumped when you gave orders. So it’s nice to know that some of the crazy visions I had last night were real.”
“I can only attest to the bright lights in the E.R. and barking out orders. The rest of those sightings must have been a result of the mugging or the sedative Dr. Kelso gave you.”
“Maybe so.” He studied her now, and as his eyes sketched over her face, her heart rate spiked and sputtered—clearly not a professional response.
Time to exit, stage right.
Yet her feet didn’t move.
“So how are you feeling now?” she asked, trying to gain some control over her hormones.
“I’m doing all right, I guess. My head’s pounding like hell, though. And I can’t remember anything. How long is that going to last?”
“The amnesia? I’m not sure. A few hours? A couple of days?” She didn’t dare tell him that it could go on for a long time.
“Damn. That sucks.”
She had to agree. She had no idea what she’d do if she found herself in a strange hospital with no idea of who she was or how she’d gotten there.
“So what do you know about me?” he asked.
“Just that you were at one of the local honky-tonks, asking about a man.”
“What man?”
“Somebody named Pedro. And for what it’s worth, no one in the bar knew him.”
He thought about that for a moment, as if trying to place the man or the reason for his search. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “What happened after that?”
“You had a beer and left. In the parking lot, someone decided to lift your wallet, but didn’t want to risk a tussle with you. So they hit you with a tire iron and made sure you couldn’t put up a fight.”
She let him ponder that for a while, then said, “When the medics brought you into the E.R., you asked about a child and her mom. No one was with you at the bar. Could they have been witnesses?”
“It’s possible, I guess. But you’ll have to forgive me. I’m still drawing a complete blank.”
“That’s understandable. But you might want to pass that information on to the sheriff, just in case.”
“All right.” For some reason, she got the idea that he was used to giving orders. If so, being laid up was going to be tough on him.
“Anything else?” he asked.
She crossed her arms and tossed him a wry grin. “I’d venture to say that you’re in your late twenties or early thirties. You stand about six foot tall or more and you’re in good shape.”
He was also one of the most attractive men she’d seen in a long time, with broad shoulders and tight abs—as bruised as they were when she’d examined him—she couldn’t help noticing. He also had eyes the shade of Texas bluebonnets, which was unusual for a man who appeared to have more than a little Latin blood.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Pretty much. You were well dressed and wore expensive clothing, so I think you’ve got a decent job—or a trust fund.” Of course, Doug had taught her to be skeptical of men like that, so she added, “Then again, you could be a con artist.”
“Yeah, well, apparently whatever money I may or may not have isn’t available to me anymore.”
Rather than answer, she gave a little who-knows? shrug.
He paused a beat, then sobered. “So you think that I was just passing through town?”
She doubted that he was a drifter, if that’s what he meant. And the mystery about him, both medical and otherwise, intrigued her.
So did the spark of life in his eyes.
And the square cut of his jaw.
But she wasn’t comfortable talking to him about her observations, when he might think that she found him attractive.
Okay, so he definitely was hot, and any woman who still had breath in her body couldn’t help but agree.
Betsy wouldn’t act on it, though. And if John picked up on those vibes, no good would come of it.
“Well,” she said, backing away from the hospital bed. “I’d better head home. I’ve got to get some sleep because my next shift starts in—” she glanced at the clock on the wall “—less than twelve hours.”
“Will I see you again?”
His tone, as well as the question, took her aback. And she didn’t know what to tell him. In truth, there wasn’t any reason for her to come back to see him, but she couldn’t seem to bow out completely. “I’ll stop by around dinnertime.”
He smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”
There went her heart rate again, and she struggled with the wisdom of a return visit. Yet she nodded, then turned and walked out of his room.
She wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened in there. But she blamed it on a lack of sleep.
And a lack of sex, a small voice whispered.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Her self-imposed celibacy had been working out just fine. So why him?
And why now?
She’d be darned if she knew—or dared to pursue—the answer.

John Doe slept off and on the next morning, hoping that eventually he’d wake up with his memory intact. But so far, nothing had come to mind.
Just before lunch, Dr. Kelso came in to perform some kind of mental evaluation, this one more complex than what he’d had so far. John had passed most of it with flying colors. He had some basic knowledge, although he certainly wouldn’t try his luck on Jeopardy or Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
But memories of anything prior to his arrival at the E.R., anything of actual value, had been lost to him.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked the neurologist.
