“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Whose gun was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you have it?”
“I…don’t…remember.”
John studied her, annoyed with her because he couldn’t tell if she was lying, annoyed with himself because all he seemed to be noticing about her was the way that sexless hospital gown fell over curves that were anything but sexless. Curves he had absolutely no business noticing as a medical professional, even less as a man with his history. If he had an ounce of common sense, he’d get the hell out of there. But John knew his interest in her had moved beyond logic and into an area that was as foreign to him as the phenomenon of amnesia.
“Am I in trouble?” she asked. “I mean, with the police?”
Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “If my team leader had his way, you’d be on your way to a jail cell right now.”
A shiver rippled the length of her. “Why aren’t I?”
“Hopefully it’s not because I’m a fool.” John couldn’t tell her the truth, of course. He couldn’t tell her that even after they’d dropped her off at the hospital, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. That he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way he’d responded when her body had been pressed against his and all that red hair had spread over his chest like an ocean of fragrant silk. For hours afterward, her scent had clung to him, as sweet and tantalizing as a first kiss.
Shoving the memory aside, he blew out a sigh. “Buzz filed a police report but he didn’t mention the gun.” He shot her a hard look. “I convinced him not to.”
John saw the question in her eyes. She wanted to know why they’d covered for her, but she didn’t voice it. He found himself relieved because he wasn’t sure he had an answer.
“You don’t think I’m some kind of…criminal, do you?” she asked.
“I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”
“I’m not sure how I can explain something I don’t remember.”
“That’s why we’re going to give the sheriff’s office a call.”
The color leached from her cheeks so quickly, he thought she would faint. “No police,” she whispered.
Suspicion fluttered like a big, gangly bird in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but she was obviously hiding something. Disappointed, he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Terrific. His instincts were telling him one thing, his gut another—and the part of him that was a man didn’t necessarily give a damn about either.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I just…need some time to sort things out first. Please.”
John sighed again. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle this. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle her. Or what he was going to do about the way he was reacting to her.
“What else do you remember?” he pressed.
“Not much more than I’ve already told you. I remember running. Being…terrified. I remember…cold and snow. It was dark, and I couldn’t see…” Her gaze dropped to her bandaged hands. When she held them out, they trembled. “How is it that I can’t remember, yet I’m terrified? I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. I don’t even know my own name, for God’s sake. This is nuts.”
“The name thing bothers you a lot, doesn’t it?”
A humorless laugh escaped her. “I know this sounds strange, but not knowing my own name, not knowing who I am makes me feel like…I never existed.”
“What about the name on the note?”
“Hannah? What about it?”
“I like it a hell of a lot better than Jane Doe.”
“Hannah.” A tentative smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, I like it. I mean, temporarily.”
“Even if it’s not your name, chances are it was at least familiar to you.”
“Maybe if I hear it often enough, it will shake loose a memory and help me remember.”
“There you go.”
Something went liquid and warm in John’s chest at her smile. It was an unfamiliar sensation he normally would have shied away from, but didn’t this time. As long as he stayed in control of the situation, he’d be all right, he assured himself. If the balance shifted, he’d know when to walk away. John had a sixth sense when it came to knowing when to walk away. It had never failed him; it wouldn’t now.
But the knowledge gave him little solace, considering those incredible eyes of hers knocked him for a loop every time he looked at her.
“I know this must sound crazy, but I can’t shake the feeling that I was in trouble up on that mountain,” she said. “I’m not wrong about this. Someone was trying to…hurt me.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. Not about her memory loss. He sure as hell didn’t like the possibility that someone might have been trying to hurt her. But it would explain the gun. And the bruises on her arms and throat. The rest of her body had been so battered in the fall, they hadn’t been able to tell if the other bruises were suspicious or not.
John tried to stomp the outrage that rolled slowly through him at the thought of a man hurting her. Nothing gave a man the right to hurt a woman. He knew all too well the devastation that kind of violence wreaked on someone’s life. He’d walked away from it thirteen years ago, only to realize a man couldn’t ever outrun his roots.
So why the hell was he sitting here trying to help her remember when he had absolutely no intention of getting involved?
As if reading his thoughts, her gaze sharpened on his. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
John gazed back at her, telling himself it wasn’t his responsibility to tell her about the bruises—or the very real possibility that someone had, indeed, tried to hurt her.
“I’ll go see what’s keeping the doc,” he said, rising.
“Look, whatever it is you’re not telling me, I can handle it. It’s not like I’m going to fall apart or something. I deserve to know what happened to me.”
The edge in her voice stopped him. Trying not to look at the bruises on her throat, trying not to let his outrage show, he met her gaze levelly. “You’ve got some suspicious bruising.”
“What do you mean by suspicious?”
“Bruises probably not sustained in the fall. Around your neck area. Your arms.”
“You mean like someone…” Her words trailed off. What little color she had left in her cheeks fled. She stared at him, her eyes dark and frightened within the pale frame of her face.
