Читать книгу The Best Man in Texas - Kelsey Roberts - Страница 13

CHAPTER THREE

“MOLLY? Miss Parker?”

It took a herculean effort for her to open her eyes. The instant she did, she closed them because the bright, fluorescent light caused a pulsating pain in her head. While she was on the subject of pain, her ankle was throbbing as well.

“Miss Parker? Open your eyes for me again.”

Reluctantly, she did as instructed. Blinking several times, she began to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. She smelled alcohol and antiseptic. She was wearing a thin cotton gown and was lying on a bed covered with a paper drape. Just a slight movement of her arm caused the paper to crunch several decibels too high.

Finally, she met the intense gaze of the speaker. He loomed above her, even though he appeared to be seated on a chair or a stool at her bedside. His eyes were rich brown—the color of designer coffee. His hair was also brown, and thick and ruffled, as though he’d raked his fingers through it just recently. There was a subtle cleft in his chin, just above where he had loosened the knot on his tie.

Beneath his suit jacket, she could see a well-worn denim shirt. And shoulders that seemed to go on forever. Apparently she hadn’t injured her libido in the...in the...

“What happened?” she asked, sudden panic welling inside her. “Where am I?”

His response was a calming smile. The action caused a faint dimple to appear near his attractive mouth. “I’m Justin Dale and you’re in my clinic in Cactus Creek, Miss Parker.”

“I don’t understand!”

“Calm down,” he urged as he placed a hand on her forearm.

It tingled where he touched her. That was disconcerting, but not as disconcerting as the alarm sounding in her brain.

“I can’t calm down,” she insisted as she tried to rise.

Gently but firmly, Justin stopped her. Something wasn’t quite right. He could see it in her eyes. “You’ve got a broken ankle that I need to set,” he explained. “Lie still so I can do an assessment. You’ve been waffling in and out of consciousness for quite a while since you were found at the accident scene.”

She looked up at him. Her brown eyes were thickly lashed and golden starbursts radiated from her pupils. He chastised himself for noticing something so unprofessional. He was supposed to note that her pupils were equal and reactive, not incredibly beautiful. Man, I’ve been too long without a date, he thought.

“Forget my ankle!” she insisted.

Her voice was deep and a touch on the husky side. In spite of the fact that she’d been beaten and hit by a car, this woman still managed to exude a subtle kind of sensuality that he had neither expected nor—apparently—prepared for.

“I’m a doctor. I’m not allowed to forget fractures, Miss Parker.”

“Who is Miss Parker?” she demanded urgently.

Justin had been in the middle of checking her pulse when he went still. “Excuse me?”

He saw a flash of emotion—anger or frustration or both—in her expression.

“Am I Molly Parker?”

Justin whipped out his penlight and again checked her pupils. He forced his tone to be placid as he asked, “Are you telling me you don’t remember your name?”

She swatted the penlight away from her face. “I’m telling you I don’t remember anything.”

Taking in a deep breath, Justin pulled back and ran several possibilities through his mind. “Concussion can often result in short-term memory interruption. What is the last thing you can remember?”

“Waking up here.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “I think it would be a good idea for me to set your ankle then transport you to the hospital in Fort Worth.”

“No!”

Justin was startled by her urgent reaction. “The hospital is better equipped to deal with a major head trauma and—”

She cut him off by gripping the sleeve of his jacket. “Please don’t send me anywhere. I don’t know why, but I just have this feeling that I’m safe here. That doesn’t make sense, does it?” She lowered her eyes and nervously drew her lower lip between her teeth.

“It makes perfect sense,” he assured her. “Your ankle isn’t your only injury. You obviously took a hit to the head, and X rays showed you have a small crack in one of your ribs in addition to—”

“You said I was in an accident?” she interrupted him.

He nodded. “You were hit by a car. But that isn’t what cracked your rib or caused most of the lacerations and hematomas to your face.”

“What?”

“Doctor talk for cuts and bruises. My guess is they’re two to three days old.”

“I was in a fight and a car accident? What kind of person am I?”

“Probably a very decent one,” he hypothesized. “If it was a fight, it was one-sided. No offensive or defensive wounds on your knuckles. Most likely, you were the victim of a crime or—”

“Or what?”

“Domestic violence. Which, by the way, is a crime.”

“Am I married?” She asked the question with abject horror in her tone.

He shrugged. “No wedding ring. No pictures in your wallet. You don’t have to be married to someone to get beaten, Molly.”

She rubbed her face with her hands. “I think I would have preferred it if you’d said I was in a barroom brawl.”

He chuckled. Obviously this woman had maintained her sense of humor under horrific circumstances. It galled him to think of a man abusing any woman, particularly this one. She wasn’t short, just petite. Fragile. What kind of animal would attack someone so physically defenseless? And why did he have an urge to scoop her into his arms?

Sobering, he said, “I should tell you the circumstances surrounding the accident.”

“It gets worse?” she asked in a defeated voice.

