by Sheryl Lynn
Investigator Solerno pulled out a business card. She made a show of propping it against the bedside telephone. “I’m on your side, ma’am. I’ll protect you. You don’t have to be afraid of anybody. Do you understand?”
Laura blinked twice.
“Anytime, night or day, if you need to talk, you call me. You’re my top priority.”
If Laura could have smiled, she would have. She blinked twice again.
“I’ll be back to check in on you. So you get strong and we’ll catch that creep. Okay?”
After Becky left, the doctor said, “You don’t have to talk to anybody you don’t want to.” He checked her eyes and used his stethoscope to listen to her heart and lungs. “The only thing you have to do is get well. You’re a surprising woman. I do believe you’ll prove all the doom and gloomers wrong I have all the faith in the world that you’ll do that, Mrs. Hudson.”
With tremendous effort, she turned her head. “Doctor,” she whispered. “Please...understand...mistake..”
“Don’t excite yourself.”
“Must understand...I am not Laura Hudson.”
“CHRONIC AMNESIA,” Ryder said wearily. “Why isn’t her memory improving? She remembers the president of the United States, so why doesn’t she remember me?”
Dr. Millhouse sat behind his desk. Instead of medical charts, his office walls were decorated with Metropolitan Opera posters and framed musical scores. Ryder had spent enough time in this office over the past few months that he’d memorized all the songs. The doctor favored the rousing horns and drums of Tchaikovsky and Ravel.
“On the good side, Laura’s brain is healing,” the doctor said. “Quite frankly, she has beaten the odds. Her short-term memory is almost normal.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning her brain is functioning and she can retain normal amounts of information. The speed of her recovery gives me hope that her long-term memory will be restored eventually.”
“You keep saying that, but she doesn’t know who she is. She treats me like a stranger. What about our daughter?”
“Patience, Mr. Hudson. Laura sustained injuries that by all rights should have killed her. I’m not claiming a miracle, but there really isn’t any other way to explain how far she’s progressed. There’s no paralysis. She’s intelligent, cognitive. Except for some mild aphasia, her speech is unaffected. Thank heavens, her sight is unaffected, as well. Considering the massive damage to her eye sockets, it’s a miracle she can see. As far as I can tell, the most lasting affects will be cosmetic.”
He understated. The rolling Mercedes had pitched Laura face first through the windshield. Then she’d struck solid rock, again face first. A scratch was cosmetic; Laura’s face had been shattered.
“The best surgeons have effected marvelous repairs, reconstructing her facial bones and managing the nerve damage. But she will never look the way she looked before.”
The doc didn’t know the half of it, Ryder thought. In the years he’d known Laura, he’d never seen her without her face perfectly made-up and every hair in place. She was as much an artist as he was. Her face and body were her media, a supple, ever-changing display of perfect feminine beauty.
“Maybe she’ll never remember how beautiful she was.”
The doctor gave him a twisted smile. “What the medical community understands about the human brain is the proverbial single grain of sand on an endless beach. I have noticed a most interesting twist, though.”
“A twist?”
Dr. Millhouse chuckled uneasily. “It’s a new one on me. She appears to be suffering from a delusion that she is someone else. According to her, she isn’t certain who she is, but she is positive that she isn’t Laura Hudson.” He shrugged. “We’ve had some lively discussions concerning her beliefs.”
It didn’t sound twisted to Ryder. Laura had always hated being Laura.
“I am recommending a colleague of mine. Dr. Lopez is a psychiatrist who specializes in trauma patients.”
“You think Laura’s crazy?”
“Of course not! As I said, our knowledge about how the brain functions is extremely limited. Dr. Lopez can, however, aid your wife in coming to terms with her amnesia. It’s a frightening thing, not being able to remember. When you were in school, did you ever come across a question for which you knew the answer, but could not produce it?”
Ryder nodded.
“Apply that moment of panic to an entire lifetime.”
