You Must Remember This

by Clara Wimberly

  “Your suit’s ruined,” she said. “Although I might be able to salvage the pants.”

  “No,” he said. “Burn it.”

  “What? But the suit must have cost a fortune. Proba- bly as much as I make working at the hospital in a month.”

  “Burn it.” He glanced down at the old flannel robe he was wearing. “Whose is this? Your grandfather’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you have any more of his clothes somewhere?”

  “Well, yes,” she said, smiling. “But he was a much bigger man than you…rounder, anyway. I don’t think…”

  “Anything will do.”

  “I could go into town…pick up something for you there,” she offered.

  “Are you in the habit of buying men’s clothes?” His eyes sparkled when he asked the question. “Any particu- lar man, that is?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s no man. I’ll find something here for you tomorrow if you still think you want to get up, but considering the clothes you were wearing, I doubt you’re going to like them.”

  “I’ll like anything,” he said. “As long as I can get out of this bed.”

  She didn’t doubt it. And she certainly didn’t doubt his determination anymore. He didn’t complain much and she wasn’t sure how he stood the pain; she knew the medica- tion she’d given him wasn’t strong enough.

  Hagan watched Sarah. He had a hunch she’d already had enough problems in her life without becoming em- broiled in this kind of business. But he needed her. And he was going to have to trust her.

  That might be a harder task. He also had a hunch that he wasn’t used to trusting anyone.

  His head was hurting again and there were flashes of light and words, pieces of conversation all jumbled to- gether inside his brain.

  Suddenly his eyes widened with a spark of excitement.

  “Get a pencil,” he said, motioning toward Sarah. “Quick…write this down.”

  Sarah looked at him oddly, but she did as he asked, rummaging in the table beside the bed for a pencil and piece of paper.

  He said the numbers quickly, as if he was afraid he might forget before she could write them down.

  “I got it,” she murmured. She read the numbers back to him. “Not enough for a social security number,” she said. “Seven numbers…I think it’s a phone number.”

  “I think it is, too.” Hagan rubbed his head, trying to remember and feeling frustrated that the number just came from nowhere, with nothing to connect it to a person or place.

  “It’s not a local number. Heck,” she muttered. “It could be anywhere in the country.”

  “No, it’s in Georgia,” he said thoughtfully. “Am I still in Georgia?”

  “Yes, you are,” she whispered. “You’re remember- ing.”

  “We have to call this number. Where’s a phone? Do you have a portable?” he asked, looking around the room.

  “Are you kidding?” she laughed. “My grandfather thought it was sinful just having two regular old-fashioned dial phones in the house.”

  Her patient grinned at her. When he looked that way, Sarah wondered how she could ever suspect him of being a criminal. He looked like nothing more than a hand- some, flirtatious man with a winning smile and enough charisma to run for office.

  “There’s a phone in the hall and one in the kitchen…if you can make it.”

  “I can make it,” he said through gritted teeth. There was a definite lift in his voice now and Sarah hoped for his sake that this phone number led to something concrete.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, hesitating only a moment before pulling the old robe together and standing.

  His actions reminded Sarah that he was completely na- ked beneath the robe. And for a moment she couldn’t seem to make herself think of anything else.

  She went into the hallway and dialed the phone while he went to the kitchen table with the other phone in front of him. She could see his body shaking from the effort, even from where she stood.

  It seemed an eternity before the phone began to ring on the other end. She nodded to her patient and he picked up his phone, staring down the hall at her.

  “Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” the voice on the phone said. “How may I direct your call?”

  If her mystery man was surprised, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was cool…almost too cool as he hung up his phone and motioned for Sarah to do the same. She couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice when she spoke.

  “I…I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’m afraid I’ve dialed the wrong number.” She hung up the phone and went into the kitchen, sitting down at the table across from him.

  “Why did you hang up?” she asked. “Why didn’t you ask about this missing agent? If they could send us a pic- ture of him or—”

  Hagan leaned his head to one side and laughed, his eyes sparkling at her.

  “Yeah, sure. They’re not releasing any info to the pub- lic, so they’re not about to tell some stranger on the phone about this guy.” His eyes grew serious and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “I have to think,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  “How about doing that back in bed?” she suggested softly. “You’re very pale and you’re shaking.”

  “I’m not shaking,” he growled.

  “Trust me, you’re shaking,” she said, looking at him as if she were his teacher.

  “You don’t leave me much choice about this, do you?” he said, grunting humorously. “I’m kind of at your mercy here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes…you are,” she said, meeting his gaze.

  “All right,” he said, standing up.

  “Well, finally,” she said. “That’s more like it.”

  “Turnabout’s fair play,” he said, shrugging. “I trust you and you trust me.”

  Why did she get the feeling he was asking her a ques- tion with that last phrase? Was he testing her? Like a little boy, was he trying to see how far he could go and how much she cared?

  “My granddad used to have a saying,” she said. “I’ll trust any man until he gives me a reason not to trust him.”

  He looked into her eyes.