“Well, the good news is that the MRI has ruled out a skull fracture, but you have a cerebral contusion.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a bruise on the brain tissue,” Dr. Kelso had explained. “I don’t think you need surgery at this point, but we’ll keep an eye on it. If it worsens, we may have to go in and relieve the pressure. But for now, we’ll be giving you steroids to lessen any swelling.”
“What about my memory?” he asked.
“You have retrograde amnesia.”
“How long is it going to last? When will I remember who I am?”
“It’s hard to say. The causes and symptoms of amnesia vary from patient to patient. And so does the recovery process. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait and see what happens in your case.”
Great. “How long will I have to stay in the hospital?”
“That depends, too. I’d say at least a couple of days, maybe a week. But that could change if there are complications.”
He wondered how he was going to pay the bill. Did he have health insurance? A job?
Of course, that was the least of his problems now. As it was, he was stuck in limbo—and in Brighton Valley—until his brain healed and his memory returned.
“I’ll be back to see you later this afternoon,” Dr. Kelso said. “In the meantime, get some rest.”
There weren’t many other options, John decided, as he settled back into his pillow, hoping to find a comfortable spot. Besides the outside wounds from the tire iron, his brain was bruised. No wonder his head ached.
As he dozed off and on during the afternoon, he periodically glanced at the clock that hung on the wall across from his bed, wishing that the hours would pass quickly. Dr. Nielson had said that she’d be back around dinnertime, and he couldn’t help looking forward to her return.
Sure, she was an attractive woman, in spite of the blue scrubs she wore. He wondered what she’d look like dressed in street clothes—maybe a pair of tight jeans and a slinky blouse. A splash of makeup to highlight the color of her eyes. Her auburn curls hanging soft and loose around her shoulders.
But it was more than the redhead’s pretty face and intense green eyes that appealed to him.
As he’d watched her leave his bedside this morning, he’d felt as if he’d just lost his best friend.
But why the heck wouldn’t he? Besides his neurologist and the floor nurse, John didn’t know—or remember—another soul on this planet.
And each time that dark realization struck, a heavy cloak of uneasiness draped over him, weighing on him until he was ready to throw off his covers, jump out of bed and tear out of this place.
But where would he go? What would he do? How would he support himself?
Did he have any skills? A degree? A job that was pressing?
He’d be damned if he knew.
Dr. Nielson had said that he’d been asking about someone named Pedro. But who was the guy? And why did he want to find him?
Maybe he was a private investigator working on a missing-person case, but that didn’t seem likely. For some reason, the real missing person in the whole scenario seemed to be him. And no matter how hard he tried to think or to focus on his name or his past, he drew a complete blank.
He didn’t even know what day it was, although he suspected it was late November or December because of the Frosty the Snowman trim on the bulletin board in his room.
The Christmas season, he thought. A time for home and hearth, for family and friends.
Did he have anyone special in his life? Was there someone who’d been counting on him to come home last night? A wife? Kids? Maybe even a dog or a cat?
The questions came at him like a volley of rubber bullets, but he had no answers.
A sense of frustration rooted deep in his gut, making it hard to relax, to sleep, to heal. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to wrap his battered brain around anything. All he had were the details Dr. Nielson had given him, and right now, she seemed to be his only connection to the outside world.
No wonder he looked forward to seeing her again, to talking to her.
Maybe, with some time, a little rest and another visit from the pretty E.R. doctor, everything would start falling into place.

At five-thirty that evening, just before her next shift began, Betsy rode the elevator up to the third floor to look in on John Doe, just as she’d told him she would.
Again she pondered the wisdom of following up on a patient who was no longer her responsibility. But what was the harm in making one last trip upstairs?
As she walked along the corridor to the west wing, her rubber soles squeaked upon the polished linoleum floors, announcing her arrival. There was still time to turn around and head back to the E.R., with no one the wiser, but she pressed on.
Upon reaching the nurses’ desk, where Jolene Collins was talking to someone on the telephone and scratching down notes, Betsy caught a whiff of the dinner cart before she actually saw it. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she probably should take time to pick up a bite to eat in the cafeteria before starting her shift.
In fact, maybe that’s where she ought to be now, but it was hard to backpedal when she’d already come this far.
She could reach for her pager, check it and pretend she’d been called to another floor, but the hospital didn’t get amnesia victims every day.
