Under the Mistletoe with John Doe (2 page)

He didn't ask how she knew that. Instead, he thanked her, then strode toward the door. On his way out, he reached into his pocket for the keys to his rental car and headed for the parking lot.

A streetlight at the road was flickering, yet it gave off just enough light for him to see someone near the driver's door of his vehicle, as if trying to break in.

“Hey!” he called out, picking up his pace.

Chubby looked up, but he didn't appear to be too concerned about being caught in the act.

Where was Slim?

Footsteps sounded behind him, but before he could turn around, his head exploded with pain—then everything went black.

 

The E.R. at the Brighton Valley Medical Center had been unusually quiet, even for a weekday night, but Dr. Betsy Nielson wouldn't complain.

While doing her internship, she'd learned to use her downtime wisely, so she went into the break room and poured herself a cup of coffee.

But as usual, the peace and quiet didn't last long.

Dawn McGregor, one of the nurses on staff, poked her head in the doorway. “Dr. Nielson? We've got an ambulance on the way with an unconscious man in his late twenties–early thirties. He was robbed and beaten up outside the Stagecoach Inn.”

Betsy took another sip of coffee before pouring it down the sink. “What's the ETA?”

“Three-and-a-half minutes.” Dawn handed Betsy a list of the man's vitals that had been relayed to the hospital via the radio in the ambulance.

Betsy glanced at the readings, making note of them, then headed for the triage area.

Moments later, the automatic door swung open as paramedics rushed the victim into the E.R.

Showtime, Betsy thought, as she met them partway and began a visual assessment of the patient while they all moved into the exam area.

Blunt-force trauma. Lacerations and bruises…

As she moved in closer, she realized that the man had gotten some of his injuries before today. One wound near his hairline already had sutures.

She guessed them to be about a week old—maybe less.

A bar fight? she wondered, coming to that conclusion because of where he'd been when he'd gotten this beating. That and the fact that the Stagecoach Inn had had more than its share of scuffles lately, resulting in their hiring an ex-marine as a bouncer.

She smelled alcohol on the patient, but it wasn't as though he'd been stewing in it all day, like a lot of the other drunken Stagecoach regulars who ended up in one of the E.R. exam rooms during one of her nighttime shifts.

“What happened?” she asked Sheila Conway, the head paramedic, as she ordered lab work and an MRI.

“He was hit from behind and rolled. No wallet, no cash, no credit cards on him. And he's completely out of it.”

His clothing, while bloody, was expensive and stylish. Definitely not the usual patron of the Stagecoach Inn.

“Anyone know his name?”

“Nope.”

“What about his vehicle?” Betsy asked. “Did they check the registration?”

“If he had a car, it might have been stolen. From what we were told, all the cars in the parking lot have been accounted for.”

“Didn't anyone know who he is?”

“Apparently, he walked in alone, asked about a guy no one recognized, had a beer and left. But he didn't get
far. Someone hit him with a tire iron and left him in a pool of blood. The bouncer found him and called us.”

The patient moaned, and Betsy decided to quiz him. They had no idea of his medical history or allergies. Nothing to go on but what they uncovered here and now.

The police, who'd most likely been called already, would be here shortly. And they'd want to question him, too.

“Hi, there,” she said. “How are you doing?”

Another moan. A blink.

She flashed a light into his eyes, saw his pupils—dilated. She'd be ordering that MRI stat.

When he looked at her through bloodshot eyes, she said, “I'm Dr. Nielson. Can you tell me what happened?”

He jerked and stiffened. His eyes grew wide and panicked. “How's the kid? Is she okay?”

“What kid?” she asked, wondering if a child had been in the vehicle that was stolen. She couldn't imagine someone being so negligent that they'd leave a youngster in the parking lot of a bar. But it happened.

“The stop sign,” he said. “I didn't see it… I'm sorry.”

He was rambling and confused. Did he think he'd been involved in a car accident?

She studied his pained expression, the raw emotion on his face, the concern in his striking blue eyes.

“You were robbed outside the Stagecoach Inn,” she said, trying to shake the sympathy that drew her to him and was making it difficult to keep a professional distance. “What's your name?”

He stared at her blankly. Then confusion spread across his face. “I don't know.”

In spite of the blood and dirt on his brow and cheek, he was an attractive man, and her heart quivered with the realization.

Get over it,
she scolded herself. He was a patient. A victim. And a complete stranger.

“Do you know what day it is?” she asked.

A furrowed brow suggested that he didn't, and his eyes sought hers. “No, but the…kid? Her mom? Are they okay?”

