Isabella Trueblood made history reuniting people torn apart by war and an epidemic. Now, generations later, Lily and Dylan Garrett carry on her work with their agency, Finders Keepers. Circumstances may have changed, but the goal remains the same.

Lost

One heiress. Sara Pierce, the missing beneficiary of Violet Mitchum’s will, wants to disappear. When her roommate in a women’s shelter dies suddenly, Sara thinks she’s found a way to erase her past forever. She hasn’t counted on the “accident” that erases her memory.

Found

One knight in shining armor. Dr. Justin Dale finds himself between a rock and a hard place—he’s falling in love with a patient…a woman who knows less than he does about herself. A woman who needs him, not as a doctor, but as a man.

Finders Keepers: bringing families together

Dear Reader,

The Best Man in Texas was a wonderful opportunity to work with an incredible group of authors and editors! It is always a joy and an honor to be offered the chance to work with a terrific team.

Writing about Texas was great fun and it gave me a chance to reminisce about a trip my husband and I took to the state. We traveled through much of the diverse landscape and ended up at a dude ranch. Well, actually, it was more like a dude resort. We had a cabin with a hot tub, fireplace and a butler, so I doubt I can claim to have experienced true Western living. The butler was a nice touch, though.

Sara Pierce was a challenging character to develop. Though I could never imagine the true horrors of living through an abusive marriage, I fully enjoyed creating a woman who had not only survived, but had taken control of her life. What better reward than to find a true hero at the end of the journey. Dr. Justin Dale embodied all the qualities that make being a writer such a marvelous job. Crafting the hero is—secretly—my favorite part of the writing process. I’ll admit, Justin is my ideal fantasy man—gorgeous, intelligent, morally grounded and genuinely kind.

And Justin has many things in common with my husband. Acknowledging the similarity makes me remember why I wanted to write romance. I not only believe in “happily ever after,” I’m lucky enough to have found it in my own life as my husband and I prepare to celebrate twenty years of marriage.

I hope you enjoy the book.

Happy reading!

Kelsey Roberts

The Best Man in Texas
Kelsey Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Kelsey Roberts is acknowledged as the author of this work.

Kelsey Roberts is acknowledged as the author of this work.

Words simply cannot express my gratitude to my supportive

and loving husband, Bob, my dear friends, my sister, Linda,

the caring readers, patient editors and members of the writing community for their overwhelming support when I lost my son. Without all of you, I could easily have lost my way. Thank you!

In loving memory of Kyle McKinley Pollero

(November 19, 1985–September 7, 1999)

THE TRUEBLOOD LEGACY

THE YEAR WAS 1918, and the Great War in Europe still raged, but Esau Porter was heading home to Texas.

The young sergeant arrived at his parents’ ranch northwest of San Antonio on a Sunday night, only the celebration didn’t go off as planned. Most of the townsfolk of Carmelita had come out to welcome Esau home, but when they saw the sorry condition of the boy, they gave their respects quickly and left.

The fever got so bad so fast that Mrs. Porter hardly knew what to do. By Monday night, before the doctor from San Antonio made it into town, Esau was dead.

The Porter family grieved. How could their son have survived the German peril, only to burn up and die in his own bed? It wasn’t much of a surprise when Mrs. Porter took to her bed on Wednesday. But it was a hell of a shock when half the residents of Carmelita came down with the horrible illness. House after house was hit by death, and all the townspeople could do was pray for salvation.

None came. By the end of the year, over one hundred souls had perished. The influenza virus took those in the prime of life, leaving behind an unprecedented number of orphans. And the virus knew no boundaries. By the time the threat had passed, more than thirty-seven million people had succumbed worldwide.

But in one house, there was still hope.

Isabella Trueblood had come to Carmelita in the late 1800s with her father, blacksmith Saul Trueblood, and her mother, Teresa Collier Trueblood. The family had traveled from Indiana, leaving their Quaker roots behind.

Young Isabella grew up to be an intelligent woman who had a gift for healing and storytelling. Her dreams centered on the boy next door, Foster Carter, the son of Chester and Grace.

Just before the bad times came in 1918, Foster asked Isabella to be his wife, and the future of the Carter spread was secured. It was a happy union, and the future looked bright for the young couple.

Two years later, not one of their relatives was alive. How the young couple had survived was a miracle. And during the epidemic, Isabella and Foster had taken in more than twenty-two orphaned children from all over the county. They fed them, clothed them, taught them as if they were blood kin.

Then Isabella became pregnant, but there were complications. Love for her handsome son, Josiah, born in 1920, wasn’t enough to stop her from grow-ing weaker by the day. Knowing she couldn’t leave her husband to tend to all the children if she died, she set out to find families for each one of her orphaned charges.

And so the Trueblood Foundation was born. Named in memory of Isabella’s parents, it would become famous all over Texas. Some of the orphaned children went to strangers, but many were reunited with their families. After reading notices in newspapers and church bulletins, aunts, uncles, cousins and grand-parents rushed to Carmelita to find the young ones they’d given up for dead.

Toward the end of Isabella’s life, she’d brought together more than thirty families, and not just her orphans. Many others, old and young, made their way to her doorstep, and Isabella turned no one away.

At her death, the town’s name was changed to Trueblood, in her honor. For years to come, her simple grave was adorned with flowers on the anniversary of her death, grateful tokens of appreciation from the families she had brought together.