Or handsome young patients who piqued a single doctor’s interest.
It was at that realization that she almost did an about-face, no matter how abrupt it might seem to anyone observing her behavior.
She had no business even imagining anything remotely romantic with a patient, especially John Doe, whose background was a complete unknown. After her divorce, she’d made up her mind to focus on work and to look after her aging parents, the loved ones who had never let her down—and who never would.
So she shook off the misplaced attraction to John, telling herself that the brief visit would never amount to more than that.
As she neared John’s room, she scanned the corridors but didn’t see Molly, who was undoubtedly with a patient, which was just as well. There wouldn’t be any need to come up with a good reason for her return to the third floor.
As Betsy reached the open doorway of 314, she spotted John sitting up in bed, his meal spread out on the portable tray in front of him.
“Hey,” he said, brightening as he spotted her. “Finally, there’s a familiar face.”
She supposed that meant he was still struggling to regain his memory.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, returning his smile.
“Better, I guess.” He pointed to the IV that dripped into the vein in his arm. “The stuff they’re putting in here must be working. My head isn’t aching quite as bad as it was earlier.”
“That’s good.”
“But I still don’t remember anything of substance.”
“Do you remember anything at all?”
He shrugged. “I turned on the television earlier, and as I flipped through the channels, I came to a college football game. The USC fight song was familiar, and I knew the words.”
“So you think you might be an alumnus?”
“Or I could be a dropout. Who knows?”
She made her way to his bedside and peered at his plate. “Roast beef?”
He nodded. “It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be.”
“Actually, Brighton Valley Medical Center has a great cafeteria. I usually prefer to eat here more times than not.”
“And where do you eat when you’re not working?”
“At home.”
“Where’s that?”
Normally, she didn’t offer her patients any details about her personal life, but for some reason, she felt like opening up to John. Maybe because she felt sorry for him. “I live on a small ranch outside of town.”
“Oh, yeah? That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’re a doctor, and I figured you for a place in the city and close to good restaurants and all the cultural haunts.”
She laughed. “In Brighton Valley? You’re definitely new in town.”
“Which means there probably isn’t any reason to post a picture of me on the back page of the newspaper and ask residents to call in if they recognize me.” The smile he’d been wearing faded, and she figured that he’d been trying to make the best of a bad situation but wasn’t having much luck.
“Well, we have some clues that we didn’t have before. You might be from California. And you might have once attended USC.”
His shrug indicated that her guess wasn’t much to go on.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Originally? I’m from Houston. After my…” She caught herself, realizing she didn’t want to mention her divorce—certainly not with a stranger whose gaze was enough to set off a flurry of hormones. So she altered her explanation by saying, “Well, after my internship I had an opportunity to take over a medical practice in a small town, so I moved to Brighton Valley and worked with Dr. Graham until he retired.”
“And so you liked it here and purchased property.”
It was a natural assumption, she supposed. And there was no reason to set him straight, but she did so anyway. “I’d planned to get a place of my own, but Doc invited me to stay in the guesthouse at his ranch until I got settled.”
They’d both thought it would be a temporary arrangement, but Betsy had never moved. She’d blamed it on being too busy to look for a house, but it had been more than that. Living so close to Doc had provided her with an opportunity to learn from an old-school physician who was a natural diagnostician and who was still making house calls up until the day he took down his shingle.
Sometimes, in the evenings when she wasn’t on call, she would brew them both a pot of tea, and they would sit before the fireplace and talk. On those cozy nights, she would laugh at his anecdotes and soak up his wisdom like a child sitting on his knee.
She might have learned the modern methods of treating illness and disease in med school, but Doc had taught her how to deal with people—and not just the patients.
“Are you still living on his ranch?” John asked, as he shifted one of the pillows behind his back.
She nodded, and a slow smile stretched across her face as she thought of the little decorative touches she’d added to make her bedroom warm and cozy, the green-and-lavender quilt she draped over the foot of the bed, the picture of a lilac bush that hung on the wall. “Yes, I’m still there. And even though his guesthouse is just a little bigger than a studio apartment, it’s home to me.”
Sure, every now and then she thought about buying a place of her own, one that was closer to the hospital and to Shady Glen, the retirement community in which her parents lived. But even if she wanted to move, she’d have to rent at this point in her life. She’d used almost every dime of her savings to buy stock in the medical center—something very few people knew.
