Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas GiftThe Soldier's Holiday HomecomingSanta's Playbook

by Allison Leigh

  “Of course not. That’s why I called you. Since you left your name and number as his emergency contact, I was hoping that we could release him into your care.”

  Chloe didn’t want to say no. After all, helping people was her natural calling, an intrinsic part of who she was. But she was living in the ranch house alone. And the man was a stranger.

  “If you’d rather not take on the responsibility,” Betsy said, “I understand.”

  Chloe might not know anything about the man, but he either was or had been a marine. And he had to be Dave’s friend. Why else would he be delivering a letter to her?

  “What time is he scheduled to be discharged?” She still needed to finish up her evening chores, and it was already pushing five o’clock.

  “He should have been released a couple of hours ago, but I stalled the admin assistant until I had time to call you personally.”

  So much for finishing her chores before dark. She walked to the row of hooks just inside the back door and grabbed a red barn jacket to ward off the winter chill. “Then I’ll leave now.”

  “That’s great. He’s on the third floor, in room 327. I’ll have the paperwork ready for his discharge.”

  Five minutes later, Chloe climbed into the faded green GMC pickup and turned on the ignition. The old ranch truck roared to life, just as dependable as Chloe herself.

  To be honest, she was apprehensive about taking in a stranger, but she chided herself as quickly as the thought crossed her mind. Teresa Cummings, Dave’s mom, had let Chloe move to the Rocking C when she didn’t have anywhere else to go. So taking in Joe Wilcox was her way of paying it forward. Besides that, Teresa would have taken the wounded marine under her wing in a heartbeat.

  One night, before Teresa’s death, she and Chloe had shared a pot of tea and talked about Teresa’s terminal illness, her fears and her thoughts on life. The dying woman had also shared her regrets, one of which was about a kid she’d neglected to take in and offer a home.

  Apparently, years ago, when Dave had been in high school, one of his friends had needed a home. The teenager had been living in foster care and had been miserable. So Teresa had asked her husband if the boy could move in with them. Her husband had been reluctant because the kid had gotten into trouble in the past and had even been suspended from school on several occasions. Still, he’d always been polite and helpful whenever he’d been on the Rocking C, and Teresa had suspected he’d only been acting out because of his sad childhood and difficult living situation.

  Dave had begged them to let the boy stay with them, but his father had been firm in his decision. Teresa hadn’t pushed her husband, although she always suspected she could have gotten him to see reason.

  Shortly thereafter, the boy ran away from his foster home and was never heard from again. Dave had been inconsolable for nearly a year, and his relationship with his father had suffered terribly because of it.

  Teresa had wished that she would have insisted that they take the boy in. And she’d always wondered what might have happened, how he might have fared if she had provided him a loving home. She also wondered if Dave and his father’s relationship might have been a happier one, especially since her husband had died of a heart attack shortly after Dave joined the Marines in his one and only act of sheer rebellion.

  To appease her guilt, Teresa had promised herself that, from then on, the Rocking C Ranch would always have its paddocks open for any stray, whether it had four legs or two.

  And since Chloe had resolved to keep the ranch running exactly as Teresa would have done had she still been alive, that meant letting a hit-and-run victim who couldn’t recall his own name recover there.

  By the time she reached the medical center, it had grown dark outside and was threatening to rain. She turned into the hospital parking lot and pulled into a spot close to the entrance.

  After entering the lobby, which had been decorated with twinkly lights and a big Christmas tree near the front window, she took the elevator to the third floor, where the nurses’ station was a flurry of activity, reminding her of the shift changes at the Sheltering Arms. But thanks to the administrator at the nursing home who’d fired her rather than the incompetent nurse she’d reported, Chloe was no longer a part of the staff.

  She checked out the room numbers until she spotted 327. The door was open, so she walked in. But she stopped short when she saw the wounded man standing near his bed, wearing a pair of tattered jeans, his broad chest bare.

  Unable to help herself, she watched as he attempted to put on a torn black sweatshirt he must have been wearing at the time of the accident. His left hand was wrapped in an oversize bandage, and his muscled form struggled with the effort.

  “Would you like... I mean, I could...”

  He glanced over his shoulder, those amazing blue eyes locking in on hers and exposing something deep within, something vulnerable.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it.” His handsome face bore a couple of scrapes, but other than that, he appeared strong and healthy. She could hardly tell that he’d been brought in on a gurney last night.

  Maybe she should have taken a few extra minutes to freshen up and change out of her work clothes. Not that she was dirty or unkempt. It’s just that he...well, she...

  Oh, forget it. She didn’t have time to let her thoughts drift into girlish, romantic notions.

  “I don’t mean to interfere if you’d rather do it yourself. It’s just that, with the bandage and all, I thought...” She gave her head a little toss. “I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have just barged into your room like that. But...well, you’re Joe Wilcox, right?”

  “That’s what they tell me.” He pointed toward a stack of papers on the bed tray with his bandaged hand, yet her focus remained on his broad shoulders, on the scatter of dark chest hair that ran along taut abs and trailed into the waistband of his jeans.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked.

