could be remembering something that happened. Hard to say. In any case, I’m happy to report that your scans have been read and there are no fractures to your skull or any other major brain damage. You have a garden variety concussion and it should go away in the next few days. And it’s a positive sign to see that your short-term memory is working. You obviously remember that I’m your doctor and you remembered your dream.”
The doctor put the pin light away and placed a stethoscope to Lass’s chest. Once she’d listened to her satisfaction, then hung the instrument back around her neck, Lass asked, “What about the rest of my memory? I keep working my mind, trying to think past last night. I can’t.”
The doctor gently patted her shoulder. “I’m hopeful that once the swelling in your brain starts to recede and everything begins to heal itself, your memory will return. But in the meantime, I’m going to have a specialist come in this afternoon and speak with you.”
“A specialist?” Lass asked warily. “What kind of specialist?”
Dr. Donovan’s smile was meant to be reassuring. “A psychiatrist.”
Lass stared at her in horror. “Do you … think I’m crazy? Oh, God, I never thought about that! I might have been institutionalized and wandered away. Maybe I hurt someone and they put me away! I—”
With each word that passed her lips, Lass grew more and more agitated.
“Lass,” the doctor said gently. “You need to stop this. I can assure you that no one here has detected any sort of mental illness. The psychiatrist will simply talk to you and perhaps help coax some of your memories to return. That’s all.”
Lass’s shoulders slumped with relief. She didn’t know why her thoughts kept running toward such negative speculations. Had she been in some sort of trouble? Criminal trouble?
What a stupid question, Lass. Trouble might as well be written across your forehead. Anyone who’s found on the side of the road with a head bashed is bound to be connected to some sort of trouble. What do you think you were doing out there in the mountains in the middle of the night? Admiring the wildflowers?
Swallowing, she forced the troubling questions aside and tried to focus on the doctor. “So—how much longer will I have to be in the hospital?” she asked.
“If no complications pop up, I’ll be releasing you tomorrow.” Dr. Donovan smiled with encouragement. “As for this morning, the nurses are going to come in and help you shower and dress. And if you’re steady enough on your feet, you can move around somewhat. But I don’t want you overdoing it, okay?”
Lass agreed and the doctor continued to give her a few more orders before she finally said goodbye and left the room.
Once she was gone, Lass let out a heavy sigh as her gaze surveyed her surroundings. For the moment, the small, stark room was her home. But tomorrow she’d be leaving. To where? Where was her home? Oh, God, if she only knew.
Chapter Three
Later that afternoon while Hank questioned workers at the racetrack, Brady drove to the hospital to check on Lass. From the report Bridget had given him earlier this morning, the young woman’s memory was still a blank. But he was hoping each hour that passed would bring her closer to recalling her identity and, moreover, what had happened to her the night before.
On the second floor, he stepped off the elevator and turned right in the direction of Lass’s room, but before he could get past the nurse’s desk, a young woman with long brown hair wrapped in a knot atop her head waved and called to him.
“Hey, Brady! Are you going to the concert next weekend at the rodeo arena?”
He paused as the nurse came rushing up to him. Miranda was a sweet girl he’d once dated a few times, but it had quickly become obvious to both of them that she’d wanted more than just a good time together. Thankfully, she’d understood that he wasn’t looking for a permanent partner and they’d parted on friendly terms.
He shook his head. “Not unless I have to provide security. And right now the city police are planning on handling it.”
With Lass’s case thrown on his plate, he wasn’t going to have much free time in the coming days. Unless, she miraculously recovered, or someone showed up to identify her.
“Guess you’re busy with the Jane Doe thing,” she commented. “I think I ought to tell you that most of the hospital stopped by to see her. We’d been hoping someone would recognize her, but nobody does.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Miranda. I appreciate the attempt.”
Miranda grimaced with regret. “Poor thing. And she’s so pretty, too. What will happen to her? I mean, if she doesn’t remember? I guess she’ll have to go to one of those shelters.” Miranda shuddered with distaste. “Maybe you’ll figure it out, Brady, before that happens.”
He nodded and she quickly excused herself as the phone on the nurse’s desk began to shrill loudly. Brady hurried on to Lass’s room and as he went, Miranda’s suggestion plagued him. To think of Lass thrown in a rescue mission or a shelter for battered women sickened him. And whether she remembered or not, he couldn’t let it happen.
After a short knock on her door, he stepped inside the room and was pleasantly surprised to find her dressed and sitting in a cushioned chair positioned near the room’s only window.
“Well, you look much better than the last time I saw you,” he greeted. “How are you feeling?”
She was wearing the clothes he’d found her in and though they were smudged with dirt in spots, they made her look far more normal than the hideous hospital gown. Her long hair had been pulled back from her face and fastened at her nape with a rubber band. The style exposed her swollen eye yet at the same time revealed the long, lovely line of her neck.
“Stronger,” she answered. “And my head doesn’t hurt nearly as much.”
He moved across the room, then stopped a couple of feet from her chair. The late afternoon sun slanted a golden ray across her lap and cast a sheen to her crow-black hair. Except for her cheeks, her skin was as pale as milk and he found himself tempering the urge to reach over and touch it, test its softness with the pads of his fingers.
Clearing his throat, he said, “That’s good. Bridget says you’re on the mend.”
Her features tightened. “Did she also tell you that she sent a psychiatrist to talk with me?”
Brady looked at her in surprise. “No. But I’m glad. I told her to help you in every way that she could. Obviously she’s not going to leave any stone unturned.” He took a seat on the edge of the narrow bed. “So what did the psychiatrist have to say?”
She rubbed her hands nervously down the thighs of her jeans. “Well, that I’m not crazy or anything like that.”
Brady grinned. “I could have told you that much.”
She darted a sober glance at him. “He also said that I might not be remembering because I’m afraid to remember.”
Folding his arms against his chest, Brady studied her with interest. “Like a psychosomatic thing,” he said.