Isabella’s son, Josiah, grew into a fine rancher and married Rebecca Montgomery in 1938. They had a daughter, Elizabeth Trueblood Carter, in 1940. Elizabeth married her neighbor William Garrett in 1965, and gave birth to twins Lily and Dylan in 1971, and daughter Ashley a few years later. Home was the Double G ranch, about ten miles from Trueblood proper, and the Garrett children grew up listening to stories of their famous great-grandmother, Isabella. Because they were Truebloods, they knew that they, too, had a sacred duty to carry on the tradition passed down to them: finding lost souls and reuniting loved ones.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, Molly, not sitting at my desk.”

Justin tossed down the leather backpack he used as a combination medical bag and briefcase.

Molly. Molly. Molly. Sara repeated the name over and over in her mind, willing herself to think of it as her own.

“I’m going a little stir crazy,” she admitted. “And I thought the clinic could use some help. You have no organizational skills.”

“Guilty,” he agreed easily.

Sara averted her eyes, afraid some of her lecherous thoughts might be evident in her expression. Getting a grip on her feelings for the handsome doctor was part of her new plan.

“I’m setting up an interface and configuring a single-use station for you.” She reached out and adjusted the screen so Justin could see it more clearly. “You have all the tools right here, you just haven’t been using them effectively.”

“The story of my life,” he commented wryly.

Sara was left wondering if that was some kind of double entendre, hoping maybe it was.

Contents

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“HE’S GOING to kill you.”

Ignoring the weave of tubes and electrodes, Violet Mitchum shifted on the gurney so she could peer through the small opening where the well-worn emergency room curtains didn’t quite meet.

Breath snagged in her throat when she caught sight of the woman lying almost close enough for her to touch. Through the small opening in the privacy curtain, Violet was easily able to catalog the young woman’s injuries. Beneath the raw, battered face, she suspected the woman was attractive. Though blood matted the long, pale-brown hair and the woman’s clothes were torn, Violet was quite certain this was not a homeless person or woman forced to sell herself on the street.

What was left of her clothing indicated that, whoever she was, she took an effort in her appearance on a limited budget. There were traces of expertly applied makeup on and around the welts and abrasions marring her face.

“I know that,” she heard the young woman reply wearily. She winced and held tentative fingertips to her rapidly swelling lip.

The attending physician rolled a stool next to the bed. His actions were so smooth from obvious repetition that they resembled an eerie kind of choreography. He was looking down at his patient with what Violet could only classify as frustrated compassion. That sentiment was echoed in his tone.

“Sara,” he began on a rush of air, “let me call the cops. Hank Allen deserves—”

“To rot in hell,” the woman named Sara finished with a spark of forced humor. “I’m taking care of it, Dr. Greene.”

Violet watched as all pretext of professional distance drained from the doctor’s face. “Really? How?”

“He didn’t mean to hurt me,” the woman replied with tenacious conviction. “Besides, he never would have hit me tonight if I hadn’t mouthed off at him first. You’ve known me most of my life, Dr. Greene. I’ve never been very good at keeping my smart remarks to myself.”

Violet stifled the urge to scoff.

“That hardly justifies Hank Allen beating you, Sara.”

She attempted a grin in spite of her puffy upper lip. “I’ve got it under control,” she insisted.

“Really?” the doctor challenged. “I’ve been hearing that same tune for the past three years. You’re a young, intelligent woman, Sara. Why you stay with a husband who beats you makes no sense.”

The young woman broke eye contact with the concerned physician.

“I married him, Dr. Greene. I can’t just walk away from a commitment.”

“You’re right,” the doctor agreed with more than just a measure of disgust. “A few more like tonight and you won’t be walking away. They’ll be carrying you out in a body bag.”

Violet was distracted for the better part of an hour while a physician’s assistant sutured her finger. She felt rather silly about the whole matter. She had come to Louisiana to help her friend Betty recuperate from a hip replacement. And here she was in an emergency room getting stitches because she had not been paying attention while chopping carrots. It seemed an inconsequential injury when compared with the poor girl in the next room.

Violet thought of her own wonderful marriage and couldn’t fathom the life of the young woman in the nearby bed. Violet had been loved—no, cherished. That was marriage.

“Excuse me?” Violet began rather cautiously as she yanked open the flimsy curtain.

Gingerly, the young woman half turned on her side, angling herself so as to get a clear look at Violet through the less swollen of her two eyes. Violet’s initial assessment had been accurate. Beneath her injuries, this woman was stunning. Except for the torment marring those beautiful brown eyes.

The young woman surprised her when she asked, “Do you need help? Should I call the nurse?”

Interesting, Violet thought, that this Sara should be concerned with her when she was clearly in a more serious condition herself.

Violet used her good hand to smooth back a few strands of her hair. It had long ago gone white and she hoped that alone was enough to lend some credence to what she was about to say.

“No, no,” Violet assured her. “I’m simply awaiting a release from the doctor.” She held up her now bandaged hand and turned it as if to prove it functioned.

“Me, too,” she responded on a slightly labored breath.

Never one to mince words, Violet met and held the woman’s gaze. “Your name is Sara, right?”

The woman nodded.

“I suppose you’re going to go back to the man who did this to you?”

Sara’s lids fluttered to shroud her eyes. “Do you always listen in on confidential conversations?”

Spirit, Violet thought. Good sign. “Only when I think I can help.”

“You can’t,” came Sara’s rote-sounding reply. “Anyway, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Stubbornness. Bad sign. “Your face and your ribs will heal but the problem with your husband won’t,” Violet continued, undeterred. “The doctors can fix your body but only you can fix your life.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, you don’t know me and you don’t know my husband.”

“I don’t have to,” Violet countered. “I know his type. But I’ll admit that you’re something of a puzzle. You seem like a bright, articulate woman. Smart enough to know better than to let a man use you as a punching bag.”

