yet her focus remained on his broad shoulders, on the scatter of dark chest hair that ran along taut abs and trailed into the waistband of his jeans.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
“You’re the woman who came in last night to identify me. Chloe Dawson, right?”
She tossed him a smile. “Yes, that’s me. I’m glad you remembered.”
“Don’t be too optimistic,” he said. “I can recall everything as far back as the ambulance ride. Anything before that is a giant black spot in my mind. Besides...” He patted the paperwork one more time. “Your name is on my discharge sheet.”
“So Dr. Nielson told you that I was coming to pick you up?”
“Yep. Right before she signed off on my chart. I think she was eager to get home to her new baby. Not that I can blame her.”
So he liked children? That ought to mean he was one of the white hats and that she had nothing to worry about by being alone with him.
“Do you have kids?” she asked.
He froze, and his blue eyes darted upward as if he had to look up the answer in his cranial database. “I have no idea. But that’s not what I meant. I can’t blame the doc for wanting to ditch this place as soon as she could. Hospitals give me the creeps.”
Maybe, if she prodded him with enough questions, she’d latch on to the thread that would unravel all of his suppressed memories. “Have you been in the hospital before?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, either. I’m going to guess that I have—and that I didn’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t wait to get out of here.” He finally managed to slip on the sweatshirt. “You ready to go?”
“Sure. If you are.”
He snatched a white plastic bag off the floor by his chair and headed out the door. As she tried to keep up with his determined pace, her dusty cowboy boots clicked along the polished corridor floor.
“Wait,” she called out just before he reached the elevator. “I realize you’re in a hurry to leave and would probably hitch a ride with the first ship setting sail, but Dr. Nielson is releasing you to my care. So let’s slow down just a minute. Is there anything in that discharge paperwork that I need to know about before we hightail it out of here?”
“Sorry.” He handed her the top sheet off his stack for her to read. “Listen, Miss Dawson.”
When she looked up from the paper he’d given her and caught his gaze—or rather, when those amazing blue eyes caught hers—her tummy did a somersault.
He smiled. “It’s miss, right?”
Was he asking if she was single? Or just trying to be polite?
While working at the Stagecoach Inn, she’d gotten used to men—old and young, drunk and sober— hitting on her. And she was usually pretty quick on the draw when it came to letting them know she wasn’t interested.
But she’d make an allowance for the sexy marine who was still probably disoriented from the accident and the shock of having his memory banks wiped clean—at least, temporarily.
“Yes, it is. But let’s make that Chloe.”
“All right,” he said. “Thanks for picking me up, Chloe. And you might as well call me Joe, although, I may not answer to it.”
Why? Had he realized that the sheriff might have mistaken him for someone else?
No, she’d been told that his photo and name lined up. “I suppose, if you don’t remember who you are, your name wouldn’t sound familiar.”
“That’s the problem. Something about that name doesn’t feel right, although I have no idea why. Maybe because my brain is still so scrambled.” He let out a weary sigh. “Anyway, you don’t really have to be responsible for me. I waited for you to get here because Dr. Nielsen seems like a nice woman, and I don’t want to get her in trouble with the hospital bigwigs. But you can just drop me off at a nearby homeless shelter or rescue mission. I’ll be fine.”
She couldn’t possibly dump him just anywhere, especially in his condition. Yet he turned his back and continued on his way, his only goal the hospital exit.
“Joe,” she called out.
At the sound of his name—or maybe just her voice—he turned in response.
With her boots still planted in the middle of the hall, she asked, “Have you ever stayed in a homeless shelter or a rescue mission?”
“I don’t know.”
For a guy who didn’t seem to know very much about himself, he had no problem putting one combat boot in front of the other and pretending that nothing was wrong.
“Have you ever been to Brighton Valley?” she asked.
“Don’t know that, either.”
She wondered if he was getting tired of sounding like a broken record. “We don’t have any homeless shelters or rescue missions here. There’s a community church that lets people sleep in the basement, but the pastor usually goes home before now, so I doubt that they’re open.”
“Then I appreciate your offer to give me a ride and a place to stay for a day or two—at least, until my memory returns.”
“No problem. Dave and his family would have done the same.”
The furrow in his brow deepened as if he was reaching deep into his memory banks, only to find them empty. Then he nodded and continued to the elevator.
She followed him. When the doors opened, they stepped inside.
His fingers lingered over the panel for longer than necessary, so she pressed the L for lobby. Again, she reminded herself that by taking him home she was doing the right thing. After all, she couldn’t very well let him wander the streets if he couldn’t even operate a simple elevator.
He glanced at her, and his blank stare tore at her heart. Had the gravity of his situation finally sunk in?
“You sure you don’t mind me bunking with you?” he asked.
“Of course not. You’re a friend of Dave’s, and honestly, it’s his ranch. I’m only doing what he and his mother would have done for any of their friends.”
“I’ll try to make it up to you—the inconvenience and what not—when I figure out who I am and what I’m good for.”
“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
