by Judy Duarte
Tats picked up his cigarettes, pocketed his change and tipped his hat at Clay, then headed for the door.
“You got business at the ranch?” Carlene asked.
“No.”
She nodded, as if he’d let her in on a big secret. “Just visiting friends, then. Alana and Callie both live there, although last month, Callie married Ramon Cruz and moved to town. Ramon’s running for mayor. Election’s right around the corner, too.”
Clay merely nodded at what seemed like unnecessary information—other than the fact that Alana might be living alone, which would make it easier for them to talk.
Carlene lowered her voice. “Callie’s expecting twins, and Alana is having a baby shower for her at the ranch. I’m not sure if it’s a surprise or not, so please don’t say anything.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Clay said, hoping Carlene wouldn’t snatch her phone and alert Alana to his visit before he reached the ranch.
After thanking her, he left the store, eager to be on his way. He climbed into the Range Rover and started the engine. But he took a quick minute to check his messages. None so far. Good.
While following Carlene’s directions, he kept his eyes peeled for the green-and-yellow mailbox, which ought to be coming up soon.
Up ahead, he spotted the old white pickup Tats was driving. The hood was up. When Tats spotted Clay driving that way, he raised his arm to flag him down.
Clay doubted many vehicles came along here, so he pulled off to the side of the road and parked. He shut off the engine, got out of the Range Rover and walked past an oak tree and toward the truck.
“Car trouble?” he asked.
Footsteps sounded behind him, but before he could turn completely around, a shadowed figure rushed him, lifted what appeared to be a tire iron and slammed it against the side of his head.
Clay opened his mouth to yell, but no sound came out, and as he dropped to the dirt, everything faded to black.
Chapter Two
While the two ranch dogs sat beside Alana, watching her every move, she knelt in the garden she’d lovingly tended for the past few months. She’d enjoyed watching the plants sprout and the vegetables grow. Now she was reaping the first zucchini and cucumbers of the season. She might have inherited Grandpa Jack’s cattle ranch, but she’d begun to think of herself as a natural-born farmer.
A smile tugged at her lips. Imagine that. For as long as she remembered, she’d worked to find her place in the world, but she’d never expected to find it just outside Fairborn, Montana.
She looked up from the wicker basket she’d filled with today’s harvest and scanned the yard. It certainly looked a lot better than it had last year, when she’d first arrived to meet and then take care of her grandfather.
The once-dry grass had turned green, and the overgrown plants and bushes were trimmed. Even the old red barn, which still needed a new door and a fresh coat of paint, didn’t look nearly as weathered and broken-down with the flowers in bloom along the sides of the structure.
She lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the late-afternoon sun and gazed at the orchard. All six of Grandpa’s cherry trees looked strong and healthy these days. And after years of neglect, they’d begun to bear fruit. It was amazing what regular watering would do.
A little love and hard work had sparked new life into the old family homestead. And that, she decided, was a sign that her own life finally had purpose.
Alana remained kneeling, but she sat back, resting her derriere on her heels. She placed her hand on the beginning of a baby bump, still amazed at the miracle that grew there. For the past ten years, she’d been led to believe that she would never experience the joys of pregnancy, and now here she was, expecting a baby who’d be born during the holiday season. She’d have something to be truly thankful for this Thanksgiving and something to celebrate at Christmas.
Rascal, the black-and-white Queensland Heeler mix who’d once belonged to Grandpa, let out a yawn, then rested his chin on his paws. Next to him sat Chewie, the scraggly brown mutt she’d found wandering on the ranch a few months back and rescued. Chewie had been named after Chewbacca, the Star Wars character. There was a resemblance, she supposed. But Chewie could have just as easily been named Dust Mop. Either way, the scruffy dog was a real sweetheart. And so was Rascal.
The screen door squeaked open, and Alana turned to see Katie Johnson, the college student who, along with her much younger half brothers, had moved into Rancho Esperanza last month. Alana’s longtime friend and roommate, Callie, had introduced Alana to the young woman who’d been working her butt off trying to care for the boys while taking a couple of classes at the junior college and holding down two part-time jobs. The poor girl had found it harder and harder to pay the rent.
Alana couldn’t very well allow Katie to struggle in supporting her little brothers, especially when she and Callie were living in this big old house and had the old foreman’s quarters available. So she’d opened her home and heart to the little family. One of the many reasons she wouldn’t sell—no matter how many times land-grabber Adam Hastings called her with increasingly insistent offers.
“Alana,” Katie called out before walking onto the porch with a glass of ice tea. “It’s time for a break.”
“Yes, it is.”
Katie crossed the yard, walked to the garden and handed the glass to Alana.
“Thanks for the reminder,” Alana said, taking the refreshing drink. “I was getting thirsty.”
Katie folded her arms across her chest like a mother scolding a child. “You shouldn’t be working so hard in your condition.”
Now that she’d reached her second trimester, she’d let Katie and her brothers in on her condition. “Being in the garden doesn’t feel like work.” Alana took a refreshing drink, then lowered the glass and smiled. “It’s actually very peaceful out here.”