Sara shifted onto her back and Violet thought she saw a shimmer of unshed tears in the woman’s eyes. Violet wasn’t sure if the woman’s emotional control was a good or bad sign.

“You don’t understand,” Sara said after a brief silence.

“So explain it to me,” Violet challenged.

“Hank Allen is under a lot of pressure. He owns several businesses and sometimes the stress just gets to him.”

“You think that justifies beating you?”

“He wasn’t always like this,” Sara defended without real emotion. “He doesn’t mean to get so rough.” She continued to stare at the ceiling.

Violet guessed the practiced excuses were wearing thin even to Sara. “They never are. Batterers are successful because they start out as Prince Charming and wait until later to reveal their warts. And just for your information, warts can be removed for a while, but they usually grow back.”

“I think he really wants to change this time.”

“Is that what you thought all the other times?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sara said, closing her eyes. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment.”

“Only when it’s made honestly,” Violet counseled. “When your Hank Allen stood in front of God and promised to love and honor you ‘till death do you part,’ he was lying. Seems to me your commitment was based on false promises.”

“I can’t leave him,” Sara said. “I have absolutely no money, no assets. I tried to leave once.”

“What happened?”

“Hank Allen reported the car stolen. Everything is in his name. I’m not even authorized to write a check.”

“There are places that can help you. Organizations that—”

“He’d find me.”

Violet thought about her next move for less than a minute. “Let me help.”

Sara’s eyes flew open and she jerked her head around—a motion that obviously caused her some pain. Wincing, she said, “You don’t even know me. I can’t let—”

“All the better,” Violet interrupted. “I’ll give you some money to get yourself away from this mess.”

“He’ll go crazy. Besides, I couldn’t possibly take money from a total stranger.”

“I’m Violet Mitchum from Pinto, Texas. There, now we aren’t strangers.”

“You know what I mean,” Sara argued. “This isn’t your problem. I’ll deal with it, but thank you.”

“There’s a fine line between being stubborn and being stupid, Sara.”

“I’m being neither,” Sara said. “I’m being practical. When the time is right, I’ll leave Hank Allen.”

“But when that time comes, will you still be breathing?”

CHAPTER ONE

“I’M STILL breathing, Violet,” Sara Pierce sighed as she sank lower against the stiff seat of the bus.

But Violet’s wisdom delivered nearly four years earlier had stayed with Sara. The mere fact that she had been so hopeless as to inspire a virtual stranger to take pity on her in a hospital emergency room had been just the push Sara needed. It had taken her months of careful planning and three more beatings, but she had done it.

Each week she had siphoned cash from the grocery allowance Hank Allen grudgingly provided. Sara had packed her bag a few articles of clothing at a time. If he suspected, Hank Allen never let on, but she had lived in mortal fear that he would discover her plan.

He didn’t. Eight months after that fortuitous meeting with Violet Mitchum in the Louisiana hospital, Sara Pierce had walked out on years of abuse.

After a few months in hiding, she had contacted an attorney and started the process of reclaiming her life.

She gave Hank Allen some parting gifts. First, there was a restraining order. When he violated that, Sara pressed charges and Hank Allen went to jail for six months. During his incarceration, she had obtained a divorce that included Hank Allen having to pay her rehabilitative alimony for three years. It seemed only fair that he support her while she returned to finish the college degree she had interrupted to marry that pig.

It seemed as if her life was back on track. She hadn’t seen Hank Allen in more than a year. The alimony had ended a week earlier, the day before she had earned her degree. Sara was ready to begin a new life.

But Hank Allen wasn’t finished with her yet.

She had returned from her graduation ceremony, stepped inside her apartment, and only wished she hadn’t known what hit her. It took one blow for her to recognize the all-too-familiar feel of Hank Allen’s fists.

She was convinced that he would have beaten her to death had it not been for the intervention of a neighbor.

Sara repositioned her travel bag on the seat beside her—she didn’t want any traveling companion on this trip—and crouched behind the dated newspaper she was using to obscure her face.

It seemed rather creepy that she found herself staring at the obituary page. A San Antonio socialite named Eve Bishop was smiling back at her. The wealthy woman’s death apparently warranted almost a quarter-page of the paper. If Hank Allen had been successful, Sara knew her death would have gone unnoticed. She would have been little more than a statistic.

I was a statistic! she thought with incredible frustration. But no more. She had Violet Mitchum to thank for that, which was exactly what she was about to do.

Thank her and ask for help. Sara had learned a lot in the past few years. First and foremost, she had learned that asking for help was sometimes the only way out of a bad situation. Violet’s simple offer that night in the hospital had changed the course of Sara’s life. Now she needed a little more sage advice to salvage what she had struggled so hard to achieve. She hadn’t even bothered to phone Violet—after Hank Allen’s reappearance, all she could think about was fleeing to safety.

Outside the bus window Sara could see the vast expanse of Texas roll by. Since Hank Allen had not dared show his face at the hospital that night four years ago, he had no idea who Violet was. Consequently, he wouldn’t know to look for her in some small place called Pinto. Violet would help her. Sara just knew in her bones that the kindly old woman would help her think of something. Some way to keep Hank Allen out of her life for good.

Sara shifted in the seat. The action caused her bruised ribs to smart. At least it was getting dark now. Dark enough that she no longer had to hide her battered face behind the newspaper. If the other riders noticed her bruises, they gave no outward indication.

She spotted the sign for Pinto outside the window. It made her feel safe. As an added measure of security, Sara remained on the bus until its next scheduled stop in Cactus Creek, a neighboring town. She wasn’t taking any chances this time. This time her plan would work.

No one seemed to notice when she gathered her single bag and exited the bus in the center of Cactus Creek.

