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“Well, then—I’ll see you later.” She moved toward the door. She had no doubt that she would be back. Something about the lonely, slightly confused expression in his bright blue eyes kept pulling her here.
Was she being a complete fool to let herself get involved with him, even on this temporary and casual basis?
“Well? What did you find out about him?” Petite, red-haired, green-eyed Lindsey Gray pounced the moment Serena walked into the Evening Star offices. “You went to see him at the hospital again, didn’t you? Did you talk to him? Did you learn more details about what happened to him?”
“Lindsey, take a breath or something,” Serena ordered, shaking her head in exasperation. “Geez, you’d think we’d never seen a stranger in this town before.”
“We haven’t very often. And never quite like this—so what did you find out?”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Serena gave a little shrug. “You’ve heard as much as I have. He said he was hitching through this area looking for temporary work when two men in a patched-together pickup truck gave him a ride, robbed him, beat him up and left him for dead in that ditch. He can’t describe the men very well because he has very little memory of the beating—a slight memory loss due to the concussion, which the doctor said is normal.”
“Where’s he from? What’s his story?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask many questions. He’s in a lot of discomfort, Lindsey. He isn’t up to being interviewed.”
Lindsey pouted. She was the only twenty-five-year-old woman Serena knew who could actually pout and get away with it.
To her disgust, Lindsey was destined to be thought of as cute, when what she really wanted to be was sharp and sophisticated. After obtaining a degree in journalism, she had gone to work for a newspaper in Little Rock for a couple of years before moving back to her little hometown to be close to her father, who was in ill health. She’d taken a significant pay cut to work for the Evening Star, but she took the job very seriously, attacking it with the same dedication she’d have given a position with the Washington Post or New York Times.
Sometimes Serena thought Lindsey took her job too seriously. She was constantly on the lookout for the “big story”—and the truth was, there just weren’t that many big stories in Edstown. With the exception of a recent rash of burglaries, not much happened around these parts. She mercilessly hounded the mayor and poor Chief Meadows, both of whom held a deep distrust of reporters and an ingrained aversion to any bad press about their town. But there was no doubt that the newspaper had been better since Lindsey arrived.
Speaking of which, Serena glanced around the unarguably shabby offices, which were quiet and deserted now that the evening edition had been printed and delivered. She knew some people were born with ink in their veins, that the smell of newsprint and the sounds of press machines gave them an almost sexual thrill. Serena looked around and saw only clutter and chaos.
She had never wanted to own her great-grandfather’s newspaper. That had been the destiny of her older sister, Kara. Serena was a lawyer, not a newshound, and she would just as soon have kept it that way. Unfortunately, there’d been no one else to take over after their father died last year, and three months later Kara left town with a wanna-be country music star, leaving Serena with Kara’s stupid dog and full responsibility for Great-granddad’s newspaper. Her first impulse had been to sell, but the very idea had distressed her mother so much that Serena had reluctantly agreed to give it a shot.
“Where’s Marvin?” she asked, glancing at the managing editor’s empty office. “He and I were supposed to discuss last month’s ad revenues this evening.”
Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Where do you think he is? He decided to pop over to Gaylord’s for a ‘quick nip’ before your meeting. That was two hours ago.”
There would be no discussing anything with Marvin tonight, Serena thought with a grimace. The aging editor—a longtime crony of her late grandfather’s—had been spending more and more time at Gaylord’s since his wife died two years ago. Marvin was tired and lonely and burned out, resistant to modern technology, nostalgic for the old days, but he didn’t want to retire. He’d said he would have no reason at all to get out of bed if he didn’t have a job to go to. As much as she truly hated the very thought, Serena was beginning to believe that she was going to have to pressure Marvin into retirement. It broke her heart, but it was rapidly becoming necessary.
Damn it, Kara, this should be your job.
Pushing a hand through her hair, she sighed heavily. “I’ll try to catch him tomorrow, I guess. Are you finished for the night?”
Lindsey shook her head and hoisted her oversize macramé bag onto her shoulder. “I’m going to the town council meeting. I’d better get moving, it starts in ten minutes.”
“I thought Riley was covering the council meeting tonight.”
“He is. I’m just going out of curiosity. Maybe I’ll have a chance to corner Dan after the meeting to ask what he’s found out about the men who mugged your stranger.”
“He isn’t my stranger,” Serena protested, though she was uncomfortably aware she’d fallen into the habit of thinking of him that way.