Chewie lifted her furry head and woofed, her bushy tail sweeping back and forth, stirring the dirt. Just like everyone else who lived at Rancho Esperanza, the stray had settled in and found a new home. The sweet little dog was especially fond of Katie, who loved animals and hoped to become a vet.
When Katie stooped to give Chewie an affectionate pat, the shaggy-haired pooch rolled over, providing access to her belly, which had filled out now that she was eating regularly.
“You know what?” Katie said, as she straightened. “I think Chewie’s pregnant.”
Alana glanced at the cattle dog, who lay nearby, his head resting on his paws, and smiled. “Apparently, his name suits him. He really is a rascal, isn’t he?”
Rascal’s ears perked up, and he turned his head. Then he jumped up and ran toward the driveway with Chewie on his tail, both dogs barking up a storm.
Alana didn’t give them too much mind until Katie gasped, pointed and cried out, “Oh, my gosh. Look!”
At that, Alana turned and spotted a man staggering toward them, his face covered in blood. She hesitated briefly, her hand instinctively reaching for her growing tummy. When the stranger swayed and stumbled, she realized he was clearly hurt and not a threat to her or anyone else. So she set the glass of ice tea on the ground beside her, scrambled to her feet and, without taking time to brush the dirt from her denim-clad knees, rushed toward the injured man, ready to offer assistance.
“I’ll get the first aid supplies,” Katie said, as she took off in the opposite direction.
The dogs continued to bark at the man as he approached the house. He stood about six feet tall, or would if his shoulders weren’t slumped, his head bent.
Had he been in a car accident?
Alana reached him just as he dropped to his knees with a thud, his body swaying to remain balanced.
“Oh, God.” What should she do? How could she help?
When she reached the spot where he knelt, the dogs circled him, barking out a warning. She shushed them. “I�
��ve got this, you guys. Go back to the house.” As the dogs obeyed, Alana squatted beside the man. “Mister? Can you hear me?”
He mumbled incoherently.
This was bad. He was bad. And he clearly needed a doctor. Only problem was the nearest hospital was twenty miles from here.
The front screen door opened, then slammed shut as Katie hurried toward them with a wet cloth and the first aid kit. “Here you go.”
Alana took the cloth, but she wasn’t sure where to start. Blood from an obvious head wound covered his face and had dried in his sandy-blond hair. She began to wipe his brow. He flinched but didn’t move from the place where they both knelt.
“He’s going to need an ambulance,” Katie said. “That first aid kit isn’t going to cut it.”
“I know.” Alana blew out a sigh. “But it’ll take them at least thirty minutes to get here, if not longer. It might be better if I drive him straight to the hospital.”
Katie seemed to think about that for a moment. “You’re probably right. But maybe it’s not as bad as it looks. Head wounds bleed a lot, even when they’re relatively minor. I’ll get a bowl of warm water and more cloths.” Then she hurried back to the house.
As Alana carefully dabbed at the man’s face, he winced and mumbled to himself. It broke her heart to see him in such pain.
“It’s okay,” she said softly, gently pressing the wet towel near his swollen eye. “I’m going to take care of you.”
He seemed to believe her, and as she continued to wipe the blood from his face, he appeared slightly familiar. Had she seen him before? Maybe he was one of her neighbors.
His clothing, though, while torn and dirty, looked as if it might have been expensive, certainly before his accident. Which pretty much ruled out the Fairborn residents she’d met.
When Katie returned with a bowl of warm water and more cloths, she knelt next to Alana. “How bad is he?”
Alana used the replenished supplies and continued to clean his face. “The blood seems to be coming from a single gash on his forehead.”
His eyes opened. Well, at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut did. It was a pretty bluish-green shade. She’d seen a color like it before and—
Oh, no. It couldn’t be.
But...
...it was.
Clay.
Alana’s world tilted on its axis.
He closed his eye, then ran his tongue across parched lips littered with specks of dirt and dried blood.
“Clay?” Her voice came out in a soft whisper, although it was loud enough for him to hear her.
He merely looked at her. Blankly. “Huh?”
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
He began to shake his head no, then grimaced in pain.
Dang. That accident had knocked him silly.
“Katie,” Alana said, “would you please bring me the glass of tea I was drinking?”
“Sure.”
Once Katie returned with the tea, Alana offered it to Clay, and he took a couple of sips.
Why was he here? And more confusing, how had he found her? She hadn’t told him her name—or where she lived. And what in heaven’s name had happened to him?
A flurry of other questions swept through her mind, but as his eyes shut and his body swayed, she realized he wasn’t in any condition to answer them.
Alana turned to Katie. “Help me get him to the pickup. I’ve got to take him to the ER.”
“Okay. But it’s not going to be easy. And he won’t be much help.”
“I know. I’ll bring the truck here. Keep an eye on him while I get the keys.”
