Stone Heart_A Single Mom & Mountain Man Romance

by Rye Hart

  “I'm here with your pain meds,” she says. “That should help ease the headache some.”

  She inserts something into my IV and I watch, catching a glimpse of her name tag that says Tara.

  “What happened?” I ask, my voice sounding thick and slow even to my own ears.

  I work my mouth open and closed. It's parched and wonder how long I've been out.

  “We're still trying to figure that out, dear,” she says. “The doctor will be here shortly. I'll let your husband know you're awake.”

  “Husband?”

  “Yes, dear. He's been so worried about you...” she says, letting her voice trail off as she looks at me.

  Maybe she can see the confusion on my face, maybe not. She clears her throat and continues either way.

  “Don't worry, the doctors say your memory loss is only temporary,” she says brightly. “You should have all of your memories back soon.”

  Memory loss. That explains it. I close my eyes and try to remember something, anything at all. My name is Sydney Bellflower. At least I remember my name, that's good. Brownie points for me. Though, honestly, I only think I remember that because I heard somebody say it. But who?

  Aside from my name though, everything else is sketchy. I can't recall anything – including where I am. When I try to think about everything, and what landed me in this bed specifically, it's all a dark spot in my brain. It's completely opaque. Like somebody reached into my brain and just plucked out all of my memories.

  “Where am I?” I ask. “I mean, besides the hospital, that one's pretty obvious, even to me.”

  “You're in Aspen, Colorado,” Tara says.

  “Aspen? Why am I in Aspen?”

  I can't recall anything before the accident, but I'm positive that I'm not from Colorado. I can't say why I'm sure, but I'm sure that I'm from California. Los Angeles, to be exact. I know that to be correct down in my bones. More brownie points for me. I can remember my name and where I'm from, but I can't even remember my husband's name or face. Or the fact that I'm even married in the first place.

  The more and harder I try to remember, the more elusive the memories are. I let out a low growl and slam my hands onto the bed, frustrated that I can't remember anything. Tara gives me a sympathetic look, cocking her head to the side.

  “I'm sure your husband and the doctors can fill you in better than I can,” she says. “I just assumed you lived here. Or at least in Redstone. That's where they brought you in from.”

  Redstone. The town name sounds familiar, though I don't know why. I close my eyes and try to conjure it in my head, but I can't recall what it looks like. Tara hands me a cup of water. I take it gratefully and put it to my lips, relishing the cool liquid as it slides down my throat. I drink it all down and she gets me another.

  “I'll call your husband now,” Tara says. “He'll be so happy to see you awake and talking.”

  “How long have I been out?” I ask.

  “Only a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  “The doctors had to put you into a medically-induced coma to help with healing,” she says. “You had a pretty bad head injury and a lot of swelling around the brain. But you should be able to go home soon. I think you'll recover quicker in more familiar surroundings.”

  Home. The idea of going home should comfort me, but it doesn't. Mainly because I have no idea where home actually is. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm, not from Los Angeles, after all. Maybe I do live in Aspen. How in the hell would I know?

  It's all so blurry, and I hope the nurse is right. I hope my husband, whoever he is, can shed some light on what the hell happened.

  ooo000ooo

  “Look who's here!” Tara chirps brightly a few minutes later.

  I look toward the doorway and see a tall, handsome man standing there. He runs a hand over his short-cropped brown hair and stares at me with an intense gaze, his baby blue eyes boring into mine. The way he looks at me fills me with warmth, and there's definitely love in his eyes, but I have no idea who he is. He, like everything else in my world right now, is nothing but a blank spot.

  He walks into the room and stands next to the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. We stare at one another for a long, awkward moment.

  “Who are you?” I manage to choke out.

  Tara looks at the man, then me, and whispers to him, “She's still experiencing some memory loss from the head injury, but doctors assure us that it'll be back soon,” she says. “They're very optimistic about her recovery.”