“Center” was an accurate description. Cactus Creek appeared to have a main street and very little else. It was perfect. It was also fairly deserted. Aside from a diner, no light shone from the other shops dotting the dusty sidewalk.

Sara reached into her purse and pulled a tattered piece of paper from a side compartment. The writing was faded but still legible. Violet Mitchum had left her address for Sara that night—just in case. The message read “My door is always open.”

“Let’s hope that’s true,” Sara muttered as she walked toward the diner.

The tinkle of a bell greeted her when she pushed the door open, along with the twang of a popular country ballad. The place was deserted save for an attractive couple huddled in the end booth and a waitress seated at the Formica counter, engrossed in a paperback novel.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked without looking up from her book.

Sara would have loved some, but it was already late and she wanted to get to Violet’s as soon as possible. “I need to know how to get to—” she paused and read from the scrap of paper “—Harvester Lane in Pinto.”

The waitress lifted her head, her brows drawn tightly together. “You sure?”

Sara nodded, careful to keep her face turned subtly in profile. It was easier than letting the waitress see her bruises and then having to come up with an explanation.

“Hell of a long walk, and nothing on Harvester but the Mitchum place,” the waitress informed her on a sigh.

“Point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way,” Sara urged. Out of habit, she glanced over her shoulder and scanned the street beyond the window. Seeing no sign of Hank Allen was reassuring.

Knowing she still feared him wasn’t. Especially when she noted the couple sharing coffee. The woman had her back to Sara but the man was facing in her direction. He was dark and handsome, and the way he reached out and patted his companion’s hand was telling. His action seemed to convey genuine compassion and kindness. Sara scoffed inwardly. Like she was an authority on men. Still, she lingered a minute on his thick, wavy brown hair and chocolate-colored eyes. His chiseled face was perfectly sculpted, right down to the slight cleft in his chin and a perfect dimple on his right cheek, which appeared when he flashed an understated smile. Sara knew she was exhausted if she was cataloguing a strange man’s assets.

“Being as it’s late,” the waitress’s voice intruded as she slipped behind the counter, “why don’t I give you a cup of coffee—it’s fresh—and point you in the direction of the boardinghouse.”

Sara read the bright white nameplate pinned to the woman’s tight blouse. “Thank you...Stella. But I really do need to be on my way.”

Stella’s dark eyes were probing as she hesitated, coffeepot in hand. Then, with an accepting shrug, she said, “Suit yourself. Go out the door, take a left and follow Main Street to the stop sign. Main runs right into FM 880. Harvester is on the right a few miles down. Just look for a lattice rose trellis. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” Sara muttered.

She left the Blue Moon Café and followed the simple directions. Simple, yes, easy, no. Everything in Texas was big, she determined as she continued to walk. Her small overnight bag felt as if it were filled with bricks and her feet weren’t too thrilled as she trudged down the dark road.

As soon as she passed the stop sign, she felt she had crossed some unseen border. There was a freshness in the crisp, cool night air. She could hear birds or some kind of critters scuttling in the underbrush as she walked through the virgin, ankle-high grass along the edge of the road. Occasionally a twig snapped beneath her foot or she would stumble on a rock. Her ribs ached and sleep deprivation was catching up with her. These were the longest miles she had ever walked. Violet would be a welcome sight.

Sara spotted the rose trellis up ahead. It had a strangely neglected look about it, even in the darkness. The roses were slowly being strangled by the hearty climbing weed overtaking the trellis.

But then, Violet was older, Sara told herself as she walked up a crushed-stone drive. Perhaps she wasn’t able to maintain the property any longer. Sara was already planning on weeding the rose bed and doing a little pruning when she reflexively ducked to the side and crouched down in the tall grass.

A car was coming.

Stifling the urge to cry out when her ribs protested, she clutched her bag close to her and listened. She saw the dual beams of headlights crawling along the main road. They were coming from the direction of town. Sara huddled lower in the grass, praying there were no snakes lurking nearby.

It seemed to take an eternity for the car to drive by the entrance to Violet’s ranch.

Sara needed a good few minutes before she had the courage to come out of hiding. “Get a grip!” she admonished herself. “It was probably the couple from the diner going home.” Unable to help herself, Sara started to create a scenario for the cute couple. What would it be like to have a real relationship with a man who looked like that!

She continued her musings as she headed toward the house. And then it happened.

With no time to run, she turned, dropping her bag to shield her eyes from the bright beams of the headlights that appeared out of nowhere before her. Her heart skipped several beats, making her chest feel as if it would explode. Fear replaced the blood flowing in her veins. This was her worst nightmare come true. She was in the middle of nowhere. Despite all her careful planning, she had provided her ex-husband with the perfect venue to kill her.

A spotlight clicked on from the driver’s side of the car. Sara could feel heat from the light as the car inched closer. Something didn’t seem right. Where had Hank Allen gotten a spotlight?

She was virtually blinded by the lights. An odd sense of calm washed over her. She ran the situation through her mind, remembering everything she had been taught in her self-defense course. Cooperation, she repeated like a mantra. Don’t antagonize him and don’t get into the car!

“Step up to the car, please, ma’am.”

Sara blinked at the unfamiliar male voice. She remained frozen in place.

“Texas State Police, ma’am. Step up to the front of the vehicle and place your palms on the hood.”

The disembodied voice was bellowing from a speaker. Sara was trying to grasp this sudden change in her situation when she heard a muffled curse as the car door opened.

“Lady,” an irritated young officer groused, “would you come on over here, please?”

“What?”

“Geez!” the young man groaned as he moved toward her. “What happened to you?”

“What?” Sara repeated.

