Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (22 page)

“Judging by the dosage of painkillers Dr. Nielsen sent home with you, I don't think you'll be much good at anything for a few days. So let's get you well first.” She nodded toward the main entrance to the lobby. “Come on, let's go.”

He didn't need any convincing, soon taking the lead as they left the holiday-decorated lobby, leaving Bing Crosby crooning about dreams of a white Christmas behind.

Other than the soles of their boots tapping on the dusty concrete, they walked in silence until they reached the well-lit parking lot. Then Joe paused to look around.

Was he having a breakthrough?

“I'm not sure where we are,” he said, “or what's nearby. But the doc told me to take the medicine when I eat. And for some weird reason, I have a real craving for Mexican food. Is there a taco shop nearby? Someplace where I can get some good
menudo
or
albondigas?
”

The way the Spanish words rolled off his tongue—as if he was a native speaker—surprised her. That was an interesting twist since Wilcox wasn't a typical Mexican surname.

Maybe he wasn't who they thought he was. That was a possible cause for alarm, but the USMC tattoo she'd seen before he'd put on that sweatshirt was enough to waylay at least some of her concern.

“Tía Juana's is a drive-through,” she said. “And it's not too far from here. We can pick up something on the way back to the ranch.”

“Thanks. That sounds great. And as a side note, I'd offer to pay, but you'll have to take my IOU. The sheriff was supposed to drop off my wallet at the hospital earlier today, but he hasn't done that yet.”

“No problem,” she said. “But as a side note of my own, I'm sorry.”

“About what? Me not having any cash? That's the least of my problems.”

“I know. And it must be horribly frustrating for you. I can't imagine what you're going through.”

Fortunately, though, he'd just had a change in luck.

Joe Wilcox now had Chloe Dawson to watch out for him—and with no one else to nurse these days, she intended to focus all her TLC on him.

* * *

By the time they reached the ranch, Joe was beyond exhausted. It had taken all his energy to finish off the spicy Mexican soup he'd ordered at Tía Juana's and to eat a couple bites of a quesadilla. Then he'd washed down his pills with a glass of iced tea.

“I'll show you to the guest room,” Chloe said.

He followed her out of the kitchen, through a cozy living room with a stone fireplace and a built-in bookshelf, past a staircase leading to the second floor. He wondered where she slept. He knew better than to ask, though. No need for her to think he had ulterior motives, although she was one hell of a pretty woman.

He'd always been attracted to blondes...

Hadn't he? While that bit of information seemed to be a memory, it certainly wasn't one that was going to be very useful.

Still, Chloe's hair was a platinum shade that hung down her back in soft, shimmering waves he was tempted to touch and to watch slip through his fingers.

He kept his hands to himself, though. The last thing he wanted to do was to step out of bounds before he'd spent ten minutes alone with her. Besides, he wasn't up to fighting weight yet.

And speaking of hands... He glanced at the oversize bandage that was more trouble than it was worth. The tape was already flapping up. He'd told the nurse who'd put it on that he hadn't needed it, but she'd insisted, and he'd been too tired and rheumy to argue.

As he followed Chloe to the hall, she pointed out a bathroom on the left, then led him to the first door on the right. “I'd give you Dave's room, but if he shows up, he'll need a place to sleep. So this will have to do.”

“I'd be happy on the couch. All I need is a pillow and blanket.”

“We can do better than that,” she said.

“‘We'?” He hadn't realized that she might not live alone.

“Sorry. I'm actually just a guest here myself, so I don't consider the house mine.” She flipped on the light switch, illuminating a small room with a double bed, a single nightstand and a dresser that rested near the window. “Would you like me to find you something to sleep in? There should be some men's pajamas in Dave's room.”

Something told him he'd prefer to sleep in the raw, but he decided not to mention that. “No, thanks. My boxers will have to do.”

“Okay.” She bit down on her bottom lip, as though worried about something.

“I plan on crashing the minute my head hits the pillow,” he added. “I doubt I'll wake up until morning.”

“Good.” She brightened a moment, and then her smile slipped away. “I mean, a good night's sleep ought to do wonders.”

An awkwardness settled around them, but Joe was too far gone to ponder why—or to even care.

“I'll leave you alone so you can get some rest,” she said. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Thanks again.”

“You're more than welcome.” She waited a beat, as if still struggling with something. Attraction maybe?

Well, that was too damn bad. As nice as he might have found that before his accident, his jumbled and sleepy brain was too intent upon hitting the sheets—alone.

Of course, that didn't mean he'd feel the same way tomorrow.