Even through the bandages John could see that her hands were shaking. He should have known she wouldn’t let him walk out of there without asking the question he had no desire to answer. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her she may have been battered, or that she may have been the victim of a crime. He might be adept at walking away, but John had never been one to hedge the truth, no matter how ugly. Judging by the way she was looking at him—and the way he was responding—he wasn’t going to start now.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he offered. “I thought you should know.”
Shoving a lock of hair away from her face, she looked at him squarely. “It’s okay. I needed to know. I can handle it.”
She didn’t look like she could handle anything at the moment. She looked pale and troubled and so vulnerable, it took most of his discipline not to go to her just to let her know she wasn’t alone. John might be good at dangling from a cable a hundred feet above the ground, but when it came to the more delicate side of medical care, he figured there were times when he could use a little more tact. Times like now when he should have kept his mouth shut and let the doctors deal with her questions.
Turning away, she looked out the window. An alarm clanged in his head when she blinked rapidly. The alarm burgeoned to an all-out wail when he saw the first tear slip down her cheek. He’d never known how to deal with female tears; he’d spent most of his life avoiding those kinds of situations. He didn’t want to have to deal with them n
ow. Not on top of those bottomless brown eyes and all that flowing red hair. The combination was doing funny things to his resolve to walk out the door. Hard telling what it would do to his resolve not to touch her.
John spotted the pitcher of water next to the bed and poured a glass for her. “Here.”
Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the bandages, she sipped, then relaxed back in the pillows. “Thanks.”
A spike of heat hit him low in the gut when her hair fanned out beneath her, framing her face like a pool of glossy silk. For a crazy instant, John was tempted to lean forward and take it between his fingers, just to see if it felt as soft as it looked.
“You’re good at that, you know,” she said.
“At what?”
She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “A few minutes ago my heart was pounding, and I was an inch away from losing it. Thanks for calming me down.”
The thought that it might be interesting to get her heart rate up in a different way fluttered in the back of his mind, but he quickly stomped the notion, knowing that was the one line he’d never cross no matter how sexy she was. “Well, Red, I’m not sure if I’ve told you this, but I’m pretty damn good at what I do.”
“I think you’ve mentioned that. Twice, actually.”
John’s IQ slipped another notch when she smiled. He should have known it would be dazzling. He tried not to notice the dimple in her left cheek or the way her eyes tilted at the corners; he knew better than to let himself be charmed. But he’d fought enough personal battles over the years to know he was losing this one.
“Do you flirt with all your patients?” she asked.
“Shamelessly.” He couldn’t help but grin. “For a head trauma patient you’re not doing such a bad job yourself.”
Color rushed back into her cheeks. John liked the dimple, he decided, even though he’d never been taken in by “cute” when it came to women. He figured as long as he didn’t let his interest in her go any further than harmless flirting, they’d both be just fine.
Movement at the door caught his attention, and he turned to see Dr. Anna Morgan enter the room and head directly for her patient. She was a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair and rhinestone-studded bifocals that sat on the end of her nose like fancy little marquees. “Are you flirting with my patient, Maitland?” she asked, picking up the chart and making a notation with the sweep of her hand.
John was acquainted with most of the staff at Lake County. Over the years, he’d transported dozens of patients to the emergency room. He’d trained under the expertise of Dr. Anna Morgan when she’d headed up the E.R. Though she was old enough to be his mother, they’d developed a relationship that teetered comfortably between professional regard and personal friendship.
Rising, he approached her and extended his hand. “I just needed an excuse to see you, Doc.”
The doctor humphed good-naturedly as she shook his hand, then looked at the woman lying in the bed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t let this man charm you. It’s lethal, and I’ve yet to come up with an antidote.”
John had intended for the banter to alleviate Hannah’s anxiety, but one look at her told him all the humor in the world wasn’t going to help. He couldn’t blame her. He’d had to rebuild his life once. As many times as he’d wished he could rewrite his past, he didn’t envy the chore ahead of her.
Hannah’s gaze swept to Dr. Morgan. “I don’t remember anything that happened before the rescue,” she blurted. “I don’t remember how I got up on the mountain. Or how I fell. I don’t remember…anything.”
The doctor’s brows creased as she regarded the younger woman. “The CT scan shows you received a concussion, more than likely during a fall.” Easing the bandage away from Hannah’s temple, she assessed the stitches beneath.
John winced at the size of the cut. The sight of the injury itself didn’t bother him—he’d long ago grown accustomed to that aspect of his job—but that this particular woman had been purposefully hurt put a hot ball of outrage squarely in his gut.
“A concussion is caused by head trauma,” the doctor explained. “In your case, there was no bleeding around the brain. However, some minor swelling occurred. That’s not unusual, but it can affect short-term memory and mental clarity.”
“I wouldn’t be quite so worried if it was just a little mental clarity I was lacking, but my entire life is just…gone.”
