by Gina Wilkins
He realized that she was searching his face, her eyes grave and entirely too perceptive. “You’re wearing that look again,” she murmured, laying a cool hand against his bruised cheek.
“What look?”
“The one that breaks my heart,” she startled him by saying. And then she blinked and looked away, as if the words had slipped out without her intending them to do so.
“What is it you need to tell me, Sam?” she asked, extricating herself from his arms. “Is it something about your past?”
He drew a deep breath. “I don’t have a past.”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember when I woke up in the hospital, and you spoke to me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So do I. But that’s the earliest memory I have. Everything before that is a blank.”
“Yes, you told us you had little memory of the beating you took. Dr. Frank said that’s common after a head injury.”
He was making a mess of this—as he’d known he would. “You don’t understand. I have no memories prior to waking up in the hospital. None.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I still don’t—wait a minute. You’re saying you have amnesia?”
The very word made him wince. “That’s the technical term for it. I can’t remember anything before I woke up.”
She put a hand on the counter, as if she needed the support. “But you knew your name. Your birthday.”
“I made them up. I kept thinking everything would come back to me, and I wanted to be left alone while I recovered. I was afraid if I told the truth, no one would believe me. Or they would believe me, and they’d treat me like some sort of medical oddity.”
“You made it all up.” She seemed to have fixated on that admission. “You made up your name?”
“Sam was the first name that popped into my head. I had to struggle a bit to come up with Wallace.”
She was looking at him as if a second head had just popped out on his shoulder. Sam crossed his arms tightly over his chest, feeling awkward and self-conscious.
“I can’t believe this,” she said after a pause. “It’s just too…” She couldn’t seem to find the word she was groping for.
“I told you it was hard to believe,” he muttered, wondering what it would take to convince her if she decided the whole story was a lie.
“You mean, you woke up in the hospital with total amnesia about who you are and what you were doing there? And you haven’t regained your memories during the three weeks that have passed since?”
“Technically, it will be three weeks tomorrow. And I’ve had glimmers of memory during those weeks, but nothing concrete. Images, a few dreams that felt real, but no names, no places.”
“I can’t believe this,” she said again.
“I can’t make you believe me, of course, but it’s the truth.”
“I think I need to sit down.” She moved to sit in one of the chairs, resting her elbows on the table, a stunned expression on her face.
Sam took the chair opposite her, the one he’d sat in while she’d administered first aid. She seemed to need a few minutes to digest what he’d told her, so he sat in silence, absently kneading his right thigh just over his bandaged knee.
“If you have amnesia, why didn’t you tell anyone? Why did you make up answers to everyone’s questions to keep them from finding out the truth?”
“Look, I know it was a stupid thing to do.” He shook his head. “All I can say is that I was hurting and confused—hell, maybe I was just plain scared—and I made some foolish decisions. I didn’t know how people would react to the truth—and I guess I just hated admitting I was…well, brain damaged.”
He watched Serena flinch in response to the term. A perfectly understandable reaction, he assured himself. Wasn’t it exactly what he’d expected?
“You said you’ve had some flashes of memory. Like what?”
He looked at his hands. “I remember being hit as a kid. I can’t picture my parents or remember anything about them, but I know what a backhand against my face feels like.”
“I wondered about that,” Serena murmured. When he gave her a questioning look, she explained, “You were so passionate about defending Zach from that jerk, Delbert. It seemed to go deeper than just a natural urge to protect a child.”
“I did identify strongly with Zach,” he admitted. “But I don’t know for certain what happened to me. The memories aren’t that clear.”
“I doubt those were memories you wanted to recall,” she said, sounding suddenly sympathetic.
He didn’t want her pity any more than he wanted skepticism. “Like I said, it might not even be true.”
“Were there other memories? Adult memories?”
“Disjointed images. Sitting in a restaurant. Fishing with a friend. Driving a fast car. Riding a horse. Sitting at a computer. Just…glimpses of activities that I don’t know if I actually experienced or if I just imagined them.”
She rubbed her temples, as if she was developing a headache. “Somewhere, there must be someone who is frantic with worry about you. Family, friends—” She swallowed. “A wife, maybe.”
He focused on his left hand. “No wedding ring. No ring tan, though there’s a pale strip where I must have worn a watch.”
“Not every married man wears a ring.”
“No. But I really don’t think I’m married, Serena. If I were, surely I would know. Somehow.”
“You don’t even know your name,” she reminded him.
This time it was Sam who winced. “I think I would know if I were married,” he repeated, wishing he sounded—and felt—more certain.
She twisted her fingers on the table in front of her, her gaze focused on his face. “There must be someone who’s looking for you.”
“I’ve spent quite a bit of time at the library, searching online for any missing person report that fit my description. I’ve even checked police missing persons files. No matches.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You knew how to do all that?”