“Pretty much. There were no witnesses, according to Sheriff Younger, and no skid marks at the scene.”

“Meaning?”

“The driver who hit you was either seriously distracted or...”

“Or?”

“Or aiming for you.”

* * *

MOLLY SPENT the following few minutes trying in vain to recall something—anything—but her memory had been erased like a chalkboard. It was too weird. She had no problem remembering who was president of the United States or how to format and configure a computer’s hard drive, but everything personal had been selectively deleted.

Frustrated, she found herself searching the clinic for Dr. Dale, the one and only face that was familiar. He had gone to mix some plaster to make her cast. The clinic was small and rather homey looking—she counted six beds in her immediate area, someone had painted aquatic murals on two of the walls.

Molly pulled herself up to rest on her elbows in order to get a better view of the place. Peering around the curtain, she spotted an attractive brunette leaning over a crib. She could hear the woman singing softly and see small, chubby legs in the crib. The infant’s bed was shrouded in some sort of plastic and a nearby machine made rhythmic whooshing sounds.

The woman turned then and caught Molly staring at her. It might have been awkward, but she simply reached inside the plastic cover, touched the baby and walked over to Molly.

“Hi. I’m Julie,” she said upon arrival.

The woman looked on the verge of total exhaustion but her warm smile seemed genuine.

“I’m Molly Porter—um—Parker. Molly Parker.” The name still felt foreign on her tongue.

Julie rubbed her neck and rolled her head as she apparently worked out some stiffness.

“Is that your baby?” Molly asked.

Julie nodded. “Thomas. He’s finally turning the corner. I would have lost him to pneumonia if it hadn’t been for Justin.”

“Aside from miracles, I can also walk on water,” Dr. Dale quipped with an easy grin as he brought a small basin and rolls of fiberglass tape to set her ankle.

Molly didn’t recognize her own name but she sure recognized the pang of jealousy she felt when Julie gave the gorgeous doctor a familiar, playful shove. Maybe Molly had suffered brain damage after all. That was the only plausible explanation for feeling such an intimate emotion about a total stranger.

“This could be uncomfortable, but I’m reluctant to give you any pain medication that might cause drowsiness because of the concussion,” he explained.

When his palm gently slid beneath her calf, Molly was pretty sure no sedative could have dulled the flood of sensation. His long, tapered fingers were warm where they gripped her flesh. She felt oddly flushed and was glad she was no longer connected to the blood-pressure monitor. Surely it would have registered her inappropriate and humiliating reaction to his touch.

Julie excused herself and returned to baby Thomas while Molly forced herself to stare at the ceiling. Looking at the doctor wasn’t an option. Though she’d lost her memory, she was fairly sure that applying a cast was not supposed to be a turn-on. Lord, maybe she was some sort of slut!

No, she reasoned. If she were, she wouldn’t be feeling the full weight of guilt seizing her chest.

Despite her best efforts to resist, she noticed that he was well toned. Not muscle-bound, just incredibly fit. Her mind went into fantasyland when she postulated that beneath his soft shirt were broad shoulders, a tapered waist and sculpted abdominals. Her gaze darted to his legs for an instant, long enough to fuel her musings. His jeans were faded, well-worn, and she could clearly see the outline of defined thigh muscles.

The room seemed to be getting warmer by the second.

Carefully, he slipped some sort of cotton, open-toed, sock-thing over her foot. It went up her leg about five inches. It felt as if he spent a long weekend adjusting and readjusting the fabric. Molly no longer felt pain from the fracture. Instead, her mind was totally focused on the electric sensation of his determined and well-trained fingers. Each place his skin brushed hers, a tingle lingered.

She felt her face grow hot.

“Is this uncomfortable?” the doctor asked.

Big-time. But probably not in the way you mean. “Nope, not at all.”

“You look flushed. This isn’t supposed to be a test of your fortitude. I can give you something for the pain, if it’s too bad,” he suggested.

She simply shook her head, afraid if she tried to speak, her wayward thoughts would be betrayed in her tone. Besides, what she wasn’t feeling was pain. It was a thrill, a rush of excitement ricocheting around in her stomach. She wasn’t a doctor, but she was sure that her symptoms had nothing to do with any injury.

Obviously satisfied with the first step, he scooted the stool around and braced her injured left foot against his chest.

“This might be uncomfortable,” he warned casually.

But there was nothing casual about the feel of his solid chest beneath her foot. She was aware of its systematic rising and falling as he breathed steadily, in and out. Conversely, her breath was were coming in shallow near gasps.

With slow deliberation, Dr. Dale began to wrap her foot and ankle in cool, wet fiberglass. Every time he stroked and smoothed the wrap, her heart fluttered. Molly was awash in conflicting emotions and a sense of self-loathing.

He was merely doing his job and she was mentally turning it into some sort of torrid moment. Her eyes were riveted to his handsome profile. The man’s face was an attractive combination of sharp angles and expressive compassion. Deep lines formed at the corners of his chocolate eyes as he continued his task.