  “Sounds like a very wise man,” he murmured.

  “Yes…he was.”

  Hagan found himself wanting to thank her for all she’d done. But where Sarah James was concerned, he found that he was feeling other needs as well, much more com- pelling needs. And much more troubling.

  After he was settled in bed and Sarah had left, Hagan lay alone thinking and listening to the silence of the old house. It went against every instinct he had to lie help- lessly while someone else waited on him. And it galled him that he wasn’t able to offer much help or protection to Sarah. Hell, at this point he could hardly even protect himself.

  He was weak and his side ached. Sometimes the pain was so unbearable that it made him as irritable as a bear. But he could handle that part. What he was finding intolerable was the weakness, the inability to do even the smallest tasks for himself.

  And there was Sarah. Sweet, compassionate Sarah with those big vulnerable blue eyes.

  He was beginning to notice a feeling of peace when she came into the room. If he’d had a happy home as a child, he might equate it with that feeling. But that was some- thing he didn’t know. Whatever it was, he found it hard to explain and he could only blame it on his weakened con- dition and the fact that he had come so close to dying.

  His thoughts went back to Sarah. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. Even the scar couldn’t take away her beauty. She had a clear-eyed healthy look about her, her dark hair heavy and thick and shining with warm auburn highlights. And although she was petite, there was a womanly softness about her, with rounded hips and breasts. She was the kind of woman who made a man feel completely male.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  He hardly knew this woman and yet the images of her were already becoming all too familiar. Even now he could
feel the touch of her hands, gentle and nurturing as she tended him. He was certain he’d even been aware of her hands in his fevered sleep.

  That haunting rose scent seemed to linger in the room long after she was gone. Warm and sweet and surprisingly erotic.

  Hagan cleared his throat and shifted his weight in bed.

  When she’d come in after talking with the sheriff and he had confronted her, he’d seen the spark of fear leap to her eyes. Yet later when he touched her scar she hadn’t pulled away.

  She shouldn’t trust so easily. And she probably shouldn’t trust him at all.

  The scar on her face had felt soft, not much different than the rest of her skin, except for the rippled texture. And he had found himself wanting to hold her, to kiss that ragged mark and tell her that everything was going to be all right.

  But he didn’t have the right to do any of those things.

  Was she the kind of woman he was usually attracted to? Hell, he couldn’t even be sure about something so simple as that. He had a gut feeling he wasn’t married, and that there was no special woman in his life. He thought he’d know somewhere in the back of his mind if he were in love with a woman.

  But had he ever been married?

  Was that why being here with her gave him such a sense of peace? Why he enjoyed her taking care of him so much? Maybe it was that sense of marriage, of belonging some- where, to someone, that made him feel so good when she was near.

  Sarah was efficient and caring. He’d watched her work and seen how organized and logical she was about things. Her clothes were neat but simple and he’d noticed that she wore the same tiny gold earrings all the time, and very lit- tle, if any, makeup.

  He gazed around the old-fashioned shabby room. How many of the women he’d known would even be caught dead in a place like this?

  But the house obviously meant something to Sarah.

  Sentiment.

  He’d be willing to bet that was another thing he hadn’t had much room for in his life.

  “No way I’m going to start now,” he muttered before drifting off to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  It was late when Hagan woke. He lay for a moment, feel- ing an unsettling sense of being in a strange house without knowing where or who he was.

  He turned his head and saw Sarah sitting in the rocker, reading. She looked so normal and so reassuring.

  When she looked up at him and smiled, that odd feel- ing of peace swept over him and he closed his eyes again. Almost immediately he felt his pulse slow as he took an- other good, deep breath of air.

  “While you were sleeping I thought of something,” Sarah said, scooting forward in her chair.

  “What?” he asked, his voice still drowsy.

  “What if we call the number again and ask for Cord?”

  The room was very quiet. For a second Sarah practi- cally held her breath as she stared into his eyes.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” he said. “It’s worth a try.”

  Sarah stood back when he got out of bed, not attempt- ing to help him this time.

  They went back to their same positions, he at the kitchen table and she at the phone in the hall. Sarah dialed the number.

  The operator answered the phone the same as before.

  “May I speak to Cord please?” Sarah asked.

  “Cord?” the operator asked.

  “I…yes, I only have his first name. Is there anyone there with that—”

  “Just a moment please.”

  Sarah glanced toward the kitchen. She could hear his soft breathing through the phone. Looking into his eyes suddenly made her feel strange, almost as if he were touching her from there.

  “Hello?”

  The deep male voice that came on the phone made Sarah jump. She was so surprised that for a moment she couldn’t speak. Her mouth worked, but no words came. She glanced helplessly toward the man in the kitchen, seeing the puzzled expression on his face as well, and motioning for him to speak.

  “Cord?” he asked.

  Sarah held her breath. She could hear the odd blending of hope and uncertainty in his voice.

  “Yes,” the man named Cord answered slowly. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me, buddy,” Hagan said.