He emerged from the spotlight, his gun belt jingling with each step he took. The faint smell of aftershave arrived a split second before the young officer. Tipping the brim of his uniform hat back slightly, he stared down at her face with a frown.

“You need medical attention, ma’am.”

Coming out of her fog, Sara gently shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

“You aren’t fine,” he argued. “Who did this to you and what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Visiting a friend,” Sara explained.

His brows crunched together. “I don’t think so,” he countered. “If you tell me the truth, I can help you.”

Sara didn’t want to tell him how many times she had heard that before. There was the marriage counselor who was going to help her. Then the doctor who was going to help her. And the divorce attorney. And the support group. And the college dean. And the judge who issued the restraining order.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” she managed to reply as politely as possible.

“You aren’t fine,” he argued.

“My friend owns this place,” Sara explained.

He snorted. “Is that right?”

“Yes. I’m surprised she hasn’t come outside with all these lights shining.” Why hasn’t she? Sara wondered to herself.

“Is this friend Miss Violet?” the officer queried.

Sara nodded.

“She isn’t here.”

Sara felt her heart plummet. “Not here?”

“You say she’s a friend?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, we met a few years ago.”

“You couldn’t have been too close,” the officer said. “Miss Violet died a while back. Which means you are trespassing.”

CHAPTER TWO

“IT WOULD BE a lot easier if you would just tell me your name,” the trooper said for the fifth time during their ride.

“I’ve agreed to go to the Harrisons’ shelter,” Sara argued. “Believe me, it’s better if no one knows my name.”

“What about your kin?” he asked. “Isn’t there someone you’d like me to call? Let them know you’re okay?”

“I don’t have anyone, but thank you.”

“What kind of man did this to you?”

“The worst kind.”

* * *

THE HARRISONS’ shelter was a converted bunkhouse on an immaculate ranch just outside the town of Pinto. It was pitch-dark when Kathy Harrison greeted them at the locked gate in her bathrobe.

She offered Sara a warm smile, then placed her arm around her shoulders and steered her to the main house. Kathy dismissed the trooper, then insisted that Sara have something to eat.

“You want to tell me your name?” Kathy asked as she piled lettuce on a sandwich.

“Jane Doe?” Sara suggested. She clutched the steaming coffee in both hands.

Kathy chuckled and joined Sara at the spacious oak clawfoot table that dominated the cozy kitchen. “You don’t look like a Jane.”

Sara simply smiled. Her smile slipped a bit when an imposing man with white hair entered the kitchen.

“This is my husband, David,” Kathy explained.

Sara’s greeting was a tentative meeting of the eyes.

“I smelled sandwiches,” David commented easily. Unlike his wife, he made no move to make physical contact. In fact, he seemed careful to avoid invading her space.

“I’m not really hungry,” Sara insisted.

“You should eat,” Kathy admonished.

“You should do what you want,” David countered as he accepted the plate Sara had pushed toward the center of the table. “Kathy can be something of a mother hen.”

“The girl looks half-starved,” Kathy protested.

David took a hearty bite of the sandwich and ate with appreciation. On a routine obviously established over many years, Kathy provided her husband with a glass of milk and a familiar pat on the shoulder.

This was what a marriage was supposed to be, Sara thought.

David met her gaze and asked, “Are you going to make us keep calling you ‘the girl?’”

Sara felt a little silly. Her face warmed with an uncomfortable blush. “If you don’t know my name, then you can’t tell anyone about me.”

“We don’t tell,” David stated with conviction. “This is a safe place. We’ve got an arrangement with law enforcement in four counties. They know if they bring a woman here for shelter, she’ll be safe because we know better than to reveal information. We know how dangerous it is.”

“I doubt it,” Sara sighed.

Kathy disappeared and returned in a flash with a framed photograph. She handed it to Sara as if she were handing her a diamond-studded scepter. The young woman in the photograph was beautiful, with a smile that simply required you to return it in kind.

“That’s our daughter Dorothy,” Kathy explained.

“She’s lovely.”

Kathy nodded and her hand slipped into David’s. “She was. She was beaten to death by her boyfriend ten years ago.”

“I’m s-sorry.”

David’s smile was haunted now. “We do understand your situation. Dorothy is the reason we started this shelter. We know how important it is for women to have someplace safe to hide.”

“Hiding isn’t living,” Sara sighed.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Kathy said.

Sara felt guilty for voicing her thoughts in light of what the Harrisons had just told her. “I don’t think my ex-husband followed me,” she said.

“What happened?”

Sara shrugged and ran her fingertip around the rim of her coffee mug. “He wasn’t exactly proud of my graduation from college.”

“When was this?”

A lifetime ago. “Two days ago,” Sara answered. “I went back to college after my divorce. I worked hard and managed to finish midyear.”

“Congratulations,” David offered.

Amazingly, it was the first she had heard those words from anyone other than herself.

“Can we get you some medical attention as a graduation gift?”

Sara smiled at David’s offer. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “A few bruised ribs. I’ve had worse.”

“Let us call Justin anyway,” Kathy suggested.

“I’m on a limited budget,” Sara countered.

“Justin doesn’t charge anything,” Kathy explained. “He’s a good old-fashioned country doctor. Still makes house calls and is happy to accept a fresh-baked pie for his trouble.”

“Thank you anyway,” Sara insisted.

“You’re as stubborn as the other one,” David commented.

“The other one?”

“Came in just before dinner,” David said. “Looks like the devil chewed her up and spit her out. I’m hoping she’ll rethink things by morning.”

“She’s Jane Doe number one,” Kathy explained. “It’s going to be hard what with two Jane Does staying with us.”

