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“He’s claiming amnesia?” Dan’s lip curled in open disbelief.
“No.” Honestly, sometimes Dan took his official skepticism a bit too far. One would almost accuse him of being paranoid—if anyone had the nerve to do so to his face. “He’s simply disoriented, Dan. I would imagine that’s a fairly common reaction to a concussion.”
He nodded reluctantly. “I’ll try to talk to him when the doc’s through with him. If he can identify his attackers, we’ll have a better chance of finding them if we don’t wait too long.”
“He’s in a lot of pain.”
He gave her one of his rare smiles, though it didn’t quite reach his glittering dark eyes. “Don’t worry, Serena. I won’t browbeat your stray. Just want to ask him some questions.”
“So do I,” Lindsey agreed.
Serena gave her a look. “Go file the school bus story. Everyone in town’s going to want the details of that tomorrow.”
Lindsey’s expression implied that a mysterious wounded stranger was of as much interest to her as the mercifully minor school bus accident, but she had the discretion not to say so. She nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Serena. You, too, Chief. I’ll be wanting details of your investigation into this guy’s story, of course.”
Dan glared after Lindsey as she sauntered into an elevator. “Have I ever mentioned that I really don’t much like being questioned by your reporters all the time?”
“You’ve alluded to it a time or two,” Serena replied. She knew Dan didn’t mean anything personal against Lindsey, whom he’d known since she was a toddler. There were times she even suspected Dan was rather fond of Lindsey in his own gruff way—but he did not like reporters in general.
Dan had already turned his attention to the hospital room at the other end of the hall. “Okay, Sam Wallace,” he murmured as if to himself. “Time to find out just who you are—an innocent crime victim, or someone we don’t want in our town.”
Serena had been wondering that herself. For some reason, she was having trouble picturing Sam Wallace—wounded or otherwise—as an innocent victim.
Chapter Two
T wo hours later, Sam—the name he was still using for lack of a better one—was lying on his back in the hospital bed staring at the ten o’clock evening news on the TV mounted high on the wall across from his bed, hoping something would trigger the memories that had so far eluded him. He’d been straining to come up with even the foggiest detail, but the only result thus far was a pounding headache and a mounting frustration tinged with panic.
It was beginning to seem inevitable that he was going to have to admit the truth to someone—probably the cop who’d been in earlier, asking questions that Sam had deliberately answered as vaguely as possible. The chief had left with a promise that he would be back—or had it been a warning?
Sam wasn’t at all sure Meadows had bought his story that he’d been passing through this area in search of work and had been mugged by a couple of guys who’d given him a lift. Claiming pain, fatigue and confusion, he hadn’t given any details that would get anyone arrested, and Chief Meadows was not pleased with the sketchiness of the tale. Hell, for all Sam knew, it could be true. He just didn’t remember any of it.
He cringed at the thought of saying aloud that he had lost his memory, that his mind was a blank, that he was utterly at the mercy of the staff of this tiny, apparently rural hospital. So far the characters he had encountered—with the exception of the cop—had been friendly, cheerful, laid-back and unpretentious. He had obviously landed in Smallville, U.S.A.—but from where?
He knew somehow he wasn’t from around here; his speech patterns sounded different even to his own ears. Besides, he just didn’t feel…Arkansan. Whatever the hell that meant.
But why was he here? Why had no one come forward to identify him? To ask about him? Was he really so alone that no one knew where he was? Was he as nameless and mysterious to everyone else as he was to himself at the moment?
He didn’t like the idea that there was no one who cared whether he lived or died. Nor did he like lying in this bed wearing nothing but a backless hospital gown, a sheet so thin he could probably read a book through it, with a couple of bags of liquid dripping through a needle taped to his arm. Maybe if he could just see whatever he had been wearing when he’d been found, it would trigger his memory.
“What happened to my clothes?” he demanded of a thin, pale-skinned male who came in carrying a tray of vials and needles.
The man looked startled. He blinked almost lashless blue eyes. “Er, what clothes?”
“The ones I was wearing when I was brought in.”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask someone as soon as I get a blood sample.”
“My blood’s all been sampled. There’s none left.”
The technician looked as though he didn’t know whether to smile. “Er…”
Sam sighed. “Hell. Just stick me and then find my clothes, will you?”