When Ryder left the doctor’s office, he was deep in thought. In light of her ravaged beauty, which no amount of plastic surgery could ever restore, permanent amnesia would be a kindness.
With her beauty gone, what did Laura have left? She’d probably be grateful if he put her away in a secluded haven where no one she knew could see her looking less than perfect.
He made his way to Laura’s private room. Laura sat upright on a wheelchair, her plaster-cast-encased left leg propped on a stool. A pair of orderlies changed the bed sheets.
Sitting up, without bed linens to shield her, she looked tiny. The agonizing stress of numerous surgeries on her face and mangled leg had shrunk her once voluptuous body to frail waifishness. Every bone and tendon showed in her wrists. Her skull, crisscrossed by healing scars, was covered by dark peach-soft fuzz. Pressure bandages covered her face, leaving only her mouth and eyes uncovered.
Looking at her now, it was impossible to imagine her as the woman who once blinded him with her dazzling presence. He barely recognized her at all.
“Hello,” she said. She lifted a hand weakly.
He pulled a chair next to her. Knowing she might never remember her past gave him a funny feeling. Without her looks and without her memories, was she even Laura?
“I spoke to Dr. Millhouse. One more week and you can come home. You’ll have a full-time nurse and will continue coming back for physical therapy, but at least you’ll be an outpatient.”
She breathed a wispy, “Oh.” She glanced at the tiny Christmas tree in the corner. Though weeks had passed since the holiday, she’d asked him to leave up the tree.
Ryder guessed what she thought. This was home to her. The doctors and nurses were her family. Ryder was the big, bad stranger coming to take her away. “The doc and I talked about your amnesia. He thinks you’ll get better.”
Tears filled her soft brown eyes. “I hate this... blankness. The confusion. Sometimes I’m sure I know who I am, but I’m usually wrong. I don’t know what to be certain about. I can’t even tell the difference between dreams and reality.” She laughed weakly and brushed at her eyes. “I dreamed Dr. Millhouse broke his arm. The nurses thought I was crazy because I kept asking how he was. It was so real, but it’s not real at all.”
The orderlies finished the bed. When they moved to help Laura out of the wheelchair, she said, “Please, may I sit up a while?” One of the orderlies promised to ask the nurse. They left the room.
The gentle request had sounded so odd coming from her. Before the accident, Laura would have made a cold demand from the hired help, and if that didn’t bring instant compliance, she’d have screamed. Please wasn’t a word he generally associated with her. He wondered how far the accident-induced personality changes would go.
“Are you absolutely positive I’m your wife?” she asked.
The question startled him. Despite her weak voice, she spoke with a sureness that bordered on bluntness. “Who else could you be?”
“I just don’t feel like Laura Hudson. The name doesn’t fit. I look at you and you’re familiar, but you’re not. The idea of going home frightens me. I can’t begin to imagine what home is.”
“I’ve told you. Home is Eagle Point Ranch, northwest of the Springs. The house is yours, you designed it from the ground up. Remember, you have a daughter.”
She looked away and blinked rapidly. “I can’t... remember... a daughter.”
Ryder refrained from pointing out that Laura had hated being pregnant, hated having responsibility for a baby and considere
d children disgusting. At his most cynical, he suspected one of the reasons she’d married him, aside from his bank accounts, was that she’d been a new mother panicked by the thought of having to fend for herself. Maybe little Abby was something she didn’t want to remember.
“Am I crazy?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, darlin’. The doc doesn’t, either. It’s going to take some time for your thinking to get back to normal.”
“It all feels like a mistake. Every time someone says Laura, I want to see if anyone else is in the room.”
“Nobody expected you to live, much less recover as well as you have. Give yourself time to heal.”
Her eyes flicked at him. “Becky said it was no accident.”