“I’m not staying,” Sara said. “I’m sorry the state trooper insisted on bringing me here. He said it was either this or jail. Apparently I was trespassing.”

“My guess is he knew you’d be safe here.” Kathy took Sara’s coffee mug to the sink. “Why don’t you get some sleep? We’ll see how things look to you in the light of day.”

She was tired, Sara admitted, and she didn’t have any alternative plan worked out. Not yet at least.

Kathy led her from the house to the adjacent bunkhouse. It had been outfitted with beds, dressers, sofas and chairs. There was a fireplace and someone—David probably—had gone to the trouble to enclose two nice bathrooms in the rectangular space.

The rows of single beds reminded Sara of her days in the orphanage. They were bittersweet memories. She had grieved for her parents but was loved by the staff.

Kathy showed her where the telephone was and told her she was free to call anyone, anywhere, anytime. Then she was led to a bed next to one occupied by a sleeping woman. In hushed tones, Kathy wished her good-night and left her to prepare for bed.

Sara washed up and quietly returned to her assigned bed. She had slipped beneath the covers when she heard the soft sobs.

“Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

Sara lay still for several minutes, listening to the cries, before tossing off the blankets and padding over to the bedside of her only roommate.

Gently, she touched her on the shoulder. The wo-man was trembling and gulping air between sobs.

“I’m Sara,” she said as she brushed the woman’s hair away from her face. Sara didn’t flinch when she saw the deep lacerations and dark bruises. It was difficult to get a true picture of the woman’s face in its current condition. All Sara could tell was that they shared similar coloring and were probably close in age. “Let me help you. Do you want me to call Kathy?”

“No!” the woman answered in a panic. “I just want it to be over.”

“It is,” Sara assured her. “You’re safe here.”

“I’ll never be safe,” she replied, defeated. “Jeb will find me. He always does.”

“You can’t think that way,” Sara insisted. “All you need is a plan.”

The woman’s sobs slowed and she turned to peer up at Sara with reddened, puffy eyes. “Did you have a plan?”

Sara nodded.

“Did you a lot of good, didn’t it?”

Sara shrugged. “So I had a flawed plan. I won’t make that mistake again. Look, um—”

“Molly,” the woman provided in a near whisper.

“Look, Molly, you can’t give up. You just have to think of a way to rebuild your life.”

“I don’t have a life.”

“But you can,” Sara insisted. “You can go someplace fresh, start a new life.”

“I tried that.”

“Then try again,” Sara urged. “Don’t let him win.”

Molly was quiet for some time before she turned away and whispered, “He already has.”

* * *

SARA WOKE a few hours later and didn’t feel much better for the effort. Her brain was shrouded in a fog of exhaustion but she found sleep elusive. She needed a plan. She needed a new identity, one that Hank Allen couldn’t track.

She recalled a TV movie where the character had gone to a cemetery and stolen the name and birthdate of a deceased person around the same age. Then, using that information, she had gotten a birth certificate. Sara could do the same. With a birth certificate, she could get a Social Security card, then a driver’s license. The only problem would be where to hide and how to support herself while she was creating her new self. She supposed she could stay with the Harrisons, though that could be problematic. The trooper had probably filled out a report. If Hank Allen knew she took the bus from Louisiana to Texas, he would eventually find the report and put two and two together. No, Sara needed a clean break. No trail to cover, no loose ends.

She glanced over and saw that Molly was sleeping. Quietly, Sara crept from the bed over to the telephone stand. Despite a brief search, she couldn’t find a telephone book. She wanted to see if there were any cemeteries listed in the area. Careful not to disturb Molly, Sara looked around the rest of the bunkhouse. Still no phone book. Maybe Molly knew where it was.

She glanced over her shoulder. Molly still hadn’t moved. Sara was in a quandary. Her roommate needed rest, but Sara was feeling desperate to get started on her new life. She reasoned that if she awakened Molly, she could apologize by helping her make her own fresh start.

Sara walked over to the bed and gently shook Molly’s shoulder. The motion caused Molly’s arm to fall from the bed. Sara heard something hit the floor. It rolled over and brushed against her foot.

Reaching down, Sara picked up the small, opaque-orange plastic bottle. The cap was missing. Holding it up to the sliver of daylight just entering the room, she read the label.

“Molly Parker. Diazepam. Take two at bedtime.” The prescription had been filled at a pharmacy in Austin two days earlier. Originally, there were sixty pills in the bottle. Assuming Molly had taken the prescribed dose, there should have been fifty-six left. There were none.

“Oh, God!” Sara breathed in panic. Yanking away the covers, she felt for a pulse.

Not only did Molly not have a pulse, her body was cold and lifeless. After spending two years working part-time in a hospital emergency room, Sara knew a dead body when she saw one.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said to Molly. “This means he won. Damn it!”

Sara turned to go and get the Harrisons, but her foot caught a strap beneath the bed. When she went to untangle herself, she discovered she was hooked on Molly’s purse.

The idea came to her at the same second she reached for the purse. There was enough of a resemblance...she hoped.

Silently she weighed the pros and cons. She’d be taking on Molly’s problems as her own. She’d be cheating Molly’s family—assuming she had one—out of grieving for her. In exchange, Sara would be getting Hank Allen out of her life forever. He’d be notified of her suicide and stop looking for her. Worst case scenario would be that Molly’s abuser would come looking for her, but he’d be looking for Molly. Even if he found Sara, he most likely wouldn’t do anything. Men who abused their wives and girlfriends normally didn’t attack total strangers.

It could work. She could go back and hide out in Violet’s house until her injuries healed. If someone was looking for Molly Parker, they wouldn’t look on Harvester Lane.

It had to work. Her life depended on it.

