LITMIR.BIZ

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Once his wife reported him missing, police were able to put two and two together.”

      Betsy sobered. Did John have a wife? The possibility sent an uneasy shudder through her veins.

      “So how old is this fellow?” Doc asked.

      “My age or a little younger.”

      “How’s he look?”

      “Medically speaking? He’s got a gash on his head that’s healing. And his rib cage is bruised.”

      “That’s not what I meant. Do you think he’s good-looking?”

      Uh-oh. So Doc was more intrigued by Betsy’s interest in an adult male patient. But she’d have to put his mind to rest, even if she couldn’t completely deny her budding attraction.

      “I suppose he’s handsome,” she said, downplaying the fact that the current John Doe was drop-dead gorgeous. “I talked to Jim Kelso, the resident neurosurgeon, and he’s planning to discharge him soon. He’ll need to stay in town, I suspect. But at this point, he has no place to go or any resources.”

      Doc fingered his chin and furrowed his craggy brow. “That’s too bad. Not only is the poor guy struggling with the memory loss and a lack of cash or credit, but he’s also backed into a corner.”

      Betsy nodded, glad Doc seemed to think her interest in John was strictly professional.

      Okay, so maybe it was a little of both. No one needed to know that.

      “I thought I would talk to Sadie down at the Night Owl Motel. She might be able to give him a discount on a room.”

      “You can’t ask Sadie to run a tab like that for a stranger. What if he isn’t financially set? What if he can’t pay for his keep?”

      “I plan to cover the cost,” she admitted. But Doc was right. They didn’t know anything about John. Nor did they know how long he’d have to stay in town.

      “Under the circumstances, I can’t let you do that. You could be left holding the bag for a very long time. And your savings can’t take another hit like that.”

      Betsy had received a solid financial settlement after her divorce, thanks to her ex-husband’s innate ability to invest their money wisely. And she’d made a risky investment herself, one that had nearly tripled her funds overnight. Then she’d used the proceeds to buy stock in the medical center.

      Doc had made a sizable investment in the facility himself. And with the hospital struggling financially… Well, Betsy wouldn’t think about that now.

      “Tell the patient he can stay here,” Doc said. “I’ve got room in the house. And you and I can keep an eye on him that way.”

      Have John stay at the ranch?

      Her heart ricocheted in her chest. Just the idea was…

      What? Brilliant? Perfect?

      Reckless?

      “Knowing that he has a place to stay and a way to support himself ought to help put his mind at ease,” Doc said.

      It might put John at ease, Betsy realized. But the thought of John Doe living so close to her was doing a real number on her.

      As one day stretched into a second, and then into a third, John still couldn’t remember who he was or what he was doing in Brighton Valley.

      His injury had been serious, and doctors were monitoring the contusion to make sure it didn’t worsen. If it did, he would need surgery.

      There were a lot of things he didn’t know these days, but he was certain that he didn’t want anyone operating on his brain. And so far, so good. He hadn’t needed surgery.

      Dr. Kelso had mentioned something about releasing him in the next day or so, which was great. But he had no idea where he’d go.

      He’d figure out something, he supposed. He certainly couldn’t lie around in a hospital bed for the rest of his life. But God only knew what he’d do to support himself.

      Footsteps sounded, and he looked up to see a dark-haired teenage girl wearing a pink-striped apron. She poked her head into his doorway and smiled. “Would you like a magazine or a book to read?”

      John hadn’t felt up to doing much of anything for the past couple of days, but it was much easier to concentrate now. His headaches weren’t as intense and he was feeling more like himself.

      Well, whatever “himself” meant.

      So he said, “Sure, I’ll take one. What’ve you got?”

      She wheeled a small cart into his room, and he scanned the offerings: Ladies’ Home Journal, Psychology Today, People, Field & Stream…

      Golf Digest? For some reason, that particular periodical, with a head shot of Phil Mickelson on the cover, seemed to be the most appealing in the stack, so he took it.

      When the candy striper left the room, he began to thumb through the pages, wondering if he’d been a golfer before the mugging.

      If so, did he play regularly? Or had he just taken up the sport?

      That answer, like all the others he’d been asking himself over the past two days, evaded him.

      He had, of course, picked up a few clues to his identity. He knew the USC fight song, had an appreciation for college football and didn’t much care for poached eggs.

      According to one of the nurses, he had an imperious tone at times, as if he was used to giving orders, rather than taking them.

      And he might play golf.

      But that wasn’t much to go on.

      As he continued to gloss over the pages in the magazine, he paused to scan an ad for a new TaylorMade putter that was gaining popularity. It looked familiar. Did he have one in a golf bag somewhere?

      His musing was interrupted by a silver-haired, pink-smocked hospital volunteer who entered the room and announced that it was dinnertime.

      She carried in his tray, and when she set it on the portable table, he studied his meal: grilled chicken, a side of pasta, green beans, a roll and a little tub of chocolate ice cream.

      “Thanks,” he said.

      “You’re welcome.” She offered him a sweet, grandmotherly smile. “Can I bring you anything else?”

      “No, I’m set.” He paid special attention to his attitude with her, offering a smile—no need for her to think he was bossy—and waiting to pick up the fork until after she’d left the room.

      Hospital food was supposed to be lousy, which was one more piece of useless information he’d managed to recall hearing at another time and place, but the food here wasn’t too bad.

      As he speared a piece of lightly seasoned rigatoni, he glanced at the clock. Dr. Nielson would be stopping by soon—at least he hoped she would. He was getting tired of watching TV, and her visits were the only thing he had to look forward to.

      Something told him that she didn’t have a professional reason to stop and see him. And if that were the case, he wondered whether it was a personal one.

      He sure hoped so. Her visits had become the highlight of his day. Of course, he figured that even if he was back in his real world, her smile would be a welcome sight.

      His first postmugging memory was of her pretty face, those vibrant green eyes and that wild auburn hair that she kept tied back by a barrette or a rubber band.

      The night of the accident, he’d wondered for a nanosecond if she was an angel. If she had been, he would have run to the light. Gladly.

      After finishing his meal, he reached for the tub of low-fat chocolate ice cream and pulled off the circular cardboard top.

      Before he could dig in, her voice sounded

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