So, Laura and the investigator were on first-name basis. He decided then and there that he was definitely getting a restraining order against the persistent cop. “Is that why you don’t want to be my wife? You think I tried to kill you?” Deep hurt slithered through him and settled in a painful knot in his gut. He rose to his feet and glared at her. “I gave you everything. I laid my heart at your feet, and I never, ever put a harsh hand on you.”
She visibly cringed
Disgusted with himself and with her, he turned away. “Looks like there’s some things you do remember. Like how you always have to think the worst about me.”
“Ryder, I—”
“I never hurt you.”
Yelling at her felt about as good as kicking kittens. He stomped out of the room.
In the elevator, on the way down to the lobby, his conscience gnawed at him. He didn’t deserve the suspicion Laura and the cops directed his way, but he supposed getting shot and pushed off a cliff was reason enough for Laura to be suspicious about somebody. In the hospital lobby, he found a bank of phones and a telephone book.
He turned to Beauty. Laura had spent her happiest moments being pampered head to toe. Seeing the numerous listings for salons and spas made him uneasy. What in the world did he know about beauty parlors? The mere thought of talking about such feminine goings-on made his mouth turn dry. He hadn’t the faintest idea what happened in a salon, and he didn’t want to know.
He started to close the phone book, but stopped himself. He kept seeing Laura’s scrawny arm, so white and frail. He picked the flashiest ad, called and asked for the owner.
A woman with a pleasant, whiskey-warm voice came on the line. “Janelle here, may I help you?”
He rubbed the back of his hand over his brow. He was starting to sweat. “Ah, my wife...”
“Yes?”
“She’s in the hospital. She’s needing some... lady stuff.” He searched his pockets for a kerchief. “I was wondering if you could send someone to her room.”
“That’s not my usual policy,” she said cautiously.
He knew he was fumbling badly. He wished he was at home in his studio, lost in a painting, or on horseback in the mountains. “I can pay, ma’am. Money isn’t a problem. See, Laura can’t leave the hospital. She’s wrecked pretty bad. Some pampering might help her feel better.” He licked his dry lips. “A manicure. Cream. Perfume. Stuff.”
“Sending someone to the hospital could be expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that. I can give you my credit card number.” He fumbled his wallet out of his jacket and brought out a gold card. He read off his name, number and expiration date.
After a long silence, Janelle said, “I see. Mr. Ryder Hudson. When you would like me to see your wife?”
“Today?”
“I’ll come myself, sir.” Her voice held an odd quaver. “It will be my pleasure. A total pleasure.”
After he hung up, he used both hands to wipe sweat off his face. No doubt about it, he had to quit procrastinating and hire another assistant.
HEARING THE SOUND of boot heels, Laura recognized Ryder’s tread coming down the corridor toward her room. She put down the novel she’d been reading.
Trying to read. She eyed the pretty cover on the romance novel. She longed for light entertainment, something besides watching hour after hour of television, but reading was a chore. Sometimes for no reason at all, the words would jumble on the page and she couldn’t remember anything she’d read. At other times a single word would stymie her, and she’d struggle to the point of tears in an attempt to find its meaning. Her doctors thought it fabulous she could read at all, but it was still frustrating.
Ryder entered the room.
Suddenly nervous, she patted her throat and tugged at the neckline of her new nightgown. The fine silk whispered under her fingertips. Her insides tangled. He’d been so angry when she’d last seen him.
“Afternoon,” he said gruffly and went to the window. He opened the draperies, allowing in the sunshine.
She splayed her hands atop the bed sheet, showing off her fresh manicure. “Good afternoon, Ryder. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Janelle. She’s a nice woman. She brought me this new nightie and gave me a manicure.” She wiggled her toes under the covers. “My feet, too. It was so sweet of you to think of me.”
His face reddened and he turned away from her. He fussed with a display of get-well cards. His embarrassment touched her.
“One of these days you’ll have to tell me who sent the cards. None of the names are familiar.” She’d received dozens of cards, plants and flower arrangements. She’d begun to notice, though, that none of the cards contained a personal note. No friends visited her. No one ever called. She supposed Ryder had asked people to stay away out of deference to her easily fatigued state.