“There wasn't anyone with you.” At least that was the word she'd gotten. She looked to Sheila for confirmation.

The head EMT nodded. “As far as we know, he went in and out of the Stagecoach Inn alone.”

Betsy returned her attention to her patient. “You were the only one hurt. And it wasn't a car accident. Someone assaulted you when you left a local bar and stole everything but the clothes on your back.”

The tension in his expression softened, but only slightly. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off again.

The head injury could account for the temporary amnesia, and while she didn't suspect a fracture, she knew his brain had experienced some serious trauma tonight.

Betsy glanced across the gurney to Dawn, who usually worked the evening shift with her in the E.R. “Let's get an MRI and see what's going on.”

The nurse nodded. “Anything else?”

Betsy issued the rest of her orders, and as soon as
Dawn left to make sure they were fulfilled, Betsy took another look at her patient.

She reached for his nearest hand, which just happened to be his left. He wasn't wearing a ring, wedding or otherwise.

It might have been stolen along with his wallet and other valuables, she supposed, but she didn't see an indention or a tan line. His fingers were straight, sturdy and they appeared to have been manicured recently.

She turned his hand over. Too bad she couldn't read palms. It would be helpful to know more about him—medically speaking, of course, although her curiosity was mounting. Who was this guy? And what had he been doing in a rip-roaring honky-tonk on a Wednesday night?

A hardened ridge of calluses marred his lifeline, suggesting that he might lift weights or swing a golf club regularly. Or maybe it was from gripping the handlebars of a bike.

His build, while sturdy and strong, seemed more in line with sports than with weights and gym equipment, but it was hard to tell.

Who are you?
she wondered.

He appeared to be a city boy, so it was easy to assume he was a stranger in town—a tall, dark and handsome one at that.

She had a feeling that he'd be drop-dead gorgeous when he was in full form and had all of his senses about him. The kind of man who could even turn the most dedicated doctor's head.

Cases like this didn't drop into town or the E.R. very often, and Betsy was glad that they didn't. After
her unexpected and painful divorce, she'd sworn off romance, especially with someone who might not be the man he pretended to be.

She released John Doe's hand, trying to shake her interest in him. The sooner she admitted him to the hospital and sent him up to the third floor, the better off she'd be.

The last thing in the world she needed to do was to befriend a man who couldn't even remember his name.

B
etsy's shift ended at seven o'clock the next morning. But instead of going home, fixing herself a bite to eat and unwinding with a cup of chamomile tea as usual, she rode the elevator up to the third floor to check on John Doe.

Betsy took a personal interest in each one of her patients. Typically, after they left the E.R. and were handed over to other doctors, she was able to set her concern aside. But this particular patient had really tugged at her heartstrings and she wasn't sure why.

She supposed it was only natural to sympathize with a man who'd been robbed of his valuables, as well as his memory, even if the amnesia proved to be temporary.

When the elevator doors opened, letting her off on the third floor, she headed to the nurses' desk, where Molly Mayfield sat, her head bowed as she studied a patient's chart.

It was both nice and reassuring to see her friend and coworker on duty today. Molly was one of the top nurses at Brighton Valley Medical Center, but she only worked part-time. After marrying race-car driver Chase Mayfield and giving birth to their baby girl, she'd cut back her hours at the hospital. But it was great having her stay on staff, even if it was only two or three days each week.

When Molly looked up from the chart and spotted Betsy, she brightened. “I thought you were working nights this week. Did you change your schedule?”

“No, I just stopped by to check on a patient.” Betsy rested her arm on the counter, next to a lush poinsettia plant, its red-and-green leaves a reminder that Thanksgiving had just passed and that Christmas was right around the corner.

Her gift list wasn't very long—only three people this year—but she put a great deal of thought into each present she gave, which meant she'd have to start shopping soon.

Her interest in the poinsettia didn't go unnoticed, as Molly smiled and leaned forward. “Isn't it pretty? Chase brought it the other day when he and Megan came by to have lunch with me.”

“That was sweet,” Betsy said.

“I know. Chase is always doing little things like that to surprise me.”

“It's nice to see you so happy.”

Molly grinned, her eyes sparking with love and contentment. “I never realized how much I'd enjoy being a wife and a mom.”

At one time, Betsy had entertained thoughts of
mother hood, too, but not anymore. Doug Bramblett had seen to that.

Three years into their marriage, when she'd been wrapping up her internship, she'd found out that her husband was having an affair. She'd no more than come to grips with his deceit when she learned that the extramarital relationship he'd had with a receptionist at his office hadn't been the first.