* * *

For a guy who didn't know who or where he was, Joe had gotten a fairly good night's sleep. But now, as the morning rays lit the guest bedroom, he winced and stretched out his bum knee, hoping the ache would ease. He must have exasperated an old injury, because he'd spotted some nasty scarring earlier.

He had no idea what had happened to him. A normal, healthy guy who hadn't jarred his brains on the highway would have remembered how he'd messed himself up like that, especially since it looked as though he'd had surgery to correct it.

Damn. He hated not knowing anything about himself—who he was, where he was from, where he'd planned to go next.

At the sound of footsteps padding down the hall, he turned to the doorway, where the pretty blonde stood holding a stack of folded clothes.

“Good morning,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. Last night, before dozing off, I convinced myself that I would wake up feeling completely back to normal and with my memory intact.”

“And...?”

“My head doesn't feel nearly as bad as before. But my memory?” He clucked his tongue. “Still nothing.”

“How about a cup of coffee? Maybe a jolt of caffeine will trigger something.”

Just seeing his pretty caretaker wearing a snug black sweater, leaning sexily in the doorway was enough to jolt him wide awake. But he wasn't about to make a comment like that. “Sure, coffee sounds great.”

“How do you like it?”

“Black.” The fact that he'd had an answer for her was enough to make him think his memory might actually return before long. He just wished it would hurry up. The brain fog was enough to make him climb the walls.

“You got it,” she said. “How about bacon and eggs? I could also whip up some oatmeal or maybe some hotcakes for you. Do you have a preference?”

Nothing jumped out at him. “I'll have whatever you're having.”

“Nonfat Greek yogurt and bananas?”

No, he'd pass on the healthy crap. A slow grin tugged at his lips. “Would hotcakes and bacon be too much trouble?”

She tossed him a sunny smile. “Not at all. Do you want me to serve you in here?”

While having a beautiful blonde sit on his bed, spoon-feeding him, triggered an intriguing vision and opened up some interesting possibilities, he didn't want her to think of him as an invalid. “No, I'll come out to the kitchen.”

She lifted the folded clothing in her arms. “I brought you something you can wear—pants and shirts that belong to Dave. I also put fresh towels on the bathroom counter.”

A shower sounded good. And so did having breakfast with her. “Thanks.”

“Did you want to eat first?”

“If you don't mind. I want to take another dose of my pain medication, and I'm not supposed to do that on an empty stomach.”

“You got it. I'll have it on the table in no time at all.” She tossed him another smile, then placed the clothing on the top of the dresser.

When she turned and left the room, he threw off the covers, wincing when he bumped the scrape on his knuckles that was no longer protected by the bandage he'd removed, and got out of bed. He couldn't very well join her for breakfast without clothes. And since he was going to postpone the shower for later, he snatched the pair of folded jeans off the stack she'd set on top of the dresser, slipped them on and followed the aroma of sizzling bacon to the kitchen, where he found Chloe standing at the stove, her back to him. Her long blond hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.

Apparently, she hadn't heard him approach the kitchen, so he could just stand here and enjoy the view. But something told him not to get caught up in romantic dreams when he had no idea who he was or where he was going—or if there was a family waiting for him somewhere. So he decided to let his presence be known. “Something sure smells good.”

* * *

At the sound of Joe's voice, Chloe turned to the kitchen doorway, where he stood wearing one of Dave's T-shirts and a pair of jeans. Yet that's where any similarities between the two men ended.

Dave had been fair-haired and on the thin side, while Joe was dark-haired with an olive complexion. His bulkier frame filled out that T-shirt in a way Dave never had.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“No, I have everything under control. Just come on in and have a seat.”

As he complied, taking one of the kitchen chairs near the bay window that looked out into the nearest pasture, she poured him a mug of coffee and carried it to the table.

He thanked her, then took a sip. “You know, I really appreciate you providing me with a temporary place to stay, although I don't like the idea of causing you extra work.”

“It's no problem.”

“Maybe not, but I'd be happy to help out any way I can.”

Since the ranch hand who usually helped Tomas with the chores had taken some time off to visit his family in Mexico, there was plenty to do. “That's nice of you to offer. And I might take you up on it—once you're feeling strong enough.”

He smiled, revealing a pair of dimples and a glimmer in those amazing blue eyes. For a moment, she lost her train of thought.

“I'll start today,” he said, “but don't worry. I'll take it slow and easy.”

“Let's wait until tomorrow. I'd feel better if you had a little more time to rest.”

“All right. Then I'll just have to hang out here at the house. But I promise not to get in your way or cause you any trouble.”