He was beginning to lose patience with all of this. The hospital, its staff—and his own stubbornly closed mind.
He was informed a short while later that he hadn’t been carrying a wallet, at least not that anyone from the hospital staff had found. There had been, he was assured, nothing in the pockets of his jeans or shirt. While his lack of personal items backed up his story of having been robbed, it gave him no clue as to his identity.
“Damn,” he growled as soon as he was alone again. Why couldn’t he remember? What was wrong with him?
Another nurse came in, this one tall and bony. “I’m Lydia, your nurse for this shift. How are you feeling?”
He eyed her warily. “That depends. What are you planning to poke into me?”
She smiled and held up a thermometer. “Only this. Pain free, I assure you.”
He reluctantly opened his mouth.
“Oh, and I have to ask you some questions,” she added, opening a clipboard and snapping a ballpoint. “LuWanda never finished filling out these papers and admissions is having a hissy fit.”
He nearly swallowed the thermometer. “Mmph.”
“Hold on a second.” She waited until the electronic thermometer beeped, then pulled it out and glanced at it. “Normal.”
He wouldn’t have advised her to bet money on that.
“Now, about this form. All we’ve got so far is your name, Sam Wallace, and the month and day of your birth. June twenty-second. Correct so far?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What year were you born, Mr. Wallace?”
He managed a smile. “How old do I look?”
She rolled her eyes. “He wants to play games,” she murmured. “Okay, I’m supposed to humor the patient. You look…” She eyed him consideringly while he held his breath. “Thirty-three?”
“Thirty-one,” he corrected with an exaggerated grimace. It sounded like a nice age. Not too young, not too old.
“So you were born in nineteen…” Her voice trailed off as she scribbled numbers on her form.
“Address?”
“I’m, um, between addresses right now. Between jobs, too,” he added to answer her next question.
“Do you have insurance?”
Lady, I don’t even have a name. “No.”
“Next of kin?”
He closed his eyes. “None.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Just a mother of a headache.”
“I’m sorry. Only a few more questions. Are you allergic to any medications?”
He was tired. So damned tired. He should tell her the truth. I can’t remember. There’s nothing between my ears but dead air. Call in your experts, lady. One genuine freak, here for their viewing pleasure.
He couldn’t do it. Maybe he’d tell someone tomorrow. Or maybe by then it wouldn’t be necessary.
“No,” he murmured. “I’m not allergic to anything.” And it would serve him right if they injected him with something and he died a horrible, painful death from an allergic reaction.
She asked him other questions about his medical history. Keeping his eyes closed, he made up answers in a lethargic monotone.
You’re an idiot, Sam. Or whoever the hell you are. A coward. A fool. A liar. A jerk. Tell the lady the truth.
But still he lied. For he, himself, was afraid of the truth.
He heard her close the cover of the clipboard. “All right,” she said. “That’s enough for now.”
Sam let out a long, ragged breath when he was finally alone again. He was so fatigued he could hardly move, both mentally and physically exhausted. Every inch of him ached. He needed rest. He wanted out of this place. He hadn’t a clue where he would go when he left.
He didn’t even know what he looked like, but there were a few things he’d learned about himself during the past couple of hours. He had more pride than was good for him, he didn’t like admitting weakness or vulnerability and he utterly hated being at the mercy of others.
All those traits felt familiar to him. Felt right. So who the hell was he? And why couldn’t he remember?
He really was a nice-looking man beneath the bruises. Even flat on his back in a hospital bed, there was a sort of…well, grace to him, Serena mused the next morning, studying Sam from the chair beside the bed. His lips were slightly parted, and he wheezed a little when he breathed—a result of the blows he’d taken to his chest. His lashes were long against his scraped cheeks, oddly dark in contrast to his golden hair. Those thick curling lashes were the only softening feature on his firmly carved face.
She thought of the sketchy history he’d given Dan. He’d implied that he was a rootless drifter, rambling from place to place, supporting himself with temporary jobs. No permanent home, no family. Looking again at his beautifully shaped hands, marred only by the abrasions across his knuckles, she wondered what the odds were that those temporary jobs had involved sitting behind desks crunching numbers. She found it hard to believe those rather elegant hands had ever wielded a shovel or a sledge hammer. And if his clean oval nails hadn’t been professionally manicured recently, she’d kiss her sister’s dog—right on his slobbery mouth.