“Yeah. I sat down at a computer and just started searching. There was a definite sense of familiarity about sitting at a keyboard. I’m sure I’ve logged some computer time—I just don’t know why.”
“So that whole cock-and-bull story about being a drifter in search of work—”
He shrugged. “It sounded believable at the time.”
She groaned and covered her eyes for a moment with her hands. “Oh, my God. You made up the story about the two muggers who robbed you and beat you up.”
“It seemed to fit the way I was found. No watch or wallet or ID.”
She groaned again.
“Okay, it wasn’t one of my brighter decisions,” he conceded with a sigh. “I guess I have to blame the concussion for that, too. By the time my mind cleared enough for me to realize how stupid and irresponsible I’d been, it seemed too late to get out of it.”
“Dan’s going to kill you. And then he’ll lock up what’s left.”
He couldn’t pretend to be surprised by the pessimistic prediction. It very closely resembled his own. Next time Dan took him fishing, he would likely use Sam for bait.
“We have to tell him, of course.”
He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I guess you’re right.”
“There’s no ‘guess’ to it. We have to tell him. Sam, don’t you understand? Someone tried to kill you three weeks ago. It could have been the same person who tried to run you down today. We’re not talking about a random mugging now. Your life might still be in danger.”
He’d spent too many sleepless nights trying to figure out who might have beaten him to within an inch of his life, and why. He still didn’t have a clue. As for what had happened today—well, he’d like to write it off as an accident, but a niggle of doubt remained at the back of his mind. He would sure like to know if the driver had borne any resemblance to the buttoned-down stranger he’d spotted at the Independe
nce Day celebration.
“I’ll talk to Dan tomorrow,” he promised.
“Tonight would be better.”
He shook his head. “It can wait until office hours.”
“And in the meantime? What if someone comes after you tonight?”
“Now you’re letting your imagination run away with you,” he chided. “I’ll talk to Dan first thing in the morning, okay? Not that there’s much he can do at this point.”
“He can send out your description and fingerprints. Contact the media, perhaps.”
Sam grimaced at the thought of his photograph in newspapers over a headline identifying him as a clueless victim.
“You’ll also need to see Dr. Frank tomorrow,” Serena continued. “He’ll want you to see a specialist. He’s a general practitioner, not a neurologist. He’ll probably send you to Little Rock. I doubt that our little hospital has the equipment or the expertise to treat a case like this.”
“‘A case like this?’” he repeated in a carefully neutral tone.
“Total amnesia,” she clarified. “It has to be quite rare. Dr. Frank’s probably never seen a case that—”
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop referring to me as a case,” he said irritably.
Serena bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Forget it.” He stood, ignoring a twinge of pain from his stiffening knee. “I’m the one who owes the apology. To you and your mother. You both deserved the truth from me, and all I did was take advantage of your kindness. I’ll clear out tomorrow—and wherever I end up, I’ll make sure you’re repaid as soon as possible.”
Serena rolled her eyes. “Would you stop being a stiff-necked idiot? You aren’t clearing out until we know you have someplace to go. And you haven’t taken advantage of us. You’ve more than earned your pay at the diner and you’ve got the house and lawn looking better than they have since Dad died.”
She didn’t sound furious, he thought with a touch of surprise. Exasperated, maybe. Bewildered by his actions, certainly. But not as angry as he’d expected.
Maybe she just hadn’t had enough time to really think about what he’d done.
“Sit back down,” she ordered, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll make us some dinner.”
“That’s really not—”
“I’m hungry,” she said simply. “I’m sure you are, too. And we still need to talk.”
He sat slowly. “I don’t suppose you want to sit in my lap again while we talk.”
It was a weak joke, and poorly timed. The look Serena gave him made him sink into the chair with his mouth tightly closed, telling himself to shut up while he was—well, not ahead, perhaps, but at least not too far behind.
Either Sam had been hungrier than he’d admitted, or he used food to avoid conversation during the dinner Serena had thrown together. She suspected the latter. Of course, she didn’t say much during the meal, either. She didn’t really know what to say.
She was still struggling to accept the fact that Sam—the only name she had for him—had amnesia. Seeing her beside his hospital bed was his earliest memory. Everything he’d told her since had been sheer fabrication.
He could be married. Every time he’d kissed her, he might have been betraying another woman. She should be relieved that they’d gone no further than a few heated kisses. But, strangely enough, it wasn’t relief she felt.
Abused boy. Obviously well-educated man. Familiar with computers, yet comfortable waiting tables in a small-town diner. A man found beaten senseless in a ditch. A man with a kind heart, a wry humor, a likable manner and an overdeveloped sense of self-sufficiency. Who was he?
“You said you’ve been having dreams,” she said when he seemed to be nearing completion of his meal. “What are they like?”
Sam set his fork down. “Faces. Voices. Nothing solid.”
“The same faces and voices? Or are they different every time?”
His expression was distant, as if he were looking into one of those dreams as they spoke. “Sometimes the same. Sometimes different.”