  He nods, never taking his eyes off me. The weight of his stare makes me uncomfortable, as if I should know who he is, but I don't. I don't have the faintest idea. I look him over, letting my eyes roam from his scruffy facial hair to his tight jeans, and I can't help but think I'd remember a man like him. How could I forget him? Especially if he's my husband?

  “Can you give us a minute, please?” the man asks.

  The nurse nods, giving me one last sympathetic look before leaving the room. He waits until she closes the door behind her before turning back to me and offers a weak, uncertain smile.

  “Sydney, it's me, Jack,” he says softly.

  Jack pulls a chair to the side of my bed and sits down, taking my hand in his. My tiny hand is swallowed whole by his massive one, which is rough and calloused to the touch. It's as if he does a lot of work with his hands.

  “I'm sorry, I don't remember you,” I say, looking away from his chiseled, handsome face. The look in his eyes is killing me. “They say you're my husband, but I don't remember anything – ”

  “It's okay.” His eyes dart around the room, away from me. “It's complicated, but I'll explain everything once you're feeling better. Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

  “About what?”

  “About when you got hurt.”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Last thing I remember was an apartment in Los Angeles,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “I thought I lived in LA, but they're saying I'm in Aspen. I don't know how long I've been here or how much I've forgotten.”

  “Do you remember your parent's names?” he asks me.

  I nod. “George and Carol Bellflower,” I say as the answer pops into my mind, crystal clear.

  “Good. That's good,” he says, patting my hand. I find his touch strangely soothing. “Do you remember anything about who you are?”

  I try to put together the pieces, most of which is fragmented. “I – I'm just really confused right now and can't think straight,” I say. “And since you say I'm married to you – ”

  He stops me, silencing me by pressing a fingertip gently to my lips. “Let's change the subject. Let's focus on getting you well enough to get you out of here.”

  There's a knock on the door, which is open, and there's another woman is standing in the doorway. She's younger than the nurse, with dark skin and very dark, but sweet, compassionate eyes. Her black hair is pulled back in a twist and she's definitely more likely to be a doctor than a nurse. I can't explain how I know this, but I do. Maybe it's just her bearing. The air about her. Something. I don't know.

  “How are you feeling, Sydney?” she says with a friendly, overly white smile that's nearly blinding, but also pleasant.

  “Confused.”

  She gives me the same sympathetic look that the nurse gave me. “That's to be expected,” she says. “I'm Dr. Mitchell and I've been looking after you over the last few days. Since you're awake now, I thought you might have some questions for me.”

  I do. So many questions swirl through my brain, but I'm afraid she won't be able to answer most of them. Most of the questions are about me. About who I am and who this man sitting next to me is – the man they say is my husband. Try as I might, I don't remember him. I don't remember getting married.

  Instead, I ask, “When will I get my memory back?”

  “Soon, we hope.”

  “Hope?” Jack and I both ask at the same time.

  “Unfortunately, we don't know
for sure how much memory you'll get back. Or when,” Dr. Mitchell says, her smile falling a bit. “Most patients do gain most of their memory back within a few days or weeks of the injury. But, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that there may be parts of your memory you'll never get back. It's impossible to say for sure. Brain injuries can be very tricky, and your injury was pretty severe. Any idea how that may have happened?”

  Her gaze shifts over to Jack and I can see the question in her eyes. I follow the doctor's gaze and look at him as well. He seems to be the one person who can provide the answers we need.

  “I don't remember anything,” I say, hoping that the desperation in my voice will encourage him to tell me what he knows.

  “Your husband tells me that he was eating at the diner in Redstone, and you were with a friend,” the doctor says. “He says found you walking down the street, injured.”

  I can clearly hear the skepticism in her voice. She sounds as if she didn't believe Jack's story in the least. Hell, I can't say that I blame her. Only he knows what really happened, however. His story, while convenient, doesn't sound entirely convincing. Not to Dr. Mitchell, and the more I hear it, not to me either. A sudden, dark thought fills my head. Did he have something to do with this?

