Forgotten Lullaby

“Our baby?” Emma stared at the man who'd identified himself as her husband. The man with the deep, soothing voice who had whispered to her in the darkness.

“Yes…her name is Carly. Here, I'll show you.” Almost frantically he took his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a picture and handed it to her.

Emma's hands shook as she studied the photo. Grant looked totally masculine, his arm draped around her. She cradled a beautiful infant in her arms.

But it was the tender smile of pride on her face that squeezed at her heart. She really had a child. And she was married.

But she had amnesia.

Emma Wadsworth
—A strange accident robbed her of her past; now she must find her future.

Grant Wadsworth
—He'll fight for his wife with the strongest weapon he has: love.

Kate Dillard
—Did Emma's loving sister like Grant far more than she'd ever admitted?

Martha Greer
—The Wadsworths' housekeeper has a dark secret.

Pete Landers
—How far would he go to take Grant's place?

Doug McGuire
—Emma's former employer and old friend is a charming man—but is he a criminal at heart?

Priscilla Weston
—Do her career ambitions extend to after hours?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Bright headlights appeared in Emma's rearview mirror, almost blinding her. She sped up slightly, yet the car behind bore down on her tail. Suddenly uneasy, she adjusted the mirror to deflect the light. She hit a pothole and had to brake. Tires squealed behind her, and she clutched the steering wheel, afraid the other vehicle was going to hit her.

She grimaced, wishing he'd back off. The road was deserted, and too curvy for high speeds. Thank goodness she only had a few more miles to go and she'd be home with her baby and husband. Her sister Kate's comments about Grant traveling all the time struck a chord of worry, and she fought the troubling feelings. She and her husband were happy—they were simply going through an adjustment phase with the new baby. All couples went through it. Didn't they?

An image of Grant's chic co-worker, Priscilla, hovered in her mind. So cool and sophisticated, hair perfect, body trim, lips painted a deep kiss-me red, Priscilla wouldn't be caught dead looking as rumpled as Emma had since the baby had arrived. Emma and Grant needed to spend some time alone, quality time without their
daughter in tow. Maybe they should hire a sitter, have a romantic evening alone, rekindle their romance—

She swerved to avoid another pothole. The vehicle behind her roared straight over it without even slowing. The woods flanking the road suddenly seemed eerily dark and lonely. A sprinkling of snow dusted the North Carolina highway and dotted the windshield, and tree branches swayed and dipped in the evening wind. She dragged her gaze from the shadowy woods, deciding she'd been watching too many late-night movies while feeding Carly.

Poor baby. Carly had cried with an earache all morning. Emma finally understood how much a mother could hurt for her child. Automatically her hand swept the front passenger seat for Carly's prescription. Instead, she contacted a tube—of lipstick. She gripped the wheel tight with one hand and brought the tube up for inspection. Odd, it wasn't a color she wore. It was red. Priscilla's red. Kate's warnings about men having affairs strummed through her conscience. No, Grant wouldn't—

A horn blasted and the vehicle swerved around her, clipping her rear bumper. Panic streaked through her. She braked again. The guy had been following too close, but this…this was crazy. Was he drunk?

An oncoming set of headlights flashed in the bend of the road. Emma slowed so that the other vehicle—it looked like some sort of SUV—could pass. Instead, he grazed her again, and she skidded sideways toward the side of the road. She clenched the steering wheel as she fought to control the car, her heart pounding. The oncoming vehicle blasted its horn. Oh, God! Her car was going to collide with an eighteen-wheeler!

Emma fought the slide, bringing her Honda back in
the lane. The sports vehicle suddenly slowed, falling in behind her again. The air exploded from her lungs. The oncoming truck passed, a hairbreadth from her bumper, and blared its horn again. Perspiration trickled down her face.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and panic welled inside her when the sports vehicle sped up again. Metal ground against metal as he slammed her from behind. Whoever was driving the car was hitting her on purpose! She began to pump the brakes, but her car skidded off the road.

Burning rubber filled her nostrils. The force of the skid ripped the steering wheel from her hands. She grabbed it again and tried to get control. The SUV side-swiped the Honda once more, this time with such jarring force her car jolted sideways and spun 180 degrees.

The windshield exploded. Shards of glass gouged her arms and face. Pain tore through her head and blood, hot and salty, filled her mouth. As the world went dark, an image of Carly and Grant flashed through her mind. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She should have told them she loved them one more time.