Something told her that any trouble that came her way would be of her own making. “I'm sure you won't be. And to be honest with you, it'll be nice to have someone to talk to every now and then.”

The big old ranch house could get lonely at times, especially in the evenings.

“So you're a guest here, too,” he said.

She nodded, then turned back to the hotcakes that were browning on the griddle. She flipped each one over, then reached for a platter on which she could put them as soon as they were done.

“So what do you do when you're not nursing the injured?” he asked.

“I'm between jobs right now, which worked out okay in the long run. Tomas, the ranch foreman, is shorthanded, so I've been helping out when I can.”

In truth, Tomas was a good worker—and he tried hard. But he'd never really had a supervisory role before. But when the previous foreman retired, Chloe had to find someone to step up to the plate. If she'd had more money to work with to offer a fair wage to someone better equipped, she would have. As it was, she promoted him based upon seniority.

“When you go back to job hunting,” Joe said, “what kind of work do you do?”

“I used to be an aide at an assisted-living facility in town. I also plan to attend nursing school next semester.”

“Pretty cool. I have my very own Florence Nightingale to help me get back on the mend.”

She turned to face him again and smiled. “Nursing has always been a dream of mine.”

Of course, after being terminated from the Sheltering Arms, she'd spent a little time wondering if she'd pinned her heart on the wrong dream.

Had Teresa Cummings, Dave's mother, still been alive, Chloe would have shared her disappointment and concern over her firing, which had seemed so unfair.

Then again, if Teresa had been alive, she would have advised Chloe to handle things differently at the time than she had, to confront her boss, to stir the pot. And if the administrator had seen fit to fire her anyway, Teresa might have encouraged her to file a wrongful termination suit.

But Chloe had never liked making waves. So she'd rolled over and walked away from the one job that had been the perfect fit for her.

She was tempted to share the details with Joe, but she bit her tongue. What did she really know about him?

Sure, she was drawn to him, although she blamed that on him being injured and her having a nurse's heart. She'd always been a nurturer, and she knew she'd make a good R.N. someday. But it wasn't just her heart Joe had touched. There was something about
him
she found attractive.

But she'd already had one bad relationship, if you could even call it that. Either way, she'd made a big mistake and didn't trust her judgment or instincts about men these days. And as long as she didn't act upon that attraction, they ought to get along just fine.

Chapter Three

B
y ten o'clock, Chloe had done two loads of laundry, cleaned the stove and washed the big bay window near the antique oak table. She enjoyed having her morning coffee where she could look out into the yard and pastures, so keeping the glass spotless had always been a priority.

While she worked, she kept the noise down. Joe might have offered to help her out on the ranch, but not long after eating breakfast and taking his pain medication, he'd mentioned being dizzy and had returned to the guest room and taken a nap. And she was glad that he'd done so.

Like it or not, he'd suffered a concussion. There was no way she would let him push himself too hard until he'd fully recovered.

She'd grown up as an army brat—the only girl with two older brothers, so she knew how stubborn men could be and how hard it was to admit their weakness. She'd keep that in mind the next time he offered to help. In the meantime, she continued to do her morning chores.

Next up was the kitchen floor. She'd just entered the mudroom to retrieve the plastic bucket and mop when the phone rang, so she hurried back to the kitchen and answered the old-style wall-mounted telephone before the noise disturbed Joe.

“Chloe,” the caller said, “it's Betsy Nielson. How's our patient doing this morning?”

“He had a good breakfast. Now he's resting again.”

“Good. Is he able to remember anything yet?”

“Not that I've seen so far.”

“Give it some time. My husband, Jason, suffered from amnesia about four years ago. It was pretty tough on him, but his memories slowly began to return.”

“How long did it take?”

“A couple of weeks. But each case is different, so it's impossible to predict. Just encourage Joe to be patient and let nature take its course.”

“I will.” Chloe wrapped the coiled phone cord around her index finger. “Has there been any news? I mean, how is the investigation going?”

“I haven't heard, but I'm sure Sheriff Hollister will be contacting Joe soon to give him an update.”

“That's good. Joe will be eager to talk to him.”

After the call ended, Chloe placed the receiver back in the cradle on the wall. She was eager to hear what the sheriff had to say, too. She hadn't heard from Dave in months and wondered where he was—and why he'd sent a letter to her through someone else.

A few weeks ago she'd written to him, but he hadn't responded. Then, just last Monday, she'd found her letter in the mailbox. The military had forwarded it to Dave, using the ranch address, which led her to believe his tour of duty had ended and that he'd been discharged.