Sara opened Molly’s purse and started to go through the contents. She was relieved when she found no pictures of children. It would be impossible to steal the woman’s identity if there were children involved.

She felt a pang of guilt when she came across a picture of a couple she assumed were Molly’s parents. She found a driver’s license and other identification. The two of them looked close enough alike to fool most people. Molly was an inch taller, but Sara doubted that would pose a problem. She was also a year younger.

That realization gave Sara pause. Molly had had only twenty-four years of life. It was senseless. Criminal.

It was also getting light outside.

Sara needed to get out while she could. Going to the phone, she wanted to call for a cab but doubted there were anything in such a place. It didn’t matter. She knew Violet’s house was to the west. She also knew the bus traveled the main road.

Carefully, Sara switched clothing with Molly, then placed the woman’s lifeless body in the bed Kathy Harrison had assigned to her hours before. It was a gruesome task, but necessary. It was self-preservation.

“Thank you,” Sara whispered as she put Molly’s purse on her shoulder and left her own on the floor beside her travel bag. “Rest in peace, Sara Pierce.” Without another word, she slipped out in to the dawn.

She had to climb over the fence in order to exit the Harrisons’ ranch. It didn’t do much for her ribs, but Sara wasn’t about to let that foil her plan. After dropping to the ground, she headed down the main road, constantly glancing over her shoulder. She fully expected one of the Harrisons to discover what she had done and come after her.

She walked for more than an hour before the first car passed by. Apparently this wasn’t the most heavily traveled road in Texas. Sara was tired and starting to question her judgment when a second car drove past, then stopped and waited as she caught up.

An elderly woman with a ready smile sat behind the wheel. “You lost, child?”

Sara shook her head. “I got off the bus in the wrong town.”

If the woman noticed her bruises, she didn’t let on. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I knew it,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “No self-respecting woman from Texas would be fool enough to set out on foot. Get in.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Then don’t argue with me,” she said. “Arguing bothers me. I can take you as far as Fort Worth.”

Sara settled into the ancient automobile. It felt good to be off her feet. “Thank you. But I only need to go as far as the edge of town.”

“What’s your name?”

“Parker. Um, Molly Parker.”

The woman shot her a quick glance. “You sure?”

Sara’s heart stopped. “Y-yes.”

“Okay. But it sounded like you were trying the name out for the very first time.”

Molly Parker. Molly Parker. Molly Parker. Sara practiced the name in her head. She sat quietly until she spotted the wilting roses at the entrance to Violet’s ranch.

The woman refused any offer of payment for gas when Sara stepped from the car. She simply smiled and gunned the old sedan on its way.

Sara started to cross the road when she heard the roar of an engine behind her. She looked up a split second before the car slammed into her body.

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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO, AM I like a suspect or something?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Depends on the results of the Pierce woman’s autopsy.”

Molly felt an odd sensation. It was like a flashbulb going off in her mind. It was so quick she couldn’t hold the image.

“Are you okay?” Justin asked as he took her hand in his. In one fluid motion he had managed to shove the sheriff off to the side to give her his full attention.

“Y-yes.” Molly rubbed her palm across her forehead. “I just blanked for a minute.”

Justin turned to the sheriff and said, “Alec, maybe now isn’t a good time for this.”

“I’ll be back.”

The sheriff’s proclamation did little to calm Molly’s frazzled state. Who were the Harrisons? Who was Sara Pierce and what did any of them have to do with her?

Without dropping her hand, Justin pulled his stool to the edge of her bed and lowered his more than six-foot frame onto it. “Don’t make yourself crazy, Molly. Just relax and things will probably fall into place.”

She felt herself frown. “Probably?”

Justin treated her to a handsome grin. “Worrying won’t alter the outcome,” he said.

She watched, transfixed, as his gaze dropped to their entwined hands. Once realization struck, he snatched his hand away, then all but tucked it behind his sizeable frame.

“I’ve got to check on the baby before Mrs. Beasley comes in.”

Abruptly, Justin walked away. Molly said nothing. She was occupied taking in the sight of his broad back, incredible tush and slight swagger. It seemed more likely than not that Justin was perplexed. And she didn’t think it was because of her condition. Had he been feeling the same energy that heated the pit of her stomach?

“The same energy?” Molly groused softly as she threw her arm over her face. “Is lust a form of energy?”

“It can be.”

Molly shot upright when she heard the response to her very rhetorical and very private question.

Julie was standing next to the bed with a pitcher, a glass and a lecherous smile. “Justin thought you might be thirsty.” She placed the beverage on the side table and pulled the stool over. “If you’re going to lust after Justin, be prepared to stand in line.”

Molly felt her cheeks burn. “I hardly know him, I—I—”

“Wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t notice he’s gorgeous, smart, kind, compassionate and sexy as hell,” Julie finished in a conspiratorial tone.

Molly thought for a second, then said, “Have I just stepped on your toes?”

Tossing her head back, Julie laughed softly. “Me? The only man in my life is Thomas.”

“His father?” Molly asked.

“Has never even seen him. If I have anything to say about it, my husband won’t ever be a part of Thomas’s life.”

“I guess that gives us something in common,” Molly sighed. “Whatever man I was involved with beat me up, too, according to Justin.”

“My husband never hit me,” Julie corrected, an intense sadness creeping into her eyes. It was a pained, haunted expression.

“I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions,” Molly said. “Besides, it really isn’t any of my business.”

Julie shrugged. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to like this in months. It helps.”

“Feel free to use me as a sounding board. Lord knows my board is empty.”

Julie laughed. “You’re pretty funny, Molly. I’m amazed you can still laugh given what’s happened to you.”