Betsy had filed for divorce, then spent the rest of her internship trying to pick up the pieces of her once-perfect life. Then, two years later, Doug was arrested and convicted for his involvement in an insider-trading scheme.

Clearly the guy she'd once loved and trusted hadn't turned out to be the honest, loyal and ethical man she'd thought he was. But she pressed on by moving away from the big city to Brighton Valley, where the neighbors knew—and could vouch—for each other.

And now that she was here, her focus was on work, on the medical center and seeing it succeed.

“How are Chase and little Megan doing?” she asked her friend.

Molly's grin nearly lit the entire west wing. “They're doing great. And Megan just cut her first tooth. She's pulling herself up and taking a few steps. You ought to see her, Betsy. She's the cutest little thing.”

“I'd love to. We'll have to get together soon.” Of course, Betsy didn't have many free nights. With the financial situation at the hospital being what it was, they'd had to cut back on staff, and she'd been taking up the slack.

“Maybe, when you switch to working days, you can
come to dinner some evening,” Molly said. “I miss not seeing you.”

In spite of being friends, they had never really socialized. Betsy didn't have the time. In addition to her work at the hospital, her parents had moved into a nearby assisted-living complex. And as an only child, Betsy made sure to visit them regularly.

She'd been adopted when her mom and dad had just about given up on having a baby, and she owed all she was to them, to their love and emotional support. So every moment she spent with them now was precious.

Instead of commenting about how busy she was, Betsy smiled at her friend. “As a wife and a new mommy, I imagine your time is stretched to the limit.”

“It is, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I can't imagine life without Chase or Megan.” Molly closed the file she'd been reading and moved it aside. “So what—or rather
who
—brings you up to the third floor?”

“John Doe—unless his memory returned and he's going by another name now.”

“No, he's not. From what I was told, he was pretty agitated about it last night. So Dr. Kelso sedated him.”

“Is he sleeping now?”

“No. I was just in there a few minutes ago, and he was awake. But he's still not sure who he is.”

“Which room is he in?”

“Three-fourteen.”

“Thanks.”

As Betsy made her way to John Doe's room and peered inside, she spotted him lying in bed, his head turned toward the window, revealing the gauze that covered the wounds he'd received from the assault.

His hair, which was a bit long and curled at the neckline, looked especially dark on the white pillowcase.

When he sensed her presence—or maybe he'd heard her footsteps—he turned to the doorway, and their gazes met.

He'd been cleaned up, but no one had taken time to shave him. The dark stubble on his jaw and cheeks made him look rugged and manly, completely mocking the soft, baby-blue hospital gown he was wearing.

“Good morning,” she said, entering the room. “I'm Dr. Nielson. You may not remember me, but I treated you in the E.R. last night.”

“Actually,” he said, “I remember
that.
”

“Being in the E.R.?”

He nodded. “Well, at the time, while looking up into the bright lights, I saw you and assumed I was standing at the Pearly Gates with a redheaded angel. But I never figured heavenly beings would be so pretty.”

She didn't know whether he was serious, joking or flirting. It was impossible to tell from his tone or his expression. Yet for some crazy reason, her hand lifted inadvertently to feel for loose strands of hair that might have fallen from her brass clip.

“And then,” he added, “in the middle of the night, before they drugged me—or maybe afterward—I saw you again.”

“I'm afraid that wasn't me. I spent the early morning hours in the E.R., patching up a drunk who walked through a plate-glass window and treating a toddler for croup.”

“I figured as much. The last time you appeared
over my bed, you were hanging out with a gang of leprechauns. I figured you were their queen.”

“I'm afraid my days of running with the wee ones are over.” She smiled as she moved closer to his bed. “By the way, the police came by the E.R. to question you last night, and I suggested they come back in the morning. Have they been in yet?”

“No, but it'll be a waste of their time. The only thing I remember is the color of your hair, those emerald-green eyes and the way everyone around you jumped when you gave orders. So it's nice to know that some of the crazy visions I had last night were real.”

“I can only attest to the bright lights in the E.R. and barking out orders. The rest of those sightings must have been a result of the mugging or the sedative Dr. Kelso gave you.”

“Maybe so.” He studied her now, and as his eyes sketched over her face, her heart rate spiked and sputtered—clearly not a professional response.

Time to exit, stage right.

Yet her feet didn't move.

“So how are you feeling now?” she asked, trying to gain some control over her hormones.

“I'm doing all right, I guess. My head's pounding like hell, though. And I can't remember anything. How long is that going to last?”

“The amnesia? I'm not sure. A few hours? A couple of days?” She didn't dare tell him that it could go on for a long time.