“Actually, you remember more than you realize,” the doctor said. “I treated a young man last winter who sustained a severe head injury in a ski accident. He had to relearn how to walk, how to feed himself and even how to speak.” She replaced the bandage, then stepped back and crossed her arms. “Memory loss, or amnesia if you will, is extremely rare but certainly not unheard-of when it comes to head trauma.”
“How long will it be before I start remembering?”
Dr. Morgan shrugged. “I’m not an expert, but from what I’ve read about amnesia, most head-trauma patients begin remembering within minutes or hours after the initial injury. You could remember everything all at once. Or you might remember bits and pieces over a period of time. You could wake up tomorrow and recover your memory fully. Or it could take days or weeks or even months, I’m afraid.”
Hannah didn’t look happy about the situation. John couldn’t blame her. He didn’t like the helplessness he felt with not being able to help her. He was a rescuer by nature. He fixed things. And he liked being in control—something he’d never had while growing up. But without a single clue to go on, there wasn’t much he could do.
Dr. Morgan lifted the penlight from her smock and checked each of Hannah’s eyes. “Your pupils respond nicely.” Reaching for the chart at the foot of the bed, she made another notation. “How are you feeling physically?”
“Sort of like I fell into a ravine and didn’t miss a single rock on the way down.”
Dr. Morgan smiled. “Headache?”
“Like there’s a guy with a jackhammer behind my right eye.”
“I’ll order up some acetaminophen. You’ll need it for the next couple of days. You’re pretty bruised.” The doctor smoothed the sheet with her left hand. “Any nausea?”
“A little. Is that from the concussion, too?”
John didn’t miss the minute tightening of the doctor’s jaw. “Do you have any idea why you were up on the mountain?” she asked casually. “Or who you were with?”
“No.” He could tell by the way Hannah shifted beneath the sheets that she knew it wasn’t a casual question.
“Were you alone?” the doctor asked.
The younger woman’s gaze swept to John. He looked from Hannah to Dr. Morgan, and realized belatedly the doctor hadn’t missed the silent communication that passed between them. “Could you step out of the room for a minute, John?” she asked.
An alarm went off in the back of his head. Remembering the bruises—the undeniable marks left by a man’s fingers—he rose, trying not to think about how they might have gotten there.
Taking a mental step back, he reminded himself he didn’t have anything at stake. After all, he didn’t get involved. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten too close to his teammates at Rocky Mountain Search and Rescue. So why was he finding it so difficult to walk out that door?
“I’ve got to get back to headquarters,” he said.
“I’d like you to stay,” Hannah said abruptly. “Please. I mean…if you…don’t mind.”
Surprise rippled through him and landed with a thud in the pit of his stomach. He glanced over at the woman lying in the bed, felt the familiar tightening in his chest at the sight of all that red hair. He knew he should do the right thing and walk away. She didn’t need him. Of all the people in the world, John figured he was the last kind of man she needed.
But he didn’t have the heart to leave her, not when she’d asked him to stay—and was now looking at him like he was her only friend in the world. Even John Maitland the Untouchable had his limits.
Shoving his hands into hi
s pockets, he shot her a grin, hoping it didn’t look as uneasy as it felt. “Sure thing, Red.”
* * *
Hannah hadn’t intended to ask him to stay, but she was feeling scared and alone and the words had tumbled out before she had a chance to think them through. She knew it was unreasonable for her to ask such a thing. He was a complete stranger; he may not even want to stay. But unreasonable or not, the thought of him walking out that door, the thought of never seeing him again, filled her with a loneliness so deep it brought tears to her eyes.
Her heart pounded as she watched Dr. Morgan move to the window and raise the blinds. Gray light slanted in from the overcast day beyond. Lowering her clipboard, she looked down at Hannah. “I’m sure you know those bruises on your neck and arms weren’t caused in the fall.”
Tension snapped through Hannah’s body. Even though she’d expected to hear those very same words, the meaning behind them hit her hard.
“Do you remember having an argument with someone?” the doctor asked gently. “Or someone hurting you in the past?”
She reached deep for the memories, but even with desperation clenching her like a giant talon, her past remained a blank. “I don’t remember,” she said after a moment.
“I know the chief of staff of the psychiatric department of Lutheran Hospital in Denver,” Dr. Morgan said. “Dr. Wu has done several studies on amnesia. I’ll give him a call if you like.”
Amnesia. There was that word again. It rang inside Hannah’s head like the retort of a killing shot. “I’d like to see him as soon as possible. I need to know who I am, Dr. Morgan. I need to know what happened to me.”
“I’ll brief him on your case.” The woman paused, then gazed at her over the tops of her bifocals. “There’s one more thing.”
The tone of the doctor’s voice snapped Hannah’s head up. Next to her, John went very still. One look at the other woman’s face and Hannah knew this revelation was going to be a doozy. Like she needed one more heaped on top of all the others she’d gotten in the last hour.
“I had some blood work sent down the lab when you were brought in,” Dr. Morgan said.
A Hero to Hold Page 4