the bed, but was instantly swamped with dizziness. Her hand instinctively shot out for something to steady her and landed smack in the middle of Wyatt’s chest. She jerked back as if she’d touched fire.
Wyatt instantly grabbed her by the shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you going to faint?” he asked roughly.
She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the spinning in her head to stop. It would be bad enough to faint. But to helplessly wilt in front of this man would be totally humiliating. “No. I’m a little dizzy. Just give me a moment.”
“This is a hell of a way to be leaving the hospital,” he muttered. “You can’t even walk down the hallway. Who is the idiot doctor that signed your release papers? I’m going to go find him—”
“I’m all right!” Her eyes flew open and she straightened away from him with a weak jerk. “There’s no need for you to get so angry.”
Her words brought him up short. He wasn’t angry, but he supposed he probably appeared that way to her. Well, that was okay with him. It wouldn’t do to let her think he was actually concerned about her. She needed to know he was a hard man, who wouldn’t blink an eye about cuffing her hands behind her back—if she turned out to be a criminal.
Three
“Stay here. I’ll get a wheelchair,” he ordered.
Moments later Wyatt was back, and Gabrielle had no choice but to allow him to push her to the elevator, then out to the sidewalk to his waiting truck.
As they traveled away from the hospital, Gabrielle focused her attention on the passing buildings and streets, hoping something might spark her memory. But after several blocks whizzed by, her spirits sank to her feet. Nothing about the city looked familiar.
As though he were reading her thoughts, he asked, “Recognize anything?”
“No. But I have a feeling I don’t recognize this place because I’m not from around here.”
His expression remained unmoved as he negotiated the pickup truck through heavy traffic. “I could have told you that yesterday.”
She thrust a heavy wave of hair back from her face before fixing him with a stare. “How?”
“You hardly sound Texan. Californian, I’d wager. You have that West Coast look about you, too. Tanned skin, sun-streaked hair.”
“I’m sure there are tanned women with streaked hair around here,” she pointed out.
“Yeah. But you’re different. And I think you know it.”
She was different because she had amnesia! she wanted to yell at him. Instead, she asked, “What did you find in my car?”
The pickup was a four-wheel-drive vehicle with a shift stick in the floor. She watched the corded muscle in his arm work as he shoved the stick into a lower gear. She instinctively knew he was a strong man. She could still feel the grip of his fingers on her shoulder when he’d steadied her in the hospital room.
“It’s in that sack beside you. That was all I could find. I’d say the only reason it didn’t burn was because it was sheltered by the metal glove compartment. Also I managed to find the VIN number on your car,” he said. “It’s being run through a computer.”
“What will that tell you?”
“Where the vehicle came from. Who owned it.”
A pent-up breath whooshed out of her. “Then you might find out who I am.”
His lips twisted as he glanced at her. “You said you’re Gabrielle Carter. Is that not true?”
He saw her fingers grip the paper, saw her gaze at the clump on her lap as though it was the only thing she possessed in her life. And maybe it was, he thought. The notion bothered Wyatt. Way too much.
“I am Gabrielle Carter,” she said resolutely. “But who is she?”
He motioned toward the sack. “Maybe that will give you your answer.”
Slowly, she unrolled the top of the brown paper bag and peeked inside. “A book?”
“More than just a book.”
Gabrielle carefully lifted the article out of the sack. The leather cover was charred around the edges and streaked with smoke, but the words on the front were still visible: Holy Bible. What had she been doing traveling with a Bible? she wondered. Was she a religious zealot? She didn’t feel like one. Then again, she was obviously spiritual. Several times in the past two days she had found herself silently praying. Perhaps the book was a family heirloom that she hadn’t wanted to part with.
Trying to ignore Wyatt’s watchful eye, she quickly opened to the front pages of the book where a family tree would normally be registered. Her heart sank when she saw the entry lines were empty.
She rubbed her fingers back and forth across her forehead. “What do you think I was doing with a Bible?”
“Who knows? Maybe you came here to do missionary work.” His gaze cut a skeptical path from her neck all the way down to her feet. “But in that getup, I very much doubt it.”
Her face flaming from his blatant inspection, she looked down at herself. Even though her black ribbed top had a scooped neck and no sleeves, there was nothing indecent about it. Nor about her jeans. The sandals were a little funky and the heels a bit high, but from what she’d briefly seen on a few women in the hospital lobby, they were in style.
“You have a certain image of a missionary woman?”
The faint smile on his face was more smirk than anything. Gabrielle wished she had the strength and the nerve to reach across the seat and slap his jaw—lawman or not.
“Yeah. And it sure doesn’t fit you.”
She breathed deeply and tried to stem her rising temper.
“Why don’t you want me to go to the Double Crown Ranch?”
“Are my feelings that obvious to you?”
“Very.”
They were finally leaving the city behind. Wyatt reached to shove the gearshift into overdrive, and, once again, Gabrielle watched the rhythmic movements of his body. For the first time she noticed there were no rings on his fingers. A watch with a silver band encrusted with squares of green malachite circled his left wrist, but other than the distinctly Native American piece, he wore no jewelry. She was not surprised at the absence of a wedding band. There was nothing about the man that said he belonged to a woman. Or ever would.
“The Fortunes are my good friends,” he told her. “I don’t want them to be taken advantage of.”
His words stung her hard. Why, she didn’t know. What this arrogant sheriff thought of her shouldn’t matter one iota. But it did. “Do I look like an ax murderer or something?”
“Or something.”
She wanted to scream at his short, noncommittal answers. “What does that mean?”