Lindsey waved a hand dismissively. “I’d just like to know exactly what Dan has done. What he’s found out—about the muggers or the victim. And what he’s going to do tomorrow.”
“You know how Dan hates it when you badger him about the way he does his job.”
Lindsey broke into a bright, impish smile—the one that transformed her face from cute to strikingly attractive. “I know. Why do you think I keep doing it?”
Though she would never mention it, Serena had long suspected that Lindsey carried a secret torch for the police chief. If it was true, Lindsey’s case seemed pretty hopeless. Dan was ten years her senior and a lifelong friend of Lindsey’s older brother. He tended to regard Lindsey as his own kid sister—when he didn’t see her as an annoying member of the press. Dan had also been through a divorce so ugly and bitter the townspeople were still talking about it two years later. He had said he was in no hurry to get seriously involved with anyone again. If ever.
All in all, it seemed a distinctly unlikely match. But maybe she was wrong about Lindsey’s feelings. Maybe Lindsey just enjoyed watching Dan foam at the mouth while she buzzed around him with her stubbornly persistent questions.
“Okay, go ask your questions,” Serena said with a quick laugh. “And, Lindsey, if you find out anything, let me know, okay?”
Lindsey sketched an impudent salute. “You got it, boss.”
Twenty-four hours. The man who had dubbed himself Sam Wallace shifted restlessly in the hospital bed, tried to lift his left hand to his face, winced, then raised his right hand instead. The IV pump bleated at him to straighten his arm. He cursed it beneath his breath but laid his arm down just to shut it up.
It had been just over twenty-four hours since Serena found him in that ditch. And his head was still as empty as the tiny closet provided for the belongings he hadn’t brought with him.
Frustration was beginning to eat at him. How could he remember so many trivial details—the president of the United States, the taste of chocolate ice cream, the irritation of too-starched shirts—yet not remember his own damned name? How could he recall the name of every bloodthirsty nurse he’d encountered since he’d arrived in this place and not remember his own mother?
Maybe he should just give in and confess the truth to the next person who entered that door. Let ’em poke him and probe him, X-ray his brain and find the holes there, bring in the shrinks and neurologists and whoever else they wanted to study him like a strange bug on a microscope slide. Amnesia, they would call it, and then they would look at him like he was some sort of freak or faker, because true amnesia was damned rare. He remembered that fact. He didn’t know how.
There was a quick rap on the door and then the night nurse entered. “You doing okay, Mr. Wallace?”
“Just peachy,” he drawled. He knew he wouldn’t be spilling the truth tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if the condition hadn’t already corrected itself by then. Or maybe he’d be dead by morning, felled by obstinacy and pride. At the moment, he was finding it real hard to care.
Chapter Three
“T he poor man. We have to do something to help him.”
Serena wasn’t at all surprised by her mother’s words. Marjorie Schaffer was an obsessive do-gooder. She belonged to every charitable organization in the area, had been president of most of them, had chaired every community outreach committee at her church, was still active in PTA more than ten years after her youngest daughter finished high school and would willingly give the clothes off her back to help someone in need. She had just decided that Sam Wallace fit that description.
“We have to be careful, Mother. We don’t really know anything about this guy,” Serena said, shaking a finger warningly at her mother. Dressed in baggy pajamas, she sat at the table in the kitchen, a cup of tea in front of her and her sister’s dog snoring at her feet. Her mother sat across the table in a matched peignoir set, her hair and makeup so perfect she looked as though she was posing for a photograph in a women’s magazine.
Marjorie didn’t seem at all concerned about Serena’s admonition. “You’ve spoken with him twice. You said he seemed quite pleasant.”
“Right. And Ted Bundy was known for his charm,” Serena retorted. “Really, Mother, this Sam Wallace could be a con man or a criminal, for all we know. It doesn’t make sense that he was just drifting through this area without a car or a destination. He hasn’t divulged anything about who he really is or where he’s from.”
“Obviously, he’s a man who’s down on his luck and in need of compassion. We’ll have to see what we can do to help him.”
Serena grimaced. “At least wait until Dan finishes his investigation before you get involved, will you? As suspicious as Dan is of outsiders, he’ll make it a point to find out if there’s any reason for us to be wary of Mr. Wallace.”
Marjorie murmured something noncommittal, then changed the subject before Serena could nag a promise from her. “Did I mention that Kara called while you were at work today?”
That too-casual announcement made Serena sit up straighter. “She did? How is she? Has she come to her senses? Is she coming home to take her place at the paper and reclaim this idiot mutt of hers?”