  “Hagan? My God, Hag, is that you?” The man’s voice suddenly became lower, more secretive.

  “Does it sound like me?”

  Sarah watched the man at the table shrug his shoulder and smile sheepishly at her. She was transfixed, watching and listening to this odd conversation.

  “Where are you?” Cord demanded. “Are you all right? God, man, do you know how hard we’ve all been looking for you? Why haven’t you tried to get in touch with us be- fore now?”

  Suddenly Hagan hung up the phone. But Sarah’s line was still open. She could hear the man named Cord on the other end of the phone.

  “Hello? Hagan? Hagan?” Then curses as the phone went dead.

  Sarah hung up and hurried to the kitchen.

  “You’re him,” she whispered. “You’re this agent they’re looking for. He recognized your voice. Why on earth did you hang up?”

  Her patient was shaking and perspiration stood out on his neck and face.

  “How do I know I can trust this man when I don’t even remember who the hell he is? Someone betrayed me. For all I know, it could have been him.”

  “You’re right,” Sarah said, sliding into a chair. “Okay.” She held her hands up, nodding slowly as she tried to think rationally. “We just have to think this through.”

  “Hell, I don’t even know what to ask him,” he said.

  “I know.” Impulsively Sarah reached across the table, touching his hand. “It must be awful, not knowing who you are…who you can trust.”

  “I trust you,” he said. “Right now, all I know is that I trust you, Sarah. And even that makes me feel pretty damn guilty.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Don’t feel guilty about me. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to.”

  “I’m helpless here, dammit.”

  “Frankly, I think you’re about as helpless as a bull- dozer,” she said, smiling.

  Just then the phone rang, shattering their conversation and causing Sarah to jump. He motioned her to answer.

  “Hello?” She frowned as she stared into her patient’s eyes. “Who is this?” the deep voice demanded. “Some one there just called the G.B.I. office in Atlanta.” He sounded angry and he sounded like a man who tolerated little nonsense.

  “Cord?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.

  The man across the table from her frowned and shook his head.

  “How…how did you know?” she asked.

  “The line’s not tapped if that’s what you’re worried about. Just tell me, dammit, who it was who called me from there.”

  “I…I think I need to know a little more about you first,” she said, ignoring her patient’s look of warning. “We’re not sure at this point who to trust and who—”

  “Let me speak to Hagan,” Cord demanded.

  Sarah swallowed hard. She was caught between the two men, and taking charge of the situation was not an easy thing for her to do.

  “You see…the problem is,” she began slowly. “We…he’s not sure who he is—”

  “Not sure who he is? What the hell do you—”

  “He has amnesia,” she said quickly.

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

  “Hang up.” Hagan reached for the phone, his look dark with caution. But Sarah swung away from him, frowning and mouthing her answer toward him.

  “No.”

  “If you can just tell me something about him,” Sarah said into the phone. “Something to let me know it’s really him. And something about yourself, maybe.”

  “Look,” Cord said, his voice deep and steady. “We’re partners. We’ve been best friends since we began working together ten years ago. He was the best
man at my wed- ding a couple of weeks ago.” He stopped, muttering be- neath his breath as he tried to think of other things to tell her.

  “He says you’re best friends,” she said. “And that you were best man at his wedding a couple of weeks ago.”

  Hagan frowned, trying to remember. The name Cord sounded more and more familiar, but he still couldn’t put a face to the name.

  “Is he hurt?” Cord asked. “You can tell me that at least, can’t you?”

  “He has a graze to the head where a bullet barely missed sending him to the morgue,” she said, watching Hagan. “Possible cracked ribs and an infection—I’m not sure if it’s from the bullet wound or all the swamp water he swal- lowed. But he’s so stubborn he won’t let me call a doc- tor.”

  Cord laughed softly.

  “He can be as stubborn as a mule.”

  Sarah smiled.

  Cord cared about this man sitting across from her. She could hear it in his voice and it was what finally con- vinced her they should trust him.

  “What does he look like?” she asked, grinning at Ha- gan’s look of exasperation. She knew he hated every min- ute of this and that he would be much happier grabbing the phone and taking care of everything for himself. But at the moment she thought she was the better judge of the truth.

  “Medium height,” Cord said. “He’s wiry, with mus- cular shoulders and chest. Dark skin…brown hair, kind of bleached out by the sun—from playing tennis.” Then he chuckled again. “Eyes blacker’n sin.”

  Sarah tilted her head back and laughed aloud, then ex- plained to a curious Hagan.

  “He says your eyes are blacker than sin.”

  “He likes expensive clothes,” Cord continued. “Kind of a modern-day Beau Brummell. Damn, I wish I could remember the name of some of the stuff he wears, but…”

  “Gucci shoes? Tino Cosma ties?” Sarah smiled at the look on Hagan’s face.

  “Yeah,” Cord said. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

  “I think you’ve definitely convinced me it’s him,” Sarah said. “Now all you have to do is convince him.”

  “Tell him he’s a Georgia Tech runt,” Cord said.