He brought her closer. “I’m glad I met you. I’m even glad I lost my memory.”
“I’m glad we met, too. But you shouldn’t say that about having amnesia.”
“It’s giving me a chance to start over.”
“This isn’t starting over, J.D. It’s a break from your other life.”
“I don’t care about my other life.”
“You shouldn’t say that, either. It’s important to care about who you are.”
How could he care about something he couldn’t remember? They didn’t talk anymore, and he was grateful for the silence. He didn’t want to disturb the bond. He wanted the luxury of knowing her in this way. He was in the moment. He was part of it. John Doe and Jenna Byrd, he thought.
He danced with her as if his amnesia depended on it, the heat between them surging through his veins.
This was a memory he would never forget.
About the Author
SHERI WHITEFEATHER is a bestselling author who has won numerous awards, including readers’ and reviewers’ choice honors. She writes a variety of romance novels for Mills & Boon. She has become known for incorporating Native American elements into her stories. She has two grown children who are tribally enrolled members of the Muscogee Creek Nation.
Sheri is of Italian-American descent. Her great-grand-parents immigrated to the United States from Italy through Ellis Island, originating from Castel di Sangro and Sicily. She lives in California and enjoys ethnic dining, shopping in vintage stores and going to art galleries and museums. Sheri loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website at www.SheriwhiteFeather.com.
The Texan’s
Future Bride
Sheri Whitefeather
To Judy Duarte and Crystal Green
for supporting my dreams
and always believing that they will come true.
Chapter One
What the—?
As Jenna Byrd steered her truck toward the Flying B, she noticed a man walking along the private road that led to the ranch. Or stumbling was more like it. He didn’t look familiar, but he didn’t seem out of place, either. His dusty jeans, plain T-shirt and battered boots were typical small-town Texas attire. He was missing a hat, though. Had he lost it somewhere? His short dark hair was decidedly messy.
Jenna frowned. Clearly, he was snockered in the middle of the day. Cowboys could be a hell-raisin’ breed. Of course she didn’t dally with that kind. Although she was hoping to find a cowboy to call her own, she was attracted to well-behaved men, not rabble-rousers who could barely put one foot in front of the other. He was ambling toward her pickup instead of away from it.
Good grief. She couldn’t just leave him out here. The Flying B was about five miles down the road, and in his condition, he would never make it. And why he was heading toward the ranch was beyond her.
She stopped her truck and sighed. She knew he wasn’t a Flying B employee. She’d made a point of meeting everyone on the payroll. Jenna owned a portion of the ranch. She and her sister and their cousin had inherited equal shares of the Flying B, and they were going to turn it into a B and B.
She rolled down her window and said, “What are you doing out here?”
He looked at her as if he wasn’t really seeing her. His deep brown eyes were glazed. He didn’t respond.
She repeated the question.
He blinked at her. He was probably around her age, thirty or so, with tanned skin and striking features—handsome, even in his wasted state.
Curious, she tried to figure him out. Maybe he was a whiskey-toting hitchhiker. Or maybe he was affiliated with another ranch in the area and after he’d tied one on, he’d mistakenly taken the wrong road. There had to an explanation for his disorderly presence.
Hoping to solve the dilemma, she asked, “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” he parroted.
This was going nowhere. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
He squinted. “I have?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
Easy for him to say. He was too drunk to know the difference. While she debated how to handle the situation, he staggered a little more.
“I feel funny,” he said.
No kidding, she thought.
“I’ve got a headache.” He rubbed the back of his head. When he brought his fingers forward, the tips were red.
Her pulse jumped. He was bleeding.
She parked and leaped out of her truck. Had he gotten into a brawl? Overly intoxicated men were prone to that sort of behavior. But whatever he’d done, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting his wound treated.
“My cousin’s fiancé is a doctor. He lives at the ranch where I live, and I think he’s home today. If he isn’t, I’ll take you to his office.”
“No. That’s okay.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “I’m better now.”
Obviously, he wasn’t. She slipped her arm around him and realized that he didn’t smell of alcohol. Most likely, he hadn’t been drinking, which made his condition a bigger cause for concern. He was probably dazed because of the injury.
“Come on. Let’s get you into the truck.”
Shouldering his weight wasn’t easy. He was about six feet, packed with lean muscle mass. At five-five, with a slight build, she was no match for him.
He lagged against her, and she held him tighter. Nonetheless, he kept insisting that he was fine, which clearly wasn’t the case. He was definitely confused.
Once he was seated, she eased away from him and closed the door. She got behind the wheel and reached for her cell phone. She called Mike Sanchez or “Doc” as he’d become known in these parts. He was at the ranch. She asked him to meet her at the main house and told him that she was bringing an injured man with her.
“The back of his head is bleeding.” She glanced at her passenger. He was staring out the window with those glazed eyes. She lowered her voice. “I don’t know much about these things, but I think he has some sort of concussion. I found