Molly tried to redirect her thinking by glancing over at Julie and her baby. Apparently the baby was sleeping because Julie was seated, reading The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas.

Depressing reading, Molly thought. At the same instant, she heard selected passages of Thomas in her head. That meant she was either educated or well-read.

“Is that frown due to pain?” the doctor asked, startling her.

Molly shook her head. “I know Thomas.”

“The baby?” he asked, crooking his head toward the sleeping infant.

“The poet.”

Justin dazzled her with a wry smile. The flash of perfectly straight white teeth was accompanied by a glimpse of his very sexy dimple.

Molly struggled to keep her thoughts on task. “If I know poetry, that must mean something.”

“Yeah,” he said as he applied the final touches to her cast. “It means, unlike me, you have the ability to understand poems that don’t rhyme.”

She found herself smiling. “It is something, isn’t it?”

Justin met her eyes and held them. “Yes, it’s a good sign. It most likely means that your amnesia is a temporary reaction to the trauma you suffered. You should expect to get snippets of memory, then most things will come back in time.”

“In time? And what do you mean, ‘most things’?”

He patted her hand. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you never regain a clear memory of the accident. It’s your brain’s way of protecting you.”

Molly stared, stunned. “How am I supposed to know what happened to me?”

He shrugged. “You’ll probably never know unless they find the driver or a witness.”

“Great! I’d really like to know if someone was just irresponsible or trying to hurt me.”

“My educated guess is the latter. I don’t think it’s coincidence that you were beaten and hit by a car in the same week.”

“You have no idea how not comforting that is.”

A man in uniform stepped into the clinic just then. He greeted Julie in passing as he came over to where Molly was still stuck on her paper-covered bed.

Tipping the brim of his hat to her, he first addressed the doctor. “How’s the patient?”

“Um...forgetful?” he suggested with a sheepish wink in Molly’s direction.

“Sheriff Alec Younger,” he introduced. “I need to get some information, if you’re up to it, ma’am.”

“You won’t need a pencil,” Molly quipped.

Her joke was lost on the sheriff. “Ma’am?”

She looked at Justin, silently conveying that she would prefer him to supply an explanation for her strange circumstance.

He picked up on her unspoken need immediately. “Physically, I’ve done everything possible, but there’s a hitch.”

“Hitch?” the sheriff asked.

“There’s been a slight, probably short-term complication from the concussion she suffered.”

“You moving her to Fort Worth?”

Justin shook his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

The sheriff rubbed the shadow of a beard on his chin. “So what exactly is this hitch?”

“Memory disruption.”

“Come again?” Sheriff Younger pressed.

“More commonly known as amnesia.”

The sheriff’s dark brows drew together. “Is this a joke, Justin? I’m not really in the mood for games. I was late getting here because of a suicide in Pinto.”

“You don’t have jurisdiction in Pinto,” Justin said.

“The Pinto suicide is related to this investigation,” Sheriff Younger explained. “I got a call from the Harrisons.”

“How are Kathy and David?” Justin asked.

Molly felt as if she were watching a Ping-Pong match. Couldn’t these guys stick to one topic of conversation?

“Bummed,” the sheriff answered. “They had a runner last night, then woke up this morning to find their latest guest had committed suicide.”

“I hope you aren’t talking about a hotel,” Molly said.

“The Harrisons run a shelter,” Justin explained, but his attention remained fixed on the sheriff. “So what does the suicide have to do with Molly getting hit by a car?”

“I’ll get to that,” the sheriff answered. He moved slightly closer to Molly and his piercing black eyes met hers. “I ran your name through our computer.”

Molly stilled, curious, anxious and panicked all at the same instant. “Am I in trouble?”

He shrugged. “Nothing came back. Not in this county, at least. Where are you from?”

“I don’t know.”

The sheriff looked annoyed. “This is serious, young lady. This isn’t a time for faking.”

“I’m not faking!” Molly insisted rather haughtily. “I honestly can’t remember.”

Sheriff Younger turned to Justin. “This is a pretty big hitch.”

“Yep.”

“Great. Well, you had a Texas license, Austin address. I’ll run a check there.” The sheriff turned as if to leave.

“Wait!” Molly grabbed his sleeve. “I think I need help.”

“She’s right,” Justin added. “I found some old injuries.” He went on to detail the results of his physical examination.

The sheriff took some time absorbing the information, then said, “Well, that might fit with what I learned at the Harrisons.”

“Which was?” Justin queried.

“That Ms. Parker is their runner. But there’s a problem.”

“Problem?” Molly repeated.

“Yep. The woman who committed suicide at the shelter last night was a woman named Sara Pierce.”

“What does that have to do with Molly?” Justin pressed.

“She killed herself with an overdose of prescription drugs.”

“Unfortunately a common means of ending one’s life,” Justin offered.

“Sure,” the sheriff said, speaking directly to Molly, “but the prescription belonged to you.”