  “You’re the woman who came in last night to identify me. Chloe Dawson, right?”

  She tossed him a smile. “Yes, that’s me. I’m glad you remembered.”

  “Don’t be too optimistic,” he said. “I can recall everything as far back as the ambulance ride. Anything before that is a giant black spot in my mind. Besides...” He patted the paperwork one more time. “Your name is on my discharge sheet.”

  “So Dr. Nielson told you that I was coming to pick you up?”

  “Yep. Right before she signed off on my chart. I think she was eager to get home to her new baby. Not that I can blame her.”

  So he liked children? That ought to mean he was one of the white hats and that she had nothing to worry about by being alone with him.

  “Do you have kids?” she asked.

  He froze, and his blue eyes darted upward as if he had to look up the answer in his cranial database. “I have no idea. But that’s not what I meant. I can’t blame the doc for wanting to ditch this place as soon as she could. Hospitals give me the creeps.”

  Maybe, if she prodded him with enough questions, she’d latch on to the thread that would unravel all of his suppressed memories. “Have you been in the hospital before?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that, either. I’m going to guess that I have—and that I didn’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t wait to get out of here.” He finally managed to slip on the sweatshirt. “You ready to go?”

  “Sure. If you are.”

  He snatched a white plastic bag off the floor by his chair and headed out the door. As she tried to keep up with his determined pace, her dusty cowboy boots clicked along the polished corridor floor.

  “Wait,” she called out just before he reached the elevator. “I realize you’re in a hurry to leave and would probably hitch a ride with the first ship setting sail, but Dr. Nielson is
releasing you to my care. So let’s slow down just a minute. Is there anything in that discharge paperwork that I need to know about before we hightail it out of here?”

  “Sorry.” He handed her the top sheet off his stack for her to read. “Listen, Miss Dawson.”

  When she looked up from the paper he’d given her and caught his gaze—or rather, when those amazing blue eyes caught hers—her tummy did a somersault.

  He smiled. “It’s miss, right?”

  Was he asking if she was single? Or just trying to be polite?

  While working at the Stagecoach Inn, she’d gotten used to men—old and young, drunk and sober— hitting on her. And she was usually pretty quick on the draw when it came to letting them know she wasn’t interested.

  But she’d make an allowance for the sexy marine who was still probably disoriented from the accident and the shock of having his memory banks wiped clean—at least, temporarily.

  “Yes, it is. But let’s make that Chloe.”

  “All right,” he said. “Thanks for picking me up, Chloe. And you might as well call me Joe, although, I may not answer to it.”

  Why? Had he realized that the sheriff might have mistaken him for someone else?

  No, she’d been told that his photo and name lined up. “I suppose, if you don’t remember who you are, your name wouldn’t sound familiar.”

  “That’s the problem. Something about that name doesn’t feel right, although I have no idea why. Maybe because my brain is still so scrambled.” He let out a weary sigh. “Anyway, you don’t really have to be responsible for me. I waited for you to get here because Dr. Nielsen seems like a nice woman, and I don’t want to get her in trouble with the hospital bigwigs. But you can just drop me off at a nearby homeless shelter or rescue mission. I’ll be fine.”

  She couldn’t possibly dump him just anywhere, especially in his condition. Yet he turned his back and continued on his way, his only goal the hospital exit.

  “Joe,” she called out.

  At the sound of his name—or maybe just her voice—he turned in response.

  With her boots still planted in the middle of the hall, she asked, “Have you ever stayed in a homeless shelter or a rescue mission?”

  “I don’t know.”

  For a guy who didn’t seem to know very much about himself, he had no problem putting one combat boot in front of the other and pretending that nothing was wrong.

  “Have you ever been to Brighton Valley?” she asked.

  “Don’t know that, either.”

  She wondered if he was getting tired of sounding like a broken record. “We don’t have any homeless shelters or rescue missions here. There’s a community church that lets people sleep in the basement, but the pastor usually goes home before now, so I doubt that they’re open.”

  “Then I appreciate your offer to give me a ride and a place to stay for a day or two—at least, until my memory returns.”

  “No problem. Dave and his family would have done the same.”

  The furrow in his brow deepened as if he was reaching deep into his memory banks, only to find them empty. Then he nodded and continued to the elevator.

  She followed him. When the doors opened, they stepped inside.

  His fingers lingered over the panel for longer than necessary, so she pressed the L for lobby. Again, she reminded herself that by taking him home she was doing the right thing. After all, she couldn’t very well let him wander the streets if he couldn’t even operate a simple elevator.

  He glanced at her, and his blank stare tore at her heart. Had the gravity of his situation finally sunk in?

  “You sure you don’t mind me bunking with you?” he asked.

  “Of course not. You’re a friend of Dave’s, and honestly, it’s his ranch. I’m only doing what he and his mother would have done for any of their friends.”

  “I’ll try to make it up to you—the inconvenience and what not—when I figure out who I am and what I’m good for.”