Marjorie’s laugh was tinged with just a hint of wistfulness. “I’m afraid not. She is still desperately in love with Pierce and determined to help him become a country music star. She’s waiting tables at a little nightclub outside of Nashville while he sings there three nights a week hoping to be discovered.”
Serena groaned. She honestly wondered if her older sister had lost her mind. Kara had always been as responsible and dependable as Serena, outwardly content to settle in Edstown and take over the family-owned newspaper. She’d been engaged briefly during her senior year of college, but that hadn’t worked out, and she’d seemed in no rush to get involved again.
Marjorie had often fretted that neither of her daughters was anxious to marry and start families, both focused more on establishing their careers and their independence than finding the right men. “Too picky,” she had called them, reminding them often that there weren’t many single males to choose from in this area and advising them to grab a couple before they were all gone.
Eight months ago, thirty-one-year-old Kara had met twenty-six-year-old Pierce Vanness during a girls’ night out at a bar in a neighboring town. Pierce had been the entertainment that evening, singing with a local band. Like a star-struck groupie, Kara had approached him between sets—and the rest was history. Kara had convinced Pierce to give up his day job working in his father’s shoe store and head for Nashville in search of stardom. She’d named herself his business manager—which seemed to involve supporting him while he pursued his dream.
Serena just couldn’t understand it.
Marjorie spent the next twenty minutes filling Serena in on all the details of Kara’s call. It occurred to Serena only after she’d gone up to bed that Marjorie had never promised to stay away from Sam Wallace until after Dan had thoroughly investigated him.
Sam sat in a chair in his hospital room, gazing out the window at the uninspiring view of the parking lot. The doctor had said it would be good for him to get out of bed, that it would help him build up his strength. Sam was more than ready for that, but he saw no evidence of it yet. His limbs were still as rubbery as a jellyfish. He didn’t want to believe that was a normal condition for him.
The ever-present IV pump stood on its wheeled stand beside his chair, chugging liquids into him through the needle still taped into the back of his hand. He was idly considering using the heavy metal stand to break the window and escape this place when someone tapped on his door and then pushed it open. Expecting one of his nurses, he was a bit surprised when his caller turned out to be a comfortably rounded woman in her mid-fifties with beauty-parlor curls lacquered into her salt-and-pepper hair and soft blue eyes behind plastic-framed glasses. She wore a pale green knit pantsuit and she carried a large black purse in one small hand.
“Mr. Wallace?” she asked.
Without confirming the name, he responded, “What can I do for you?”
She bustled into the room. As far as he could remember, he’d never actually seen anyone bustle before, but it was the only word that seemed to describe this woman’s quick, almost fluttery steps. “Actually, I’m here to find out what I can do for you. I’m Marjorie Schaffer.”
Shrink? Social worker? Had someone figured out his problem already? Acutely aware of his scratched bare legs sticking out from beneath the gown and paper-thin robe the hospital had provided, Sam cleared his throat. “Um—yes?”
“I’m Serena’s mother. She told me all about you.”
Relaxing a little, he murmured, “Did she?” It must not have been much of a conversation, considering how little there was to tell about him at this point.
Marjorie Schaffer bobbed her head. “She said you were passing through looking for work when two evil men robbed you and beat you up. I’m so sorry, Mr. Wallace. I hate to think anyone around here would do such a terrible thing.”
Just what he needed to flood him with guilt—this sweet little woman apologizing for a crime he’d concocted from thin air. He tugged his robe over his bare knees, trying to decide what to say in response.
She didn’t give him a chance to speak, but sank almost royally into the other chair and gazed at him kindly. “You have no family to turn to in your time of need, Mr. Wallace?”
“Um…no. No close family, anyway.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve lost both my parents, as well as my husband. It’s very difficult to be left so alone, isn’t it? I don’t know what I would do without my daughters.”
“Serena has a sister?”
“An older sister, Kara. She’s living in Nashville, Tennessee, now. She calls often, though. And she knows she’s always welcome to come home—and that Serena and I would both be there immediately if she needs us.”
Because she seemed to expect a comment, he said, “You’re very fortunate to have each other.”
Was there someone even now frantically searching for him? Ready and willing to offer him the type of comfort and support Marjorie Schaffer had just described? Someone who loved him enough to drop everything to come to him? He strained to remember, but the only result was a throbbing headache and a hollow feeling in his chest. If he had a loving family somewhere, they were as lost to him now as his real name.