“It helps not to be able to remember a bloody thing.”

“I wish I could do that,” Julie mused. “Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and change the past. If only I hadn’t walked in on my husband when I did.”

“With another woman?”

She shook her head. “That I could have accepted.”

“Another man?”

Julie gave an ironic smile. “Believe it or not, even that would have been better than what I heard and saw.”

“Is your husband near here?” Molly asked.

“No.”

Upon hearing the abrupt response, Molly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You aren’t prying,” Julie insisted. “It’s just a lot safer for us and for you if you know as little possible about me.”

“Knowing as little as possible seems to be my forte right about now,” Molly quipped.

“Sorry. It must be frustrating for you.”

“Very,” Molly agreed. “But in a weird way, it’s also kind of...interesting.”

“How?”

“It’s as if I’ve had my slate wiped clean. I can be anyone or anything I want. It’s sort of liberating. Except not knowing about my past also complicates things.”

“Like what?”

Molly let out a slow breath. “Some woman killed herself using pills that were prescribed for me. The sheriff sounded as if he thinks I might have been some sort of accomplice in her death.”

“I heard. Trust me, Molly. Unless they find some sign that you force-fed her those pills, you are not responsible for some woman’s poor choice.”

“Maybe. But what about the beating and the car running me down? I must have a pretty screwed-up life for those two things to have happened.”

Julie sat pensively for a minute, then suggested, “Maybe you were getting your act together. A guy beat you up, you got away from him. The sheriff said you weren’t from around here. I’d bet my last dollar that you were trying to get yourself out of a lousy situation.”

“I didn’t get very far,” Molly pointed out.

“Maybe you did,” Julie countered. “Remember, the driver who hit you could have just been distracted—fooling with a cell phone, looking at a map—and then fled in fear. There are endless possibilities beyond just thinking he or she intended to hurt you.”

“Let’s hope,” Molly replied, stifling a yawn.

Julie ran her fingers through her cropped dark hair. Molly saw the beginnings of lighter roots and realized that Julie’s color wasn’t natural.

“I’d offer to let you rest, but Justin sent me over here with strict instructions,” Julie said. “He wants you ‘awake and responsive’ for at least four more hours.”

“Awake is a problem. Responsive seems to be on autopilot whenever he gets within ten feet of me.”

Julie laughed. “He is definitely hot.”

“Definitely. So what’s his deal? Why is he out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“How dare you disparage Cactus Creek,” Julie teased. “Population two hundred and eleven. It’s actually a nice town. Nice people.”

“Forget the other two-hundred and ten, what’s with the doctor?”

“Justin is a good old-fashioned country doctor.”

Julie’s words echoed in Molly’s head but it wasn’t Julie’s voice she heard saying them. It was a female voice, older and with a more pronounced Texas drawl.

“Molly?”

She blinked back to the present.

“Are you okay?” Julie asked, her face a palette of concern.

Molly nodded. “Just a little mental trip down a blue highway.”

“Blue highway?” Julie repeated.

“On a map,” Molly explained. “The smaller, off-the-beaten-path routes that few people take. They’re usually colored blue on maps.”

“Did you remember something?”

Molly shook her head. “Not really. I heard a voice.”

“As in you remembered the sound of a person’s voice? Or was it a totally psychotic experience?”

“A sixty-forty blend,” Molly decided. “What you said about Justin—the country doctor thing—it was like I had heard those words before.”

“It’s a common expression.”

“You’re right, I’m sure it was just what’s left of my mind playing tricks on me.”

“It’s good you can joke about it. I think I’d be in a full panic if I was in your shoes.”

“You mean in my cast—no shoes for me for a while,” Molly teased. “I was panicked. I still am on a lot of levels. I think I did denial and anger, now I’m moving into acceptance.”

Julie was staring at her as if she’d just recited the Constitution verbatim.

“What?”

“That sounded...clinical. Maybe you’re some sort of doctor or therapist.”

“A battered doctor? I don’t think so.”

“It happens,” Julie assured her. “Trust me when I tell you that education and social status can’t protect you from bad things.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Firsthand,” Julie acknowledged guardedly. “But back to Justin. He went to medical school back East but came home to practice. He owns this clinic, the adjoining house and property and flies his own helicopter.”

“If he also wanted to eliminate hunger and prayed for world peace, could be a Playmate of the Month.”

“Funny, but very close to the truth. The man definitely doesn’t lack in the looks department.”

Molly agreed. “Doctors should be old, white-haired and paternalistic,” she commented. “Then patients wouldn’t get...distracted during examinations.”

“They do more than get distracted,” Julie whispered, drawing her head closer. “A lot of the women around here throw themselves at Justin faster and harder than major league pitches.”

“So he isn’t wanting for female companionship?”

“That’s the strange part,” Julie softly replied. “In the time I’ve been here, he’s had exactly one date, and then he was only gone for a short while.”

“Is he gay?” Molly asked.

“Nope. Once he mentioned a fiancée.”

“What happened?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Didn’t say what?” Justin asked, walking up to the two women.

“Why you wanted Molly to stay awake,” Julie lied.

Molly was impressed. Julie was quick on her feet. Yet somehow, Julie didn’t impress her as someone who would lie often. What had happened to make her add those skills to repertoire?

Justin looked at Molly as he pressed his fingertips to her wrist to check her pulse.

All Molly could do was silently pray that her heart wouldn’t race merely because he was touching her.

“It’s a little fast,” Justin commented, then replaced her arm at her side. “Because you lost consciousness, I want to keep tabs on your neurological responses for a while. I need you awake in order to do that.”

I’m awake now, Molly thought, still feeling a tingle from the ghost of his touch.

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