  I look into his eyes and see that he's holding something back. I quickly pull my hand away from Jack's, a chill slithering down my spine. He stares at me with open hurt in his eyes. It's as if he's trying to tell me something, trying to communicate with me, but in my current condition, I can't make out what it is.

  “Others have verified that he was, indeed, in the diner at the time,” Dr. Mitchell says, confirming some aspects of his story. “Though a few of the witnesses also mention seeing you there too – with another man.”

  She speaks slowly, as if hoping one of us will say something to fill in the blank spots. I struggle to recall something of that night, but shake my head, frustrated. I'm trying as hard as I can, but I still can't remember anything at all.

  “Another man?” I ask. “Who? Who was I there with, Jack?”

  Jack shrugs, but he refuses to make eye contact with either of us. My unease begins to grow.

  “Anyway, I'm not the police, ” Dr. Mitchell says, “But whatever happened to you, Sydney, you're incredibly lucky to be alive. You're now in stable condition and should be able to go home soon. I hope that your husband can help fill in some of the blank spots in your memory.”

  I can't help but hear the accusatory tone in her voice when she says the word ‘husband’. Clearly, she thinks he's holding something back as well. Something important. There's also that other word again. Home. I want to ask her where home is, but she likely doesn't have the answer any more than I do. Instead, I look to Jack.

  “Where do we live?” I ask.

  The pain in my head died down shortly after Tara gave me my medication, but it's having other side effects. My eyes are getting heavy and I feel like I haven't slept for several days, and darkness is starting to creep in at the edges of my vision. The good stuff is kicking in, I think to myself. Either that, or I've already had enough for the day.

  I don't fight sleep. It'd be no use anyway. Besides, it's an escape from this strange reality I'm existing in. The hope is that maybe if I get some sleep, I'll wake up with a clearer head. Maybe my memory will come back after a good solid nap. A girl can hope, right? I close my eyes and let myself drift off into a restless sleep with Jack by my side.

  Jack. My husband. A man I don't even remember.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JACK

  Sydney's been in the hospital for close to a week now. Every day though, I've come down to visit her. Every day, I've made sure to sit by her side and talk to her. I've tried to find the words to tell her that I'm not actually her husband, that it was all a lie. Every day though, the words still don't come.

  I have my reasons for the lie. It was to protect her. To be by her side. To take care of the paperwork and to make sure she had everything she needed. Being an old boyfriend doesn't give you those privileges, and I feared they might reach out and find Peter. That's the last thing I want to see happen because I'm positive he's behind this somehow. I can't prove it, don't have a shred of evidence to back that theory up, but all the same, I know it. I know it in my heart and in my gut. Otherwise, where in the hell is he?

  I want to tell Sydney the truth, but she's scared enough as it is. So, I remain quiet and say nothing. I'll tell her eventually, but not here at the hospital. I need to be able to see her, to protect her. I need to make sure we're in a secure place where I can do those things before I tell her the truth.

  That's what I tell myself anyway. But, even I have a hard time not believing I'm selfish for taking this opportunity to get back into her life. When I saw her again in Daisy's the other night, it re-opened old wounds – wounds I thought had healed over long ago.

  When I saw her again though, it made me feel like I'd been given a second chance. A second chance I probably don't deserve, but a second chance nonetheless. I want to make the most of it. I don't want to screw it up.

  Today is the day she's being released from the hospital, and I'm supposed to take her home; to my home, where she will be safe. I consider contacting her parents, but memories of their disdain for me inflame my anxiety and make me put it off. I keep telling myself I'll do it later – but later hasn't come yet.

  Once she's home though, we'll talk about what happened and I can finally admit the truth about who I am. After that, we can call her parents and I'll see about sending her back to her real home, as soon as she's approved to fly.

