LITMIR.BIZ

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hours don’t start till two. Who was it you wanted to see?”

      “Jedidiah Morgan. Room 345. Sorry we’re not supposed to be here—we’ll come back later.”

      “Mr. Morgan’s doctor wants him to rest today—it would really be best if he has no visitors. He’s had quite a knock.”

      A reprieve. Sarah felt a surge of guilty relief. “In that case,” she said, “I guess we’ll be getting home.”

      “If at all possible,” the nurse offered, “Mr. Morgan will be discharged tomorrow—we’re seriously short of beds. Phone in the morning, and if he’s been given the all clear, you can pick him up. He won’t be fit to drive…and anyway, from what I’ve heard, his vehicle’s a write-off.”

      Goose bumps rose on Sarah’s skin as memories of another accident swept into her mind: Chance’s car, too, had been a write-off. Unfortunately, no angels had been looking out for him as they had been today for his brother.

      “Are you okay?” the nurse asked. “You look pale.”

      Sarah’s smile was wan. “It’s been a shock.”

      The nurse hesitated and then said in a whisper, “Tell you what. The patient’s asleep right now, but I’ll look after the kids if you just want to have a peek at him.”

      An offer, Sarah realized wryly, she could hardly refuse under the circumstances. Faking a grateful smile, she said, “Thanks,” and crossed to the open doorway of room 345.

      Her brother-in-law lay flat on his back on a narrow bed, his eyes closed, his arms out over the covers, his hands clasped over his chest. If he had a bump on his head, Sarah reflected, it was concealed by his thick black hair. His face was chalk-white, his pallor accentuated by his dark, unshaven jaw.

      Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved quietly over to the bed and stood there, studying him.

      His lips, she noticed, were dry.

      Sensual lips, and thinner than Chance’s. The sooty black eyelashes were thicker than Chance’s; the ridge on the nose more pronounced; the jaw firmer.

      So the two brothers weren’t as alike as she’d initially thought—

      “Who the hell,” asked a slurred voice, “are you?”

      The patient was not asleep. Startled, Sarah braced herself for the verbal attack that would surely ensue when he recognized her. When she saw his blank expression, her tension eased slightly. He must be hovering in some twilight zone, she figured; either groggy from the accident or drowsy from medication.

      “Hush.” Impulsively, she set her hand on his. “I’m sorry, I’ve disturbed you. And I shouldn’t even be here.”

      He twisted his hand and trapped her wrist with strong fingers.

      “Who are you?” His question came out raspingly. “And what’s going on?”

      How much should she tell him? Better to say nothing. The truth might set his blood pressure skyrocketing.

      “You’ll find out everything,” she said quickly, “once you’re feeling better.” Tugging her hand free, she backed away. “I’m not even supposed to be here!”

      “Wait!”

      Ignoring his urgent command, she whirled and fled out to the corridor.

      The nurse was at the elevator with the children, and when she saw Sarah, she pressed the elevator button. The doors glided open just as Sarah got there.

      With a murmured “Thanks,” Sarah guided the children inside and pressed the lobby button.

      “Bye, kids!” The nurse gave the children a wave and then said to Sarah, just as the doors began to swish shut, “I’ll tell your husband when he wakes up that you paid him a visit.”

      Sarah blinked and then said quickly, “Oh, but he’s—”

      The doors clicked into place.

      “—not my husband.”

      Too late. The elevator had already begun its descent.

      He drifted in and out of consciousness, with time meaning nothing to him. He gathered he was in the hospital, that he’d been involved in a car accident—not his fault, that of the other driver. He also gathered that apart from a few bruises, his only injury was a blow to his head, which he’d sustained on impact with the other vehicle.

      Nurses checked on him periodically, but despite his attempts to engage them in conversation, they had little time to chat. He also had the vaguest recollection of seeing a blond angel hovering over him at one point.

      He knew that in near-death experiences, people sometimes saw a tunnel of white light with figures beckoning them. He’d apparently not been near death and he’d seen no white light, but the angel had spoken to him in a husky, melodic voice. He recalled her saying apologetically that she wasn’t supposed to be there.

      Perhaps she’d come to his room by mistake, thinking he was soon to be not of this world. And then discovered she’d been wrong. Even angels must make mistakes.

      He dreamed of her that night; and when he wakened in the morning, the dream remained vividly in his mind.

      A mind that was now, thankfully, lucid….

      Except for one thing.

      One problem.

      And it was a whopper!

      He had no idea who he was.

      He knew he’d been in an accident because someone had told him; but he had no memory of it.

      And he had no memory of anything that had happened prior to the crash.

      Hell’s teeth. He lay back on his pillow, stunned. What a dilemma. Who was he?

      He was still pondering the question when a tall gray-haired doctor appeared at his bedside. Behind him hovered a nurse.

      “Rasmussen,” the man said bluntly. And proceeded to give him a thorough examination. “Right, Mr. Morgan—”

      Ah, now he knew his name. Or at least his surname. It was a start.

      “—you can go home this morning. Where do you live?”

      Before he could answer, the nurse piped up, “The patient has a place on Whispering Mountain—about ten miles from here.”

      Well, he reflected, at least he wasn’t homeless!

      “He shouldn’t do much for himself for the next couple of days. He’ll be a bit off balance. Does he have someone to look after him?”

      Did he? The patient turned a keen gaze on the nurse, interested to hear the answer.

      “Oh, yes, Doctor. Mr. Morgan has a wife—”

      He had a wife? Odd, he didn’t feel married.

      “—isn’t that right, Jedidiah?” The nurse threw him a saccharine-sweet smile.

      Jedidiah. What kind of a mother would stick her son with a name like that? “Oh, sure,” he said brightly. “A wife.”

      “Good,” the doctor said. “Now take it easy for the next few days. You’ve had a nasty knock. No drinking, no driving. And stay quiet. Take a break from work.”

      “Sure.” Work? Did he work? Or was he perhaps a dilettante playboy? Surreptitiously, hopefully, he turned over his hands and stole a glance at his palms—

      Hey, would you look at those calluses! Those were not the hands of a man who lived a life of glitz and glamour.

      But they were the hands of a man who didn’t ask for directions when he was lost. That much he knew, and the knowledge was innate. It probably went all the way back to caveman days, when no caveman worth his

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