“And you have no plans to move to a place of your own?”
“No, not now. Doc is getting older, and his health isn’t as good as it once was. Since his wife died, he’s all alone.”
“And you feel an obligation to look after him?”
“It’s more of an honor.” And she felt the same about looking after her parents, too.
“You’re not only a good doctor,” John said, “you’ve also got a good heart.”
She wasn’t sure what made her more uneasy—his praise or her self-disclosure—and she wondered if she ought to back away. After all, she didn’t know this man from Adam.
“So,” John said, connecting the dots, “in a way, you’ve become Doc’s personal physician.”
“I guess you could say that.” She glanced at the clock on the wall, then drew up as tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. “My shift will be starting soon, so I’d better go. I just wanted to check in on you.”
“I like having my own personal physician, too.”
That wasn’t the impression she’d wanted to give him, but what did she expect? She’d stopped by his bedside for the second time today.
And if truth be told, her interest in him had drifted beyond that of physician-patient and bordered on female-male.
But she’d be darned if she’d admit that to anyone, especially to him.
She glanced at her pager, even though she hadn’t heard a sound or felt a single vibration. “Well, I’d better go. Enjoy your dinner.”
“Will you be back in the morning?” he asked.
Would she?
She shouldn’t—and she hadn’t planned on it.
Yet she found herself agreeing anyway.

Chapter Three
Two days later, after closing up the cozy little house she’d called home for the past two years, Betsy strode across the yard to where she’d left her car.
The brisk wintry air and an overcast sky suggested a storm was on its way, so she turned up the collar of her jacket. Most women who worked a day shift would be ready to put on a pot of soup and batten down the hatches for the night. But not Betsy. She was heading to the hospital to start another twelve-hour shift.
As she reached the driver’s door of her white Honda Civic, she spotted Doc walking out of the barn and heading toward her. Nearly ninety, his gait was more of a shuffle these days.
“You’re leaving earlier than usual,” he said.
She smiled at the man who’d become a mentor, a second father and a friend. “I want to check in on a patient before I start work.”
“A child?” he asked, knowing that she had a heart for kids, especially those who were seriously ill or injured.
“Actually, it’s a man who was robbed and assaulted outside the Stagecoach Inn Wednesday night. He’s got amnesia.”
“Oh, yeah?” The old man leaned his hip against her vehicle, as though intrigued by the case, too.
“He’s a stranger in town,” Betsy added, “but the expensive clothing he wore tells me that he has ties to a community somewhere.”
“That’s too bad. I had a case of amnesia once, back in the late seventies. A father of three fell off a railroad trestle near Lake San Marcos and damn near broke his neck. When he came to, he didn’t know who he was or where he came from.”
“Did he ever get his memory back?”
“Eventually. Once his wife reported him missing, police were able to put two and two together.”
Betsy sobered. Did John have a wife? The possibility sent an uneasy shudder through her veins.
“So how old is this fellow?” Doc asked.
“My age or a little younger.”
“How’s he look?”
“Medically speaking? He’s got a gash on his head that’s healing. And his rib cage is bruised.”
“That’s not what I meant. Do you think he’s good-looking?”
Uh-oh. So Doc was more intrigued by Betsy’s interest in an adult male patient. But she’d have to put his mind to rest, even if she couldn’t completely deny her budding attraction.
“I suppose he’s handsome,” she said, downplaying the fact that the current John Doe was drop-dead gorgeous. “I talked to Jim Kelso, the resident neurosurgeon, and he’s planning to discharge him soon. He’ll need to stay in town, I suspect. But at this point, he has no place to go or any resources.”
Doc fingered his chin and furrowed his craggy brow. “That’s too bad. Not only is the poor guy struggling with the memory loss and a lack of cash or credit, but he’s also backed into a corner.”
Betsy nodded, glad Doc seemed to think her interest in John was strictly professional.
Okay, so maybe it was a little of both. No one needed to know that.
“I thought I would talk to Sadie down at the Night Owl Motel. She might be able to give him a discount on a room.”
“You can’t ask Sadie to run a tab like that for a stranger. What if he isn’t financially set? What if he can’t pay for his keep?”
“I plan to cover the cost,” she admitted. But Doc was right. They didn’t know anything about John. Nor did they know how long he’d have to stay in town.
“Under the circumstances, I can’t let you do that. You could be left holding the bag for a very long time. And your savings can’t take another hit like that.”