Moments later, her mind still whirling, she brought the pickup next to where Clay knelt in the dirt. She opened the passenger door, but as he struggled to stand then went down again, she realized Katie had been right. He wasn’t going to be much help.
“I’m pretty strong,” Katie said, “but I can’t do it alone. And you really shouldn’t be lifting him in your condition.”
Maybe not. But Clay had been instrumental in putting Alana in her present “condition,” and she owed him for that.
Besides, she’d run out on him once. There’s no way she’d bail on him now.
* * *
By the time Alana reached the hospital in Kalispell, Clay had come to, although he still seemed pretty out of it.
“What happened to you?” she asked. “How did you get hurt?”
When he didn’t respond, she cut a glance to the passenger seat where he sat, battered and looking completely clueless.
She suspected he’d been in a car accident, although she hadn’t noticed a crumpled or disabled vehicle along the road, no broken glass, no indication of a crash. Her ranch was so remote, he wouldn’t have been walking. And it wasn’t likely that he would have been able to stagger too far on his own.
“Where...?” He glanced out the side window at the passing scenery, then turned to her with a furrowed brow. “Where am I?”
“Just outside of Kalispell. You’re hurt, and I’m taking you to the hospital.”
At that, he nodded, blew out a sigh and leaned against the headrest. They continued for a couple of miles in silence, then he shifted to study her.
She offered him a smile, hoping a friendly face would chase away his worry and confusion.
Apparently, her ploy wasn’t working, because his brow furrowed deeper. “Do I know you?”
Her breath hitched and her stomach clenched. “You don’t remember me?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. But right now, all I know is that I hurt like hell.”
She wasn’t a doctor, but her guess was that his head injury had caused temporary amnesia. At least she hoped it would be only temporary. Surely, once he was on the mend, his mind would clear and his memory would return.
Then again, she’d just been a one-night stand. Amnesia or not, maybe he’d forgotten her, for real. But if that was the case, what was he doing here?
OMG. Had he come looking for her to say he had some kind of STD?
No, that couldn’t be it. Her obstetrician had drawn blood and tested her for all kinds of things. Something like that would have turned up, and she was healthy. So was the baby. She blew out a weary sigh.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I...” He gave a shrug and sighed. “I’m sure I have one, but I can’t tell you what it is.”
“Is it Clay?” she asked, hoping to give his memory a little nudge.
He gave a slight shrug. “That doesn’t ring a bell.”
What if his name wasn’t Clay? What if he’d only told her that in Colorado? A lot of people used an alias when they met a stranger in a bar.
Or what if his memory never returned?
Clay moaned, closed his eyes and scrunched his brow.
This was bad. Really bad. The sooner she got him to the hospital, the better. She accelerated until the speedometer topped eighty. All the while, she kept her eye on the road and a tight grip on the steering wheel. She might have the truck under control, but she didn’t have any kind of handle on Clay’s medical emergency.
When she spotted Green Valley General up ahead, she muttered, “Thank goodness,” and turned into the driveway.
“Hang on. We’re almost there.” She followed the signs directing her to the emergency department and pulled right up to the front door, where a sign announced No Parking. Loading and Unloading Patients Only.
She honked her horn twice and was about to do it again when a rather burly-looking security guard wearing a blue uniform came to the automatic glass door. As he stepped outside, she reached for the control button on the driver’s door and lowered Clay’s window. “I need help. This guy is in bad shape and isn’t able to walk.”
The guard went back inside, and moments later, an orderly in navy blue scrubs
hurried out the door with a wheelchair. And just as he’d probably done a hundred times before, he quickly and competently transferred Clay from the vehicle to the chair. Then he pushed him inside.
Alana wanted nothing more than to follow them into the hospital, to offer whatever help or information she could, which wouldn’t be much. But she had to move the truck and let the medical staff do their jobs.
Five minutes later, after finally finding a parking spot in the busy lot, she made her way to the entrance where she’d left Clay in the hands of the orderly. The waiting room was packed. She scanned a sea of blurred faces, hoping Clay hadn’t been left out here to fend for himself.
When the security guard spotted her, he took her to the door that led to the exam rooms. He punched in a code, then let her inside.
She wandered past several exam areas separated by pale green-and-white-striped curtains until a nurse wearing blue scrubs and carrying a file saw her.
“Are you looking for someone?” the nurse asked.
“Yes. My...friend is here. He has a head injury and is pretty banged up. An orderly helped him into a wheelchair and brought him inside.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Our John Doe. He doesn’t remember his name. And when we checked his pockets, we couldn’t find any identification. So I’m glad you’re here. We have a few questions to ask you.”
Too bad Alana didn’t have many answers for them. The only thing she could honestly say is that his name could be Clay, that he might or might not be an attorney and that he possibly lived in Texas. The only fact she could be certain of was that he was a damn good lover—but that question wasn’t likely to come up.
She followed the bustling nurse toward the back of the department. The doctors were going to want to know Clay’s medical history, things that Alana, as the mother of his baby, would like to know, too. But they’d be on their own when it came to getting information.