If that was the case, then why hadn't he contacted her or come home yet? If he had actually been discharged, then he was no longer in Afghanistan. And that was a relief. Sure, his attachment to her had made her uncomfortable, but that didn't mean she didn't care about him.

She wasn't sure why he'd latched on to her like he had. She suspected that stress, battle fatigue and the recent death of his mother had all compounded and caused him to assume their friendship was something it had never been.

She'd done her best to explain that to him, but he couldn't seem to get the picture. Finally, when he began naming the children he'd imagined them having, she'd sent him a nice letter, trying to be kind, yet firm and direct.

Of course, she'd have to move off the ranch now that he was home. She couldn't risk having him think that there was any chance of her changing her mind about the two of them having a future together. Maybe, if he was out of the service and back in Brighton Valley, he could be more realistic about their relationship.

Either way, she would leave the Rocking C as soon as he arrived. She'd been looking after the ranch and trying to hold things together for him while he was gone, but her savings were just about gone, and the bills were still mounting up. She hoped he returned while he could still dig his way out of the hole he probably didn't know he was in.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Chloe turned to find Joe standing in the kitchen doorway. He was still wearing the same clothes. Even though he hadn't yet showered and appeared to be a bit battered, he looked as sexy as ever.

“My thoughts aren't worth much,” she said, shaking off her worries and forcing a smile.

“Either way, I'm sorry, Chloe. I didn't mean to offer my services, then get dizzy and pass out on you.”

Her smile deepened. “Don't give that a second thought. There'll be plenty to keep you busy when the time comes. It's best if you take it easy for now.”

She couldn't help taking in his broad chest, the masculine bristle he'd yet to shave and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. Again, she couldn't help comparing him to Dave, which wasn't fair to the other man. Not when Joe was drop-dead gorgeous.

He seemed to be checking her out just as closely as she'd been assessing him. Flushing, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, wishing she'd put on something other than jeans this morning.

At the sound of an approaching vehicle's engine, Chloe peered out the window and into the yard, where a police car pulled up.

“The sheriff is here,” she said.

Joe stiffened. A flicker of emotion tumbled across his face, while apprehension marred his brow.

The poor man. Chloe crossed the room, reached out and touched his forearm, felt the warmth of his body heat. “It'll be okay.”

His gaze seemed to say,
I hope you're right,
yet the tension in his stance suggested he had his doubts. Then he pulled free and headed for the living room, with her following behind.

* * *

Joe opened the front door, where a uniformed law enforcement officer stood on the stoop.

“I'm Shane Hollister,” the sheriff said. “I'm heading up the investigation into your hit-and-run accident.”

The words wadded up in Joe's throat. What was he supposed to say, other than “Thank God. What news do you have?”

Yet for some reason, facing the lawman sent a wisp of apprehension through him.

Damn. Did he have some reason to feel guilty?

Rather than stew about all the memories that evaded him, he shook off the uneasiness and said, “Hello, Sheriff.”

Hollister gave him a once-over. “It's good to see you up and around. How are you doing?”

“Not bad. But I still can't remember squat—if that's what you mean.”

“Well, maybe I can help.” The sheriff handed him a wallet. “I meant to give you this before you left the hospital, but I missed you.”

“That's okay.” Joe turned the dark leather over in his hands, then flipped it open. He pulled out the California driver's license.

Sure enough, that was his photo staring back at him, verifying his name was Joseph Wilcox, even if it still didn't sound familiar. According to his address, he lived on base at Camp Pendleton.

“Please,” Chloe told the sheriff, “come in and have a seat.”

Hollister chose one of the chairs near the fireplace, then pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket. He flipped through a couple of pages before launching into his reason for coming by.

“We got a hit on your military service record,” he told Joe. “It looks like you were medically discharged from the Marine Corps a few months ago.”

If that were the case, then his address was no longer valid.

“The military won't release much of your information,” Hollister said, “but I have a buddy up at the Houston NCIS office looking into it for me.”

“NCIS?” Chloe asked.

“It stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” Hollister explained. “They work with both the navy and the Marine Corps, so my friend should be able to access info for us. Hopefully we'll know more later this week.”

“Was there any word about Joe serving with Dave?” Chloe asked. “Or do you have any idea where Dave might be?”

“Not yet. That's something my contact at NCIS might be able to provide.” Hollister turned his focus back to Joe. “It looks like you joined the Marines about six months after your eighteenth birthday. You were a staff sergeant at the time of your discharge, which tells me that you probably had a stellar service record to move up the ranks so quickly.”