She found herself speaking softly, as if to keep from rousing him too completely. “Are they good dreams?”
“For the most part. Usually, the people I see are laughing. Talking. Playing games.”
“That sounds pleasant.”
“Mostly, yes.”
She noticed that he rubbed his leg as he spoke, indicating that the fresh wounds he’d received were bothering him. “Do you want something for pain?”
His hand stilled. “No. I’m fine.”
Knowing him too well to argue with that particular tone, she returned to her questioning. “You said most of the dreams are pleasant. What about the ones that aren’t?”
His grimace let her know she’d stepped into a sensitive area. “The people in those don’t laugh.”
He didn’t seem to want to talk about the bad dreams—and she supposed she couldn’t blame him for that. “There has to be a clue somewhere about what happened to you,” she murmured. “Dan said he searched the ditch where you were found very thoroughly, but maybe he missed something.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ve looked. That’s what I’d been doing the last time Walter got out.”
It had been the day he’d fixed the fence. She’d fussed at him for walking all the way down to the lake so soon after recovering from his injuries. She’d had no way of knowing, of course, that he’d been searching for his identity.
“We’ll find out who you are,” she reiterated. “With Dan and Dr. Frank’s help, we’ll get your answers.”
He looked away, but not before she recognized the expression in his eyes. She knew now why she’d thought of it as his lost look. He was lost.
The thought of what he’d been going through made her heart ache for him. It was bad enough that he’d been in such terrible shape from the beating. But to wake up confused and hurting, surrounded by strangers, his memories gone—it must have been terrifying.
She was still stunned that he’d decided to try to conceal his amnesia rather than ask for help—but who knew how she would react under the same circumstances? Like Sam, she disliked being dependent on others, hated being sick and at the mercy of the medical profession. She preferred to solve her own problems, take care of herself—and her family, for that matter. Was it entirely inconceivable that she might have reacted much as Sam had? Stalled for time while she tried to solve her predicament in her own way?
Okay, maybe she wouldn’t have handled it exactly the way Sam had. But she could—sort of—understand how he’d felt.
“There’s some pecan pie in the fridge,” she said, deciding he needed to talk about something else for a while. “Mother made it earlier this week. Would you like some?”
“No, thanks.” He glanced at the door. “Actually, I think I’d like to go soak in a hot bath before I stiffen up any more than I already have.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to take something for pain?”
“I’ve got some aspirin in the guest house. I’ll take a couple of those before I turn in.”
She followed him to the door. “If you need anything during the night, just let me know, okay?”
“Anything?”
Because his lopsided grin was the one that usually preceded a kiss, her knees weakened. She stiffened them with an effort. “You know what I mean.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. I’ll see you tomorrow, Serena.”
“We’ll go see Dan first thing in the morning.”
“We?”
“You might very well find yourself in need of a lawyer.”
He chuckled wryly. “Or maybe Dan will need the lawyer—after he strangles me.”
“That’s another possibility,” she conceded.
“Good night, Serena.”
“Good night—Sam.”
The momentary hesitation before his name didn’t escape him. He gave a funny, faintly apologetic little shrug, then let himself out. Ser
ena closed the door behind him with a sigh. And then she rested her head against the wood, a dull ache throbbing in her temples.
She’d thought the man Kara had fallen for was unsuitable because he was too young and too impractical. But at least Pierce knew who he was, where he’d come from.
Kara might be the adventurous sister, but Serena seemed to be the one currently on a path to certain disaster.
Chapter Thirteen
The chains supporting the rose-garden swing creaked when Sam sank into it. Other than the crickets, frogs and night birds in the woods behind the neighborhood, the creaking was the only sound to disturb the stillness of the night. He caught himself listening for revving car engines, wailing sirens, raised voices—even gunshots. What kind of life had he led before that had caused him to think of those sounds as an inextricable part of the night?
He closed his eyes and savored the quiet peacefulness. Was it possible that he’d once preferred those other, half-remembered noises to this? If so, how could a blow to the head have changed his entire personality so radically?
It had been another dream that had disturbed his sleep and brought him outside to try to clear his mind with rose-scented night air. It wasn’t one of the good dreams this time—the ones filled with echoes of laughter and sensations of warmth. This had been a dream he’d had before, and one that always left him feeling empty and depressed.
Who was the woman who cried in those dreams? He could almost picture her now—young, fresh-faced, pretty in a wholesome sort of way. Yet her face had been reddened and tear-streaked, her expression miserable. And though he couldn’t remember who she was or what his connection was to her, he knew somehow that she was real—and that he had caused her tears.
Someone who had loved him? He’d tried to focus on his own feelings toward her in the dreams, identifying only a vague sense of affection and sympathy. And guilt. Definite guilt. He had little doubt that he’d been the cause of her misery, though that was the only fact he knew for certain.
Who was she? And who was he, that he had hurt her so badly?