  I’m running a big risk. She might absolutely flip out that I lied to her and the hospital about who I am. I'm hoping she understands my reasons, but I know it's a crapshoot at best. Regardless of how it all shakes out though, I know that once I get her home, I'm finally going to have to come clean about it.. About everything.

  That's the plan, at least. Another part of the plan includes locating that douchebag she came to Redstone with and asking him some very pointed questions about what happened. If I don't like the answers I'm hearing, or I suspect he's lying – which, I assume he will – he's going to have a very, very bad day.

  She has no phone, no wallet, nothing. Not even shoes to wear. So, I'm asked to bring her a change of clothes and some shoes to take her home in, and that's a challenge, because obviously, I have nothing of hers. Peter has everything, but as her “husband,” I'm expected to have something for her to wear. Which means I'm going shopping before I pick her up. Which, of course, is going to provide me with a whole fresh set of challenges.

  I park at the curb of Redstone's shopping district and try to get my bearings. I don't usually do clothes shopping down here, so I don't know what the lay of the land is exactly. The first boutique I walk into, I see a twenty-something young girl behind the counter playing on her phone. She hardly looks up as I enter. I stand there and look around the shop, feeling completely lost.

  I finally give up trying to figure it all out, walk over to her, and clear my throat.

  “Excuse me?” I say. “Can I get some help, please.”

  The girl rolls her eyes as she finally tears her eyes away from her phone and meets my gaze.

  “Yes?”

  Her name tag says Brittney and her tone is well beyond snotty. It's a suitable name for a stuck-up little girl, I think to myself. Her bleached blonde hair is nearly white and fried beyond belief, and her makeup is too dark for my tastes. The clothes on the rack all seem to be for twenty-somethings as well, showing a lot of skin in crop tops and miniskirts. I'm suddenly not sure I'm in the right place.

  “You know what? I think I made a mistake,” I mutter. “Sorry to bother you.”

  She lets out a derisive snort as I turn to go, and she drops her gaze back to her phone again. I feel lost. I have no idea how to shop for a grown woman. I know though, I'm not going to find what I need in a shop like that.

  The next store I walk into seems to be
a bit more sophisticated. Two women rush me as soon as I enter the door, both of them eager to help me. Perhaps too eager, I think, but they likely work on that, are they're just really enthusiastic and love what they do.

  The brunette named Marianne is dressed in a knee-length skirt, tall boots and a sweater, which seems like Sydney's style, based on what she was wearing when I saw her last. The other woman, a more natural-looking blonde than Brittney, introduces herself as Katya. She has a Russian accent and wears what I can only describe as an upper-class cocktail dress.

  I go off with Marianne, which puts a broad smile on her face.

  “I need to pick up a few things for a friend of mine who's staying with me,” I tell her. “She doesn't have much with her right now.”

  I mention that she's in the hospital but leave it at that. The fewer details, the better. Marianne offers a sweet smile, her red lipstick perfectly complementing her pale skin. Her brown hair is long and falls around her soft face, highlighting her delicate jaw line and petite features.

  “What a nice thing to do,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. “It's so hard to find good men these days. Your friend is lucky.”

  She winks when she says the word, “friend” as if she knows there's something more there. I only wish that were true, but there's not. Nor will there ever be. I saw to that long ago. The best I can hope for now, is some form of closure. All I want is for Sydney to say she understands and forgives me for what I did.

  “No, I swear, she's just a friend. An old friend,” I say, running a hand over my head, not really sure why I feel the need to explain myself to her.

  “So you're single?” Marianne asks, her brown eyes twinkling.

  “I am.”

  She gives me a once over, and a flirty little smile before turning to a rack of dresses. She pulls out a frilly, pink one and I grimace.

  “Not a frilly, pink type of girl?” she asks. “Tell me, what does she like?”

  “I don't really know,” I mutter. “To be honest, something along the lines of what you're wearing, maybe? I guess she needs pants more than skirts though, it's probably way too cold for dresses.”