Raising her gaze from the man’s hands to his face, she was momentarily disconcerted to find his brilliant blue eyes open and trained unblinkingly on her. “Oh. Good morning.”
“Serena.”
He said her name as if it was important that he had remembered it. She nodded. “Serena Schaffer.”
“You’re the one who found me.”
“Yes. How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Have you ever tried to sleep in a hospital?”
“No. I’ve never been hospitalized.”
“I don’t recommend it. Every few minutes someone comes in to draw blood, take your blood pressure and temperature and listen through a stethoscope that feels like it’s stored in a freezer. They’re obsessed with my bodily fluids—intake and output. Every time I try to move into a more comfortable position, this damned IV pump starts beeping, nagging at me to be still.” To demonstrate, he bent his right arm, kinking the thin tube that ran from the IV pump to the needle taped into the back of his hand. A moment later the pump began to beep, and darned if it didn’t sound petulant. Sam sighed and straightened his arm. The machine went silent.
Serena had waited patiently through his litany of complaints. “Does it feel better to have that off your chest?”
His bruised mouth quirked. “A bit.”
“Then I’m glad I was here to listen.”
“I guess I unloaded on you because you’re the first person to come into this room in hours who wasn’t carrying a needle.”
“Are you sure there isn’t someone I can call for you? A friend or family member who could be with you while you recover?”
“There really isn’t anyone I want notified right now. But thanks for offering.”
She wouldn’t want to be so alone in a hospital. She knew if anything happened to her, she would have legions of family and friends around her, giving her sympathy and support. She felt sorry for anyone who didn’t have that emotional base to draw strength from.
He must have read her expression. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’ll just be glad to get out of here.”
“Where will you go then?”
The corners of his mouth tightened. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with her questioning or unhappy with the answer. Was it true that he had no place to go? No one to turn to? Serena would hate to find herself in that position.
When it became obvious that he had no answer for her, she changed the subject. “I talked to Chief Meadows earlier. He said he hasn’t made any headway in finding the two men who robbed and beat you. There’s been no sign of that pieced-together pickup truck you described.”
“I’m not surprised. I don’t think they were from around here. Probably just passing through the area, looking for trouble.”
“Like you?” she asked in a murmur.
He met her eyes without blinking. “I wasn’t looking for trouble. Unfortunately, it found me, anyway.”
She knew that feeling. She hadn’t been looking for trouble when she’d found Sam Wallace in that ditch, either. But she had found him—well, her sister’s dog did—and now, for some stupid reason, she felt rather responsible for him.
The sounds of the hospital drifted in through the door she’d left partially open. Nurses talked, equipment beeped, someone coughed, someone else cried. Illness seemed to creep through the hallways like a malicious spirit, constantly trying to outsmart the few overworked doctors in this small, outdated and under-funded institution. The staff did the best they could with what they had, but most folks in these parts went elsewhere for serious medical attention, into bigger towns with more financial advantages. Serena hoped her stranger was getting the care he needed here. Head injuries were so unpredictable.
LuWanda, the heavyset nurse who’d taken care of Sam when he’d arrived, marched in. “Time to take your vitals, Mr. Wallace.”
He scowled. “You can just damned well leave my vitals alone.”
LuWanda laughed as though he’d made a lighthearted jest. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch anything I haven’t touched before. Oh, and I want to get a pulse ox reading. The doc’s still concerned about those blows you took to the chest. Have to make sure you’re getting plenty of oxygen.”
He gave Serena a look as the nurse clipped something around his right index finger. “Pulse ox,” he murmured.
She stood. “Whatever that is, I hope yours is good.”
“Ninety-nine percent,” the nurse announced when something chirped. “Better than mine—I smoked for twenty years. Guess you’re not a smoker, huh, Mr. Wallace?”
“Guess not,” he answered vaguely.
Serena took a step closer to the bed. “I have to go. Is there anything I can get for you, Sam? Books, magazines, personal items?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Definitely the independent sort, she thought. He had nothing to his name but a backless hospital gown and he still didn’t ask for anything. A very intriguing man, this Sam Wallace—whoever he was.