Betsy had received a solid financial settlement after her divorce, thanks to her ex-husband’s innate ability to invest their money wisely. And she’d made a risky investment herself, one that had nearly tripled her funds overnight. Then she’d used the proceeds to buy stock in the medical center.
Doc had made a sizable investment in the facility himself. And with the hospital struggling financially… Well, Betsy wouldn’t think about that now.
“Tell the patient he can stay here,” Doc said. “I’ve got room in the house. And you and I can keep an eye on him that way.”
Have John stay at the ranch?
Her heart ricocheted in her chest. Just the idea was…
What? Brilliant? Perfect?
Reckless?
“Knowing that he has a place to stay and a way to support himself ought to help put his mind at ease,” Doc said.
It might put John at ease, Betsy realized. But the thought of John Doe living so close to her was doing a real number on her.

As one day stretched into a second, and then into a third, John still couldn’t remember who he was or what he was doing in Brighton Valley.
His injury had been serious, and doctors were monitoring the contusion to make sure it didn’t worsen. If it did, he would need surgery.
There were a lot of things he didn’t know these days, but he was certain that he didn’t want anyone operating on his brain. And so far, so good. He hadn’t needed surgery.
Dr. Kelso had mentioned something about releasing him in the next day or so, which was great. But he had no idea where he’d go.
He’d figure out something, he supposed. He certainly couldn’t lie around in a hospital bed for the rest of his life. But God only knew what he’d do to support himself.
Footsteps sounded, and he looked up to see a dark-haired teenage girl wearing a pink-striped apron. She poked her head into his doorway and smiled. “Would you like a magazine or a book to read?”
John hadn’t felt up to doing much of anything for the past couple of days, but it was much easier to concentrate now. His headaches weren’t as intense and he was feeling more like himself.
Well, whatever “himself” meant.
So he said, “Sure, I’ll take one. What’ve you got?”
She wheeled a small cart into his room, and he scanned the offerings: Ladies’ Home Journal, Psychology Today, People, Field & Stream…
Golf Digest? For some reason, that particular periodical, with a head shot of Phil Mickelson on the cover, seemed to be the most appealing in the stack, so he took it.
When the candy striper left the room, he began to thumb through the pages, wondering if he’d been a golfer before the mugging.
If so, did he play regularly? Or had he just taken up the sport?
That answer, like all the others he’d been asking himself over the past two days, evaded him.
He had, of course, picked up a few clues to his identity. He knew the USC fight song, had an appreciation for college football and didn’t much care for poached eggs.
According to one of the nurses, he had an imperious tone at times, as if he was used to giving orders, rather than taking them.
And he might play golf.
But that wasn’t much to go on.
As he continued to gloss over the pages in the magazine, he paused to scan an ad for a new TaylorMade putter that was gaining popularity. It looked familiar. Did he have one in a golf bag somewhere?
His musing was interrupted by a silver-haired, pink-smocked hospital volunteer who entered the room and announced that it was dinnertime.
She carried in his tray, and when she set it on the portable table, he studied his meal: grilled chicken, a side of pasta, green beans, a roll and a little tub of chocolate ice cream.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She offered him a sweet, grandmotherly smile. “Can I bring you anything else?”
“No, I’m set.” He paid special attention to his attitude with her, offering a smile—no need for her to think he was bossy—and waiting to pick up the fork until after she’d left the room.
Hospital food was supposed to be lousy, which was one more piece of useless information he’d managed to recall hearing at another time and place, but the food here wasn’t too bad.
As he speared a piece of lightly seasoned rigatoni, he glanced at the clock. Dr. Nielson would be stopping by soon—at least he hoped she would. He was getting tired of watching TV, and her visits were the only thing he had to look forward to.
Something told him that she didn’t have a professional reason to stop and see him. And if that were the case, he wondered whether it was a personal one.
He sure hoped so. Her visits had become the highlight of his day. Of course, he figured that even if he was back in his real world, her smile would be a welcome sight.
His first postmugging memory was of her pretty face, those vibrant green eyes and that wild auburn hair that she kept tied back by a barrette or a rubber band.
The night of the accident, he’d wondered for a nanosecond if she was an angel. If she had been, he would have run to the light. Gladly.
After finishing his meal, he reached for the tub of low-fat chocolate ice cream and pulled off the circular cardboard top.