“Damn. That sucks.”

She had to agree. She had no idea what she'd do if
she found herself in a strange hospital with no idea of who she was or how she'd gotten there.

“So what
do
you know about me?” he asked.

“Just that you were at one of the local honky-tonks, asking about a man.”

“What man?”

“Somebody named Pedro. And for what it's worth, no one in the bar knew him.”

He thought about that for a moment, as if trying to place the man or the reason for his search. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “What happened after that?”

“You had a beer and left. In the parking lot, someone decided to lift your wallet, but didn't want to risk a tussle with you. So they hit you with a tire iron and made sure you couldn't put up a fight.”

She let him ponder that for a while, then said, “When the medics brought you into the E.R., you asked about a child and her mom. No one was with you at the bar. Could they have been witnesses?”

“It's possible, I guess. But you'll have to forgive me. I'm still drawing a complete blank.”

“That's understandable. But you might want to pass that information on to the sheriff, just in case.”

“All right.” For some reason, she got the idea that he was used to giving orders. If so, being laid up was going to be tough on him.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She crossed her arms and tossed him a wry grin. “I'd venture to say that you're in your late twenties or early thirties. You stand about six foot tall or more and you're in good shape.”

He was also one of the most attractive men she'd seen
in a long time, with broad shoulders and tight abs—as bruised as they were when she'd examined him—she couldn't help noticing. He also had eyes the shade of Texas bluebonnets, which was unusual for a man who appeared to have more than a little Latin blood.

“That's it?” he asked.

“Pretty much. You were well dressed and wore expensive clothing, so I think you've got a decent job—or a trust fund.” Of course, Doug had taught her to be skeptical of men like that, so she added, “Then again, you could be a con artist.”

“Yeah, well, apparently whatever money I may or may not have isn't available to me anymore.”

Rather than answer, she gave a little who-knows? shrug.

He paused a beat, then sobered. “So you think that I was just passing through town?”

She doubted that he was a drifter, if that's what he meant. And the mystery about him, both medical and otherwise, intrigued her.

So did the spark of life in his eyes.

And the square cut of his jaw.

But she wasn't comfortable talking to him about her observations, when he might think that she found him attractive.

Okay, so he definitely was hot, and any woman who still had breath in her body couldn't help but agree.

Betsy wouldn't act on it, though. And if John picked up on those vibes, no good would come of it.

“Well,” she said, backing away from the hospital bed. “I'd better head home. I've got to get some sleep because
my next shift starts in—” she glanced at the clock on the wall “—less than twelve hours.”

“Will I see you again?”

His tone, as well as the question, took her aback. And she didn't know what to tell him. In truth, there wasn't any reason for her to come back to see him, but she couldn't seem to bow out completely. “I'll stop by around dinnertime.”

He smiled. “I'll look forward to it.”

There went her heart rate again, and she struggled with the wisdom of a return visit. Yet she nodded, then turned and walked out of his room.

She wasn't exactly sure what had just happened in there. But she blamed it on a lack of sleep.

And a lack of sex, a small voice whispered.

Oh, for Pete's sake. Her self-imposed celibacy had been working out just fine. So why him?

And why now?

She'd be darned if she knew—or dared to pursue—the answer.

 

John Doe slept off and on the next morning, hoping that eventually he'd wake up with his memory intact. But so far, nothing had come to mind.

Just before lunch, Dr. Kelso came in to perform some kind of mental evaluation, this one more complex than what he'd had so far. John had passed most of it with flying colors. He had some basic knowledge, although he certainly wouldn't try his luck on
Jeopardy
or
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

But memories of anything prior to his arrival at the E.R., anything of actual value, had been lost to him.

“So what's the verdict?” he asked the neurologist.

“Well, the good news is that the MRI has ruled out a skull fracture, but you have a cerebral contusion.”

“What's that?”

“It's a bruise on the brain tissue,” Dr. Kelso had explained. “I don't think you need surgery at this point, but we'll keep an eye on it. If it worsens, we may have to go in and relieve the pressure. But for now, we'll be giving you steroids to lessen any swelling.”

“What about my memory?” he asked.

“You have retrograde amnesia.”

“How long is it going to last? When will I remember who I am?”

“It's hard to say. The causes and symptoms of amnesia vary from patient to patient. And so does the recovery process. I'm afraid we'll just have to wait and see what happens in your case.”

Great. “How long will I have to stay in the hospital?”

“That depends, too. I'd say at least a couple of days, maybe a week. But that could change if there are complications.”

He wondered how he was going to pay the bill. Did he have health insurance? A job?