And she should have kissed them both goodbye.

 

G
RANT
W
ADSWORTH
stared in horror as rescue workers tried desperately to pry open the door of Emma's small car. She lay inside, unconscious, blood dripping down the side of her face, her skin chalky white. He shuddered, feeling sick all over. A chill engulfed him, not from the cold January wind blowing outside, but from raw stark fear. Another mile and she would have been home, safe and sound with him and Carly. But now…

“Please don't let her die.” He choked on the last word.

A police officer stood beside him, one hand on his arm as if he expected Grant to bolt for the Honda at any minute. He would, if he thought he could rescue her without harming her more. Chaos surrounded him. They'd dragged out rescue equipment he'd never seen or heard of. Emergency workers, firefighters, police officers, all racing against time to save his wife. While he simply stood by, helpless.

At last the mangled door was torn off, and two paramedics secured Emma's head and neck, then took her vitals. Another radioed in the information. Their voices and orders faded in and out of his consciousness as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

“Pulse sixty-five, weak and thready, respiration thirty, shallow, BP eighty over fifty…start an IV drip of…let's cut away her seat belt…on three, we'll lift her. One, two,
three.
”

He stared at the dangling seatbelt, now in shreds. Thank God she'd worn it. If only she'd had an air bag. “God, if she dies, I'll never forgive myself.” He lunged forward to reach her, but the policeman grabbed his arm.

“Let them take care of her. They need to stabilize her.”

Grant collapsed against the side of the police car.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Grant shook his head. “I will be when I know she's okay. I'm not losing her,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not now, not ever.”

“Looks like there might have been another car involved,” the police officer said quietly. “I found two sets of skid marks. And there's black paint chips on the Honda. I'm Detective Warner. My men are questioning the crowd for witnesses.”

Grant nodded, confused. So where was the other car? His gaze tracked the parcel of gatherers at the scene. Could someone have seen Emma's accident?

The detective cleared his throat. “How did you make it here so fast?”

Grant's head jerked up at the implication. Or had he imagined the suspicious tone in the detective's voice? “I live about a mile from here. When you called I…I raced right over.”

The detective grunted in acknowledgment. “They say most accidents happen within five miles of your own house.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Doesn't make it any easier, does it?”

“No,” Grant mumbled, his gaze on the mangled car. The rescue workers yelled they were ready to go, and he clenched his hands by his sides as he watched them secure Emma onto the boarded stretcher. Panic and guilt clogged his throat. Memories of another young woman floated into his consciousness—
she was bleeding, still and lifeless…he should have done something…
God, no, Emma couldn't die.

He couldn't lose Emma. He moved to her side and took her limp icy hand in his, kissing it ever so gently, careful of the scrapes on her palms. “Hang on, honey, please hang on. I love you. And I need you so much.”

“Let's go.” The paramedics hoisted her into the ambulance.

He climbed inside and knelt beside her, massaging her hand between his, a sick feeling swirling inside him at the blood matted in her honey-colored hair. “You can't leave us, Emma. Carly and I both need you. We love you, sweetheart.”

“We found this in the car,” an officer said, holding up Carly's prescription.

“It's for my baby,” Grant explained. “She's at home with the sitter.”

“I'll get someone to drop it by.”

Grant recited his address as he traced a finger over the delicate curve of Emma's chin. The siren screeched and the ambulance jerked into motion. The EMT put an oxygen mask over Emma's mouth and monitored her vital signs, communicating with the hospital staff over the radio. Her face was so pale. Beneath her eyes her skin had turned a strange bluish color.

“I love you, Emma,” he whispered again. “Don't you dare die on me.” He kissed her hand, memorizing every detail of her face. She had to make it. She had to survive. He couldn't live with another woman's death on his conscience. Especially his wife's.

 

T
HE HOURS DRAGGED
into days as Grant held a vigil at Emma's bedside, praying for a miracle. But her condition hadn't changed. No news about the person who'd hit her, either.

The steady drip of the IV echoed in the silence of the hospital room, and Grant rubbed his hands up and down his arms, wondering if he would ever be warm again. A few days ago, he'd thought he had everything—a beautiful wife, a new baby, a budding career. If Emma didn't make it…

Emma's sister, Kate, crept into the room. “How is she? Any change?”

Grant shook his head, unable to speak.

Kate folded her arms and sighed. “I tried to call Mom, but she's somewhere en route to Europe. I've left messages to let her know what happened.”