He pulled a chair around next to the bed and straddled it. His cotton shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing heavily muscled forearms and work-roughened hands. His wristwatch was sturdy with a stainless steel band. The flashiest thing about him was a gold and silver belt buckle with a carved depiction of a cowboy riding a bucking bull.
Yet his unassuming appearance had to be a facade. This room was as comfortable as a fine hotel, and the staff was wonderful. The visit from Janelle must have cost a pretty penny.
She could not imagine being married to him.
Working up her nerve, she smoothed the covers with the flats of her hands. “I have good news. I finally remember something about my past. I remember my mother.”
Ryder looked interested.
“Her name is Antoinette and she managed the jewelry counter in a department store. I can’t remember exactly which store, but I think it was in a mall. She died a few years ago. I can’t remember how she died, but I know her grave has a brass marker and a little plastic holder for flowers.”
The interested gleam in Ryder’s eyes turned guarded. He slowly shook his head. “Sorry, darlin’.”
“I don’t remember being sad. It’s okay.”
“I mean about the memory. Your mama’s name is Janice. As far as we know, she’s alive, but you haven’t heard from her in years. She’s an alcoholic.”
“No.” Tightness invaded her chest. “She’s not an alcoholic. I remember her. I do. She had curly dark brown hair. She sang in church every Sunday. She had the voice of an angel, and I sang with her. She made us dresses, uh, mother-and-daughter dresses out of flower prints. We wore them to church.”
“When Janice wasn’t waling the tar out of you, she abandoned you to the neighbors so she could go on drinking binges. She never took you to church.”
Genuine pain darkened his eyes to midnight.
That more than anything frightened her. A sob wrenched painfully from her throat and she covered her face with both hands. “I remember!”
“You might be remembering somebody’s mama,” he said, “but not yours.”
Her triumph turned to agony. She wept. Ryder ordered her to stop it. She wept harder. He patted her shoulder, rubbed her back and stroked her arm. The bed sagged under his weight and he enfolded her in his big, solid arms. She turned his plaid shirt front dark with dampness before she finally mustered control.
“It’s all right,” he breathed against her forehead. He pressed a tender kiss against her skin. “It’s all right, darlin’, don’t cry. If you want to remember Antoinette and call her Mama, that’s all right. She sounds a heap nicer than Janice ever was, anyway.”
He didn’t understand. She could see her mother’s sweet face so clearly, hear the bell tones of her voice and smell flower-scented powder against her skin. If the memory wasn’t real, then it could only mean she was going insane.
Chapter Four
“Welcome home, Laura.”
She tried to smile at Ryder, but her body ached too much Even though the pair of attendants were gentle, the transfer from the back of the private ambulance to the wheelchair had left Laura breathless.
Or perhaps it was the altitude, which was at least a thousand feet higher than Colorado Springs. Her view had been limited on the long ride from the hospital, and she’d caught only glimpses of the mountainous landscape. Eagle Point Ranch nestled in a glorious valley, ringed by ponderosa pines and red sandstone formations. Patches of snow glittered under the sun. The air had a crisp taste, like catching snowflakes. The breeze held a bite, and she shivered.
Ryder hovered anxiously over her. He tucked a blanket tighter around her thighs and patted her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The sky was so blue it seemed formed of layer upon layer of crystalline enamel. A horse whinnied plaintively in the distance. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, wondering how she could have possibly forgotten such a magical place.
“You like it?” Ryder sounded surprised. He wheeled her around the back of the ambulance.
The house rivaled the mountains in showiness. Spanish-style, its stuccoed walls rose blinding white, topped by brick-red roof tiles. U-shaped, built around an open courtyard, it was huge. Grates formed of intricate wrought iron covered the windows, and matching ironwork was made into gates for the courtyard.
Laura grasped the wheels. “This is all a mistake. I don’t live here.”