Before he could dig in, her voice sounded in the doorway. “Good evening.”
John turned to his personal Florence Nightingale and smiled. “Hey. Come in.”
He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped thinking of her as a doctor. Pretty much the night he’d first laid eyes on her in the E.R., he guessed. He’d asked one of the nurses about her yesterday and had learned her name was Betsy. He’d also heard that she was one of the hardest working and most dedicated physicians on staff.
As she entered the room, she asked, “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” Did he dare tell her he was bored, that he wanted to get out of here, even if he didn’t have any place to go?
When she reached his bedside, her petite frame hiding behind a pair of pale teal scrubs that made her eyes appear to be an even deeper shade of green, he studied her.
She wore very little makeup—not that she needed it—but she downplayed her beauty, which was a shame. He bet she’d look damn good in a sexy black dress with a low neckline, spiked high heels, her cheeks slightly flushed, a light coat of pink lipstick over lips that had a natural pout—a mouth he’d been paying a lot of attention to.
Her shoulder-length curls were pulled back into a simple ponytail, which was probably a logical style for a busy E.R. doctor. But John couldn’t help imagining those locks hanging wild and free. Or envisioning her in an upscale jazz club, a lone saxophone playing a sultry tune in the background.
She placed her hand on the bedrail, her nails plain and neatly manicured. Her grip was light and tentative, though, as if she was a bit hesitant. A little nervous, even.
“I talked to Dr. Kelso,” she said. “He’s probably going to discharge you in the next day or so.”
“He said something about that to me this morning. So I guess that means I’m almost back to fighting weight.” John tried to toss her a carefree smile, but it probably fell short. He was as uneasy about the future as he was about the past, and it was a real stretch to pretend otherwise.
“Do you have any idea where you might like to go when you get out of here?” she asked.
If her gaze wasn’t so damn sympathetic, if her eyes weren’t so green, he might have popped off with something sarcastic. As it was, he shrugged. “Not yet. I keep hoping that I’ll wake up and my memory will come rushing back. But it looks like I’d better give my options some thought.”
“I have one for you,” she said.
“An option?” He pushed the portable table aside, clearly interested. “What’s that?”
“I talked to Dr. Graham. He needs some help on his ranch, if you don’t mind doing some of the heavier chores for him. He’s agreed to pay you a small salary and provide you with room and board. Of course, not until you’re feeling up to it and Dr. Kelso has released you to go to work.”
At the same ranch where Betsy lived? Had she gone to bat for him? It certainly seemed that way, and he could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that she’d done so for a stranger.
“Thanks for orchestrating things. I probably ought to stick around in Brighton Valley until… Well, until my life comes together for me again.”
“It’ll happen,” she said. “Your memory will come back to you.”
He wanted to believe her, but that’s not exactly what Dr. Kelso had said. He’d used words like probably and eventually. But no one knew if or when John’s memory would return. Or to what extent.
“For what it’s worth,” he told her with a grin, “things could change at any time. But for right now, you’re the best friend I’ve got in the world.”
The best friend he had.
The sincerity in John’s words burrowed deep into Betsy’s chest, pressing against her heart and stirring up all kinds of emotion—including a little guilt. Getting involved with her patients, even one she’d handed over to Jim Kelso, wasn’t a good idea, especially when he was breathtakingly handsome.
So she tried to downplay his comment or thoughts about any kind of relationship with him. “I’m sure you have a lot of friends, family and acquaintances who would be here to visit you if they could.”
“You might be right, but I’d be happy just to see my driver’s license and to know my name.” His gaze locked on hers, and she felt his frustration, his uneasiness.
She’d give anything to know more about him, too.
What kind of person was he? Honest and trustworthy? Loyal and caring?
Or was he a liar and a cheat?
She wished she could say that she had a sixth sense about that sort of thing, but she’d completely misread Doug, the man she’d once married.
They’d met at Baylor University, when he’d been a graduate student trying to earn an MBA and she’d been in medical school. She’d found him to be handsome and charming, the kind of man who could have had any woman on campus.
Looking back—and knowing what she did about his cheating nature—she realized he could have slept with the entire female student body and she never would have guessed.
She’d been naive back then, and if there were signs she should have picked up on, she’d missed seeing them. All she’d had to rely on were her feelings about him and her hormones. And boy, had they been wrong.