  “Judging by the dosage of painkillers Dr. Nielsen sent home with you, I don’t think you’ll be much good at anything for a few days. So let’s get you well first.” She nodded toward the main entrance to the lobby. “Come on, let’s go.”

  He didn’t need any convincing, soon taking the lead as they left the holiday-decorated lobby, leaving Bing Crosby crooning about dreams of a white Christmas behind.

  Other than the soles of their boots tapping on the dusty concrete, they walked in silence until they reached the well-lit parking lot. Then Joe paused to look around.

  Was he having a breakthrough?

  “I’m not sure where we are,” he said, “or what’s nearby. But the doc told me to take the medicine when I eat. And for some weird reason, I have a real craving for Mexican food. Is there a taco shop nearby? Someplace where I can get some good menudo or albondigas?”

  The way the Spanish words rolled off his tongue—as if he was a native speaker—surprised her. That was an interesting twist since Wilcox wasn’t a typical Mexican surname.

  Maybe he wasn’t who they thought he was. That was a possible cause for alarm, but the USMC tattoo she’d seen before he’d put on that sweatshirt was enough to waylay at least some of her concern.

  “Tía Juana’s is a drive-through,” she said. “And it’s not too far from here. We can pick up something on the way back to the ranch.”

  “Thanks. That sounds great. And as a side note, I’d offer to pay, but you’ll have to take my IOU. The sheriff was supposed to drop off my wallet at the hospital earlier today, but he hasn’t done that yet.”

  “No problem,” she said. “But as a side note of my own, I’m sorry.”

  “About what? Me not having any cash? That’s the least of my problems.”

  “I know. And it must be horribly frustrating for you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  Fortunately, though, he’d just had a change in luck.

  Joe Wilcox now had Chloe Dawson to watch out for him—and with no one else to nurse these days, she intended to focus all her TLC on him.

  * * *

  By the time they reached the ranch, Joe was beyond exhausted. It had taken all his energy to finish off the spicy Mexican soup he’d ordered at Tía Juana’s and to eat a couple bites of a quesadilla. Then he’d washed down his pills with a glass of iced tea.

  “I’ll show you to the guest room,” Chloe said.

  He followed her out of the kitchen, through a cozy living room with a stone fireplace and a built-in bookshelf, past a staircase leading to the second floor. He wondered where she slept. He knew better than to ask, though. No need for her to think he had ulterior motives, although she was one hell of a pretty woman.

  He’d always been attracted to blondes...

  Hadn’t he? While that bit of information seemed to be a memory, it certainly wasn’t one that was going to be very useful.

  Still, Chloe’s hair was a platinum shade that hung down her back in soft, shimmering waves he was tempted to touch and to watch slip through his fingers.

  He kept his hands to himself, though. The last thing he wanted to do was to step out of bounds before he’d spent ten minutes alone with her. Besides, he wasn’t up to fighting weight yet.

  And speaking of hands... He glanced at the oversize bandage that was more trouble than it was worth. The tape was already flapping up. He’d told the nurse who’d put it on that he hadn’t needed it, but she’d insisted, and he’d been too tired and rheumy to argue.

  As he followed Chloe to the hall, she pointed out a bathroom on the left, then led him to the first door on the right. “I’d give you Dave’s room, but if he shows up, he’ll need a place to sleep. So this will have to do.”

  “I’d be happy on the couch. All I need is a pillow and blanket.”

 
“We can do better than that,” she said.

  “‘We’?” He hadn’t realized that she might not live alone.

  “Sorry. I’m actually just a guest here myself, so I don’t consider the house mine.” She flipped on the light switch, illuminating a small room with a double bed, a single nightstand and a dresser that rested near the window. “Would you like me to find you something to sleep in? There should be some men’s pajamas in Dave’s room.”

  Something told him he’d prefer to sleep in the raw, but he decided not to mention that. “No, thanks. My boxers will have to do.”

  “Okay.” She bit down on her bottom lip, as though worried about something.

  “I plan on crashing the minute my head hits the pillow,” he added. “I doubt I’ll wake up until morning.”

  “Good.” She brightened a moment, and then her smile slipped away. “I mean, a good night’s sleep ought to do wonders.”

  An awkwardness settled around them, but Joe was too far gone to ponder why—or to even care.

  “I’ll leave you alone so you can get some rest,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” She waited a beat, as if still struggling with something. Attraction maybe?

  Well, that was too damn bad. As nice as he might have found that before his accident, his jumbled and sleepy brain was too intent upon hitting the sheets—alone.

  Of course, that didn’t mean he’d feel the same way tomorrow.

  * * *

  For a guy who didn’t know who or where he was, Joe had gotten a fairly good night’s sleep. But now, as the morning rays lit the guest bedroom, he winced and stretched out his bum knee, hoping the ache would ease. He must have exasperated an old injury, because he’d spotted some nasty scarring earlier.

  He had no idea what had happened to him. A normal, healthy guy who hadn’t jarred his brains on the highway would have remembered how he’d messed himself up like that, especially since it looked as though he’d had surgery to correct it.

  Damn. He hated not knowing anything about himself—who he was, where he was from, where he’d planned to go next.