He nodded. “Thanks, Kate.”

“Did you reach your folks?”

“Yeah.” He stood, never taking his eyes off of Emma, and thrust a hand through his hair, not caring that the ends spiked haphazardly. “They don't have the money to fly from Boulder. I offered to pay, even told them the airlines give emergency discount rates, but Dad's job is in limbo already…” Grant hesitated, aware he was admitting his parents' financial circumstances.

“I'm sure they'd come if they could.” Kate chewed her bottom lip and he realized he and Kate were actually being civil to each other. They seemed to have called a silent truce in the wake of the accident. Kate stayed with Carly at night. He'd go home long enough to shower and rock his daughter. His stomach twisted painfully as he remembered Carly's tears the night before. She had never been away from Emma for more than a few hours. She missed her mother, and once again he'd felt helpless.

“I'll relieve Martha,” Kate said, as if she'd read his mind. Martha Greer was Grant and Emma's housekeeper. “She's been great, keeping Carly all day.”

“Yeah.” He saw the sympathy in Kate's eyes and felt a ridiculous sense of relief to have her there. “Thanks, Kate.”

She gave him a tentative smile, then squeezed his hand. “I love her, too, you know.”

Tears pricked his eyes, but he averted his gaze and swallowed the emotion. Kate brushed Emma's hair away from her forehead and placed a soft kiss on her temple. “Get well, sis. I'll treat Carly like she's my own.”

Grant flinched at the lone tear that streaked down Kate's cheek. When she closed the door behind her, he slumped in the chair again and took Emma's hand in his, raking his gaze over her unconscious body. The soft
gurgle of the humidifier grated on his frayed nerves. Even knowing the equipment attached to her body was meant to help her, he hated that she needed it. He hated the oxygen mask, the IV needle in her arm, the strong smell of antiseptic and other hospital odors that permeated the room.

He was going crazy counting every breath she took. But it was the only way he could make himself believe she was alive. One breath at a time.

A severe concussion, the doctor had said. Possibly brain damage. They were battling a head wound, the most dangerous and least predictable injury a body could sustain. No one would know the extent of Emma's injuries, not until the swelling in her brain went down. But she
couldn't
have brain damage. Not his Emma.

Still, every hour passed in unconsciousness dimmed the outlook. His fingers trembled as he gently touched the bandage on her head. They'd shaved a small area, stitched the head wound and bandaged it. Ugly purple and yellow bruises marred her face, but the scrapes and cuts would heal. She would live, the doctors said—they just didn't know when she would wake up.

A wave of cold engulfed him when he remembered the condition of her car. It was a miracle Emma was alive. When she woke up, maybe she'd be able to tell them what happened. The police had been by to say they'd found a witness, a young boy who'd seen a Jeep sideswipe Emma's car, then saw her veer off the road. He claimed the Jeep's driver had stopped and gotten out to look in Emma's car, then almost immediately driven away. But why would someone want to hurt Emma?

“Please wake up, Emma,” he begged as he jolted up
and paced beside her bed. “Why won't you come back to me? Give me another chance.”

But she lay still and silent.

 

D
RIP
…
DRIP
….
BEEP
…beep…beep.

Emma tried to move her limbs, but they felt too heavy. Her body refused to cooperate, even her eyelids. What had happened to her?

A dull low pain throbbed through her nerve endings. Even thinking tired her out. So easy to keep her eyes closed. So hard to open them. The bright light shone in a lone radiant beam that called to her, urging her to lose herself in the calm glow. To be swallowed up, away from the pain. To drift away, at peace…forever.

The constant dripping and beeping in the background faded in and out. The voices. Sometimes a woman's. Sometimes the husky rumble of a man's. Sometimes distressed. Sometimes low and soft. Rolling over the pain and wiping it away. Soothing her into contentment. Drawing her away from the intense pull of the light.

Somewhere in her subconscious, she realized she must be asleep. In a realm so far away no one could reach her. A place where she no longer had to be afraid.

Sometimes the husky voice begged her to stay. Begged her to fight, to come back to him. But she didn't know how. Didn't want to leave the haven where she'd settled.

A sharp grating sound drifted through her reverie, and she tried to turn her head toward the sound, tried to lift her fingers, but again heaviness weighted her down. She strained to open her eyes. Was it the woman's voice this time? Or that calm lulling baritone?