So how could she trust her instincts about John now, when she had even less to go on about him?
“A couple of police officers came by today,” he said, drawing her from her musing. “They asked about the robbery, but I couldn’t provide them with any information.”
She wished she could promise him that everything would come back to him someday, but there was a strong possibility that he wouldn’t ever remember anything about the assault, just the things leading up to it and afterward.
“Were the officers able to give you any clues to your identity?” she asked.
“They told me that I’d had a little run-in at the bar with two local thugs who were harassing a cocktail waitress. They might have resented my interference and waited for me in the parking lot.”
So John had a heroic nature? Betsy hoped that was the case. She’d hate to think she was drawn to another loser.
Time and again she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let Doug’s deceit completely shatter her ability to trust a man in the future. And each time her father showed a kindness to her ailing mother, each time he’d kissed her cheek or patted her frail knee, Betsy was reminded that good men did exist, that they honored their marriage vows. That they stuck by their women through sickness and health and through thick and thin.
But was John Doe one of them?
She couldn’t be sure. And she feared falling for the wrong man again. That’s why she’d focused on her medical practice after her divorce. And it’s why she’d poured her heart and soul into her patients and the hospital.
After all, she had a skill and a responsibility to heal. And she wasn’t going to let anyone or anything interfere with her calling again.
But now here she was, visiting a man she knew nothing about, thinking about him in a purely feminine way. And while she’d tried to convince herself that her interest in him was influenced by a desire to see him heal and get on with his life, she knew better than that.
She was attracted to her patient.
Or rather, to a patient. John Doe was no longer hers, so she could easily nullify the rule, at least in her mind. But her attraction to him was increasing by leaps and bounds, and that was unsettling.
He reached over and tapped the top of her hand, which was resting on the bedrail. His fingertips lingered on her skin for only a second or two, but the heat of his touch sent her nerve endings helter-skelter, her blood racing.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.” She tried to smile, to shake it off. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re wearing a pensive expression, one that tells me you’re a thousand miles away.”
“No, I’m still here.” She forced her smile to deepen, her gaze to zero in on his.
He’d obviously picked up on the fact that she was distracted—but it wasn’t because of another case or dilemma that worried her. It was clearly him causing her mind and thoughts to wander.
And she couldn’t risk letting that happen. Whatever was going on between them had to be one-sided. And even if it wasn’t, she couldn’t stay at his bedside a moment longer. Not when her body was going whacky, just being around him.
So she glanced at her wristwatch, then back at him. “I have a meeting with a colleague before my shift starts, which means I need to go.”
Honesty was always her policy, so even little white lies never sat easy with her. But she couldn’t think of another excuse to leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, as if her visits had become a ritual they both could count on—and look forward to.
She wanted to remind him that it wasn’t a done deal, but she’d already tossed out Doc’s offer for him to stay on the ranch. And John had agreed.
So she stepped away from his bed. “Have a good evening.”
“You, too.”
As she turned and walked out of his room, she picked up her pace as though she could outrun all she’d been feeling back there, but reality dogged her down the corridor and into the elevator.
John had only touched her—and just briefly at that. But the fact that she’d reacted so strongly to something so minor left her unbalanced and skittish.
She did her best to regain control of her senses, but it wasn’t easy.
When the elevator doors opened on the second floor and she stepped into the corridor that led to the cafeteria, she tried another tack.
Okay, so she was sexually attracted to John Doe. What was wrong with that? It’s not as though she had to actually act upon that attraction.
And there was probably a very good reason for it, too—one that went beyond the man’s looks and the intoxicating sound of his voice.
She’d sworn off men and sex ever since she’d told Doug to pack his things and move out of the house they’d shared when they’d been together. She’d been determined to focus on her career, on her patients. And she wouldn’t let a relationship get in the way of that again.
But she was only human, with sexual needs and desires that had been dormant for too long. So it was just her hormones at play. Her body was merely reacting to its basic need for sex and zooming in on a possible candidate.
That’s all it was.
She just needed a sexual release. But where did she find a potential partner, especially in Brighton Valley? And what about the hours she kept?
It was going to be tough. Especially when John Doe was the first sexual interest she’d had since she and Doug had split.
But there was no way she’d sleep with a patient. Especially one who had no idea where he’d come from or where he was going next.
Of course, with John Doe living only a couple of yards away from her house, she feared she was fighting a losing battle.

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