leaf green. And a hint of red played in his dark hair. She turned her attention back to the front desk. “Maybe a bit of a ploy.”
“And calling me a prisoner?”
She allowed a small smile. “Oh, yeah, that was totally a ploy.”
He laughed and then groaned and clutched his head.
She sobered. “It’s also true. You are a prisoner until morning. No dying on my watch please. You can’t imagine the paperwork involved.”
“I might be touched if it didn’t just pass midnight. You’re officially off duty.”
A glance at her watch confirmed his claim.
“Sheriff.” The clerk had returned. “Dr. Honer will see you now.”
Grace checked the door but no sign of her replacement magically appeared. JD walked past her and then stopped.
“Are you coming?” he asked. “I can handle this on my own if you prefer.”
“You’re in city custody. I’m coming.”
She followed him to the back and stood in the hall while he changed into the paper hospital gown the nurse provided. It was a small room. She took heart in the fact he would look silly sitting there, decked out in the flimsy robe. Too bad he didn’t use it. When she entered the room, she found he’d stripped down to gray knit boxer briefs.
OMG.
Cough. Cough. Good gracious, she nearly choked on her own tongue as drool flooded her mouth. Swallowing hard she made her way to the corner, trying hard not to stare at all the hard lines and muscular definition on full display.
“You were supposed to put on the gown.”
“It tore. Don’t worry about it. Turns out I’m not modest.”
Of course not. Turned out she had a bit of a voyeur in her.
Confronted with the sight of all that flesh and muscle—toned, and tanned, and tantalizing—she missed at first glance that a wound marred his nice six-pack. Still pink and edged with staple marks, the slash ran about six inches long under his right rib cage.
“You’ve been stabbed.”
He glanced down at himself. The action made him sway, so he quickly lifted his head. “Where?”
She moved closer to point. “It looks pretty ragged, which tells me it wasn’t a switchblade. Maybe a serrated blade. Or a piece of glass, possibly a metal fragment. Any of that spark any memories?” If shock value had any power to activate his memory, learning he’d been stabbed should do the job.
Leaving her question unanswered, he used long fingers to explore the wound. He flinched a little, indicating the cut was still tender. Or perhaps it was just the thought of being stabbed.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, hoping to get him talking. He revealed so little she had a hard time reading him. Part of it had to do with his missing memories, but she had the sense his reticence went deeper than that, was actually a part of his personality.
“Sore, not painful.” Emerald eyes met hers. “It’s not from this accident?”
“No.” She shook her head as she examined the wound from a safe distance. “I’d say it’s a few weeks old. The doctor might be able to tell you more.”
As if on cue, Dr. Honer, short and balding, opened the door. He addressed his patient first. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he gestured to Grace. “Can I see you, Sheriff?”
She stepped into the hall and he pulled the door closed behind him.
“Sheriff Brubaker called.” He informed her. “He’s not authorizing any care for the prisoner. He’s been released instead. An officer is going to drop off his property.”
Just dandy. Brubaker, the mayor’s brother-in-law—who until today had worked for his wife’s insurance agency—obviously didn’t care about the liability involved in releasing an injured prisoner. Or worse, didn’t know.
One of Brubaker’s campaign issues had been her overspending, because she’d insisted the town bring the department’s technical capabilities up to the twenty-first century. It didn’t surprise her that he refused to spend any funds on a D and D set to walk out the door in the morning. Much simpler and cheaper to cut the guy loose. Even if he was injured.
“Doctor, this man has a head injury, a concussion at the very least. And possible amnesia. He says he doesn’t remember who he is. We haven’t been able to identify him, as he was missing his wallet when he was picked up walking into town.”
“Sounds like he’s had a rough night. I’ll examine him, of course, but if he has no means of payment and the sheriff’s office refuses to pay, I’m limited in what I can do.”
“Whatever you can do, Doctor, will be appreciated.”
He nodded and pushed the door open. “That’s why I voted for you, Grace. You may draw a hard line between black-and-white, but people matter to you. It’s not all about the bottom line.”
JD sat on the doctor’s stool. At five-seven it was the only way Dr. Honer could see his patient. If JD laid on the exam gurney his head would be up against the wall, and if he sat up he’d be out of the doctor’s reach unless he bent in half—something his equilibrium wouldn’t allow for in his present condition.
After a thorough exam, Dr. Honer announced, “The good news is there doesn’t appear to be any neck or spinal injuries. As for the head wound, I’m going to need an MRI.”
Concerned by the need for a scan of his brain, she stayed with JD, following him down the hall and sitting with him while he waited to take the test. He sat staring at the wall.
* * *
“Are you okay?” the pretty cop asked, her voice low, careful.
“Apparently not, if the doctor wants to do tests.”
“The tests could reveal good news,” she suggested.
“Doubtful. It’s never good news,” he declared with a depth of feeling that belied his lack of memory.
What a fool, sitting here in the hall dressed in a freaking hospital gown—the nurse had found a cloth one big enough to fit—while the whole world paraded by. He glanced at his bare wrist and bit back a curse. Everything had been stripped from him. He couldn’t even mark the time, except to note it was moving at a slug’s pace.
“I hate hospitals. And you know the worst part?” He sent her a sidelong glance. “I don’t even know why.”
“It must be difficult.”
“Frustrating, debilitating, terrifying. The not knowing goes on and on no matter how hard I try to remember.”
“Maybe you should stop trying, give your brain a chance to heal.”
“Easier said than done. There’s just pain and a
