LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Skye had a traumatic brain injury,” the doctor explained. “I’m her surgeon. Dr. Lucas Wakefield,” he added, sticking out his hand.

      Jake shook it. “But what does that mean?”

      “It means that, as near as we can tell, Skye was driving into Royal when the tornado hit. We suspect her car was picked up and tossed around.”

      “And?” Jake demanded. Julie’s eyebrows went up again, but Jake was past caring.

      Skye had driven into a damn tornado. Why? That wasn’t like her. She was more careful than that. She knew how Texas weather could be. She would have taken shelter or gotten off the road or something.

      “Think of it as a concussion—only the most extreme kind. We kept her under for a few months to allow her brain to heal and it took her some time to wake up after we cut back on the drugs we were using to induce the coma. Her memory is...compromised.”

      “And what does that mean?” Jake demanded. What was it going to take to get a straight answer out of the man?

      “She’s got what the layperson might call amnesia,” Dr. Wakefield explained. “She doesn’t seem to have the last two years, although her long-term memory is mostly intact. Anything that happened right before the accident is probably gone for good.”

      For the second time that day, Jake had to lean on something to keep his legs underneath him. “Will she—will she get those two years back?” Would she remember how things had broken between them? Would she remember the fight? The divorce papers?

      When he’d seen her just now, she hadn’t had her ring on. She hadn’t had her earrings in, either—the big diamond studs he’d bought her just as things had started to go south on them. He wondered where they were—lost in the storm or left behind on purpose?

      “Hard to say. The brain is an amazing organ. For now, we recommend keeping any shocks to the system to a bare minimum. Obviously, she knows about your daughter.”

      Grace. His daughter, Grace.

      “But,” Dr. Wakefield went on as if Jake weren’t on the verge of collapse, “if there were...other surprises, I’d keep those close to the vest.”

      “You want me to, what—lie to her?”

      Julie said, “Not lie, no. Think of it as glossing over. She’s going to be confused for some time. Too much too soon would be a severe shock to her system. We don’t want her to have a setback.”

      Jake shook his head, hoping to get the world to stop spinning. None of this was right. None of it.

      Skye didn’t remember how they’d broken up. Why they’d broken up.

      And he couldn’t tell her.

      God, what a mess.

      Julie handed him a packet. “She’ll have to do physical therapy to regain her muscle strength. This is a preliminary list of stretches and exercises you’ll need to help her with at home during her recovery to rebuild her strength to a point where PT will be helpful to her. In a week or two, you’ll need to bring her into the office so she can work with a therapist.”

      He stared at the sheet. The top one had a photo of a woman in a spandex unitard laying on the floor and another woman in hospital scrubs stretching her leg so that it pointed straight up. “Me?”

      “Are you two married?” Julie eyed him. Closely. “If so, you’re her next of kin. We had planned to release her to Lark Taylor, but if you’re here, you’ll be the one in charge of her care.”

      “We are married,” he said, feeling the full impact of those words. He’d sworn vows to her, vows to be there for her in sickness and in health, until death parted them. She’d wanted to break those vows, but because she’d been in a coma and he’d been in a different hemisphere, they hadn’t managed to do that just yet.

      Then something else dawned on him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that I can’t take her back to Houston?”

      “That wouldn’t be wise,” Dr. Wakefield said, giving Jake a suspicious look. “I’d like to continue to monitor her recovery. I have colleagues in Houston that I could refer you to, but I’d prefer to remain her primary. Consistency of care can’t be overestimated at this point.”

      He was going to have to take care of her. He was going to have to look at her and know he’d lost her and not tell her that. He couldn’t tell her about the slow way the spark had died or how she’d had him served with papers.

      Instead, he was going to have to take care of a woman who thought she still loved him because she couldn’t remember how she’d stopped loving him.

      And to do that, he was going to have to stay in the pit that was Royal, Texas.

      How could this get any worse?

      * * *

      Jake had broken the cardinal rule. No matter how bad things were, never, ever ask how they could possibly be worse.

      Because a man never knew when a dog was going to try and break through the door to get to him.

      Jake stood on the front porch of a nondescript house in a nice part of town. He was pretty sure this was the address Keaton had given him. On the other side of the door, the dog was howling and scratching like a crazed beast. Jake debated getting back in the car. If the dog got out, Jake would prefer to have a layer of metal between the two of them.

      Seconds ticked by more slowly than molasses in January. His fingers started twitching toward the doorbell to ring it again. They knew he was coming, right?

      The dog still going nuts, Jake was just about to start pounding on the door when he heard the lock being turned. “Nicki!” Keaton shouted. “Knock it off! Back up!”

      The barking ceased almost immediately, then the door cracked open and the first thing Jake heard was the wailing of a baby. An unhappy baby.

      “About time,” Keaton grumbled, opening the door and standing aside. “You woke her up. Next time, just knock. That doesn’t seem to set Nicki off nearly as badly as the doorbell does.”

      “Sorry.” And truthfully—with all that screaming? Jake actually was sorry.

      Keaton got the door closed behind him. Jake’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. The blinds were down and in addition to the screaming he heard the sounds of...classical music?

      “This way,” Keaton said, stepping around Jake. “Watch out for Nicki.”

      Jake eyed the dog that was now sitting next to the door. The dog’s hackles were up and it was growling, but at least it hadn’t attacked. “Nice doggie,” Jake said as he stepped around the animal. Man, he hoped that thing was well trained. “Good girl.”

      “Yeah, we just got her a few weeks ago. Australian shepherd. Nicki goes with me out to the ranch—I’m training her to keep tabs on the cattle. She’s really good at it.” As Keaton spoke, he walked confidently though the house. He led Jake—and Nicki—past large framed landscapes of Texas in all the seasons—bluebells in one, the bright summer sky in another. They walked past shelves that seemed to overflow with books, all of which looked uniformly well-read. This was not the pristine, almost sterile kind of house that Skye had grown up in. This was a home that seemed lived in. But it didn’t seem particularly feminine.

      “This your place?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

      “It’s Lark’s. We’re building a place of our own.” Keaton didn’t offer any more details.

      Jake had a lot of questions from that one statement, but before he could figure out how to ask them, they entered a room that had probably once been a tidy great room. Except now there were baby blankets draped everywhere, mats with mirrored things attached spread over the floor and more stuffed animals than Jake could count. There were bookshelves in here, too,

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