Joe blew out a ragged sigh. “That's good to know, I suppose. It's too bad I can't recall some of that stellar service myself.”

Chloe eased up to his chair and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Nielson said to give it some time. Her husband suffered from amnesia a few years back, and his memory returned slowly over the course of a few weeks.”

“That sounds like ages to me,” Joe said. “I've never had much patience.”

“You haven't?” As if eager to grab on to anything positive, Chloe gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I'd say that's good news.”

Joe looked up at her and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“If you know that so readily about yourself, then it sounds like a memory has returned already.”

Unfortunately, Joe didn't find that very helpful and returned his gaze to the sheriff. “Have you found out anything else about the person who hit me?”

“Judging from the tire tracks and a couple of eyewitness accounts, we think the perp was parked at the Stagecoach Inn and jumped the curb before hitting you. I have a couple of my deputies questioning all the patrons who were there that night—and looking over their cars to see if there's any corresponding bodywork damage. But that's assuming it was one of the locals. We're still gathering credit-card records in case it was someone who was just passing through on the highway and decided to stop off at the bar for a few drinks to wait out the evening traffic.”

“I appreciate your efforts to find whoever it was who hit me,” Joe said. “And for helping me piece my life back together.”

“No problem.” The sheriff put away his notepad and got to his feet. “That's my job. But you might want to consider that this wasn't a mere accident.”

Chloe's hand slipped off Joe's shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

“There weren't any skid marks, so either the driver didn't see you or was aiming right at you.”

The thought that someone might have been out to get him didn't sit well, but when Joe shot a glance at Chloe and saw the worry that marred her brow, his concern shifted.

He didn't like seeing her on edge, which was surely the case since she'd removed the warmth of her support when she'd taken her hand from his shoulder. Neither did he want to bring any trouble her way. But he wasn't about to reassure her with false promises, especially if he had no clue what kind of complications his presence could cause.

“I don't want to alarm you or be a conspiracy theorist,” the sheriff added, “but there's a lot we still don't know about you. And with your temporary memory loss, you can't answer any of those questions for us. I can't ignore the fact that someone might have been out to hit you for some reason. Or that they might not want you in town.”

Joe wished he could reassure both Chloe and the sheriff, but he couldn't. He might not feel like a wanted man, but how would he know for sure? The lawman was probably just trying to cover all the bases, which was wise. It made sense not to restrict his investigation to the easiest, most obvious case solution.

And while Joe had hoped that the sheriff's arrival would toss him a life raft of sorts, instead, it had only opened up more worries, more concerns, more what-ifs.

What little solid ground he'd once felt under his feet had been whisked away, leaving him alone, tossed about on a choppy sea with no compass, no oars and no sign of the shore.

“So what do we do?” Chloe asked.

We?
He couldn't expect her to help. She'd done a lot already. But the thought of having someone in his corner of the rowboat helped a little.

“My suggestion would be for Mr. Wilcox to try to keep a low profile,” Hollister said. “It might be best if he stayed here at the ranch until we can investigate further.”

“I'd hoped someone in town might recognize him and be able to tell us more about who he is—and why he's here,” Chloe said.

Joe wasn't as concerned for his own safety as he was for hers. So far, she'd been a friend, an ally in his messed-up world, and he didn't want to do anything that might put her in jeopardy.

“Maybe it's best if I moved on,” he said.

Chloe placed her hand back on his shoulder. And this time, her fingertips sent a whisper of heat through his veins. Her gaze met his, stirring something deep within. “Where would you go?”

He raked a hand through his hair. How the hell did he know? But he'd figure something out. He had to, before this beautiful stranger turned his mixed-up brain even more inside out.

“It has to be frustrating not to know who you are or why you're here,” the sheriff said. “But from a safety standpoint, I think it's more important to get to the bottom of this accident first and then figure out the memory problem later.”

Joe could see how Hollister would be more concerned with a crime being committed in his quaint small town. And while it was helpful of the sheriff to go above the call of duty and look for his personal records, it wasn't as if Joe was suffering from a simple little “memory problem.” It was a full-blown loss of identity, a loss of control over his life. And his gut clenched at the thought, at the possibilities....

What if he had somewhere else to be at this exact second? Or what if someone needed him, but he was AWOL?

Crap. What if the person waiting for him was his wife?

“Uh, Sheriff,” he said. “Do you know if my military file mentioned anything about me being married or having kids?”

“It didn't say specifically, but you don't have any military dependents listed. So my guess would be that you're single.”