The memories would come back when his injuries healed, he assured himself. And then he would offer a sincere apology to anyone who might have suffered because of his unplanned absence. But if there was someone who loved him—someone he loved in return—wouldn’t he sense it? Somehow?
“Mr. Wallace?” Marjorie broke into his torturous self-questioning, her soft face creased with concern as she leaned toward him. “Are you in pain?”
He immediately cleared his expression. “Just a headache.”
“Poor dear.” She patted his braced left hand, exactly as if he were a wounded six-year-old. “Should I call a nurse?”
Reacting instinctively to her tone, he answered, “No, ma’am. That isn’t necessary.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, thank you. Someone will be in soon enough.”
She sat back with a sympathetic smile. “If you’re anything like my late husband, you hate being in the hospital. He couldn’t abide the loss of privacy and dignity, even for his own good.”
That was a sentiment Sam heartily shared. “The doctor told me this morning that I’ll probably be released tomorrow. Most likely before noon.”
“So soon?”
Having seen himself in the bathroom mirror, he understood her surprise. The colorful scrapes and bruises that covered most of his exposed skin looked every bit as bad as they felt. He didn’t know whether it was those bruises or the amnesia that had made his face look so much like a stranger to him. But the injuries weren’t life-threatening, and the hospital administrators were probably growing a bit nervous about his lack of insurance. There was little more that could be done for him here. Time and patience were the best medicines for him now.
He just wished he knew where the hell he would go when he was ushered, barefoot and penniless, out of this place. If his memory had not returned by that point, he would be forced to admit the truth to someone. What else could he do?
“Where will you go when you leave here?” Marjorie asked, as if she’d somehow read his thoughts.
“I’m not sure.” He kept his tone deliberately nonchalant. “I guess I’ll play that by ear.”
“What sort of work were you hoping to find before those awful men attacked you?”
Again, he didn’t know quite how to answer her. It was harder, for some reason, to lie to this kind-eyed woman than it had been with the others. Yet something deep inside him refused to let the truth come out. Pride? Fear? He didn’t know what instinct held him back, what repercussions he feared most, but he was no more willing to confess his amnesia now than he had been before.
“As long as it’s legal, I’m not particularly selective about the jobs I take,” he said, bluffing.
“What about waiting tables? Is that a job you would consider?”
“Waiting tables?” He had a vague image of himself sitting in a dimly lit restaurant while white-coated servers set plates of food in front of him. Obviously a glimmer of memory—but where was that restaurant? And who had been sitting on the other side of the table for two he’d envisioned? “I can wait tables.”
She nodded, looking curiously satisfied. “Good. If you’re interested, I have a job for you. You can start as soon as you’ve recovered sufficiently to be on your feet for several hours.”
“You, uh, have a job for me?”
“Yes. I own a little diner downtown. The Rainbow Café. We’re open Monday through Saturday for breakfast and lunch, and we do a brisk business on week-days. I’ve just lost two employees. You can work for me when you’re released—or as soon as you’re physically able, if you need a few days to recover first.”
Sam blinked a couple of times. “Um…a diner?” He couldn’t seem to stop foolishly parroting her.
She nodded brusquely. “I can’t pay you a lot, of course, but you’re in no shape to work at construction or other more physically challenging jobs. You can work for me at least until you recover all your strength, which might take a few weeks.”
“Why are you offering this, Mrs. Schaffer?” He was pretty sure this generous offer was unusual from a complete stranger.
Her smile was angelic. “Because I need your help, Mr. Wallace. And because you need mine. That seems like a fair trade, doesn’t it?”
Surely his memory would return by tomorrow. Maybe he would remember that he did, indeed, have insurance—or a couple of million dollars set aside for emergencies. But just in case… “Thank you. I accept your offer.”
She nodded as if there’d never been any doubt. “You’ll need a place to stay, of course.”
“I’m sure I can—”
“I have a place you can use until you get something more permanent. It’s a little one-bedroom guest house my late husband built for my mother a few years before she passed away. It’s completely separate from the house Serena and I share, so you would have your privacy. You’re welcome to stay there rent-free while you’re working to pay off your medical bills. If you want to stay longer than that, we can discuss rent then.”
“You’re being very kind.” Scary-kind, actually. Did normal people really do things like this?
She beamed at him. “I’ve been accused of making snap judgments, but I’m almost always correct in my instincts about people. I know you’re a good man, Sam. You just need a little help right now.”
