overnight. Then she’d used the proceeds to buy stock in the medical center.
Doc had made a sizable investment in the facility himself. And with the hospital struggling financially… Well, Betsy wouldn’t think about that now.
“Tell the patient he can stay here,” Doc said. “I’ve got room in the house. And you and I can keep an eye on him that way.”
Have John stay at the ranch?
Her heart ricocheted in her chest. Just the idea was…
What? Brilliant? Perfect?
Reckless?
“Knowing that he has a place to stay and a way to support himself ought to help put his mind at ease,” Doc said.
It might put John at ease, Betsy realized. But the thought of John Doe living so close to her was doing a real number on her.
As one day stretched into a second, and then into a third, John still couldn’t remember who he was or what he was doing in Brighton Valley.
His injury had been serious, and doctors were monitoring the contusion to make sure it didn’t worsen. If it did, he would need surgery.
There were a lot of things he didn’t know these days, but he was certain that he didn’t want anyone operating on his brain. And so far, so good. He hadn’t needed surgery.
Dr. Kelso had mentioned something about releasing him in the next day or so, which was great. But he had no idea where he’d go.
He’d figure out something, he supposed. He certainly couldn’t lie around in a hospital bed for the rest of his life. But God only knew what he’d do to support himself.
Footsteps sounded, and he looked up to see a dark-haired teenage girl wearing a pink-striped apron. She poked her head into his doorway and smiled. “Would you like a magazine or a book to read?”
John hadn’t felt up to doing much of anything for the past couple of days, but it was much easier to concentrate now. His headaches weren’t as intense and he was feeling more like himself.
Well, whatever “himself” meant.
So he said, “Sure, I’ll take one. What’ve you got?”
She wheeled a small cart into his room, and he scanned the offerings:
When the candy striper left the room, he began to thumb through the pages, wondering if he’d been a golfer before the mugging.
If so, did he play regularly? Or had he just taken up the sport?
That answer, like all the others he’d been asking himself over the past two days, evaded him.
He had, of course, picked up a few clues to his identity. He knew the USC fight song, had an appreciation for college football and didn’t much care for poached eggs.
According to one of the nurses, he had an imperious tone at times, as if he was used to giving orders, rather than taking them.
And he
But that wasn’t much to go on.
As he continued to gloss over the pages in the magazine, he paused to scan an ad for a new TaylorMade putter that was gaining popularity. It looked familiar. Did he have one in a golf bag somewhere?
His musing was interrupted by a silver-haired, pink-smocked hospital volunteer who entered the room and announced that it was dinnertime.
She carried in his tray, and when she set it on the portable table, he studied his meal: grilled chicken, a side of pasta, green beans, a roll and a little tub of chocolate ice cream.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She offered him a sweet, grandmotherly smile. “Can I bring you anything else?”
“No, I’m set.” He paid special attention to his attitude with her, offering a smile-no need for her to think he was bossy-and waiting to pick up the fork until after she’d left the room.
Hospital food was supposed to be lousy, which was one more piece of useless information he’d managed to recall hearing at another time and place, but the food here wasn’t too bad.
As he speared a piece of lightly seasoned rigatoni, he glanced at the clock. Dr. Nielson would be stopping by soon-at least he hoped she would. He was getting tired of watching TV, and her visits were the only thing he had to look forward to.
Something told him that she didn’t have a professional reason to stop and see him. And if that were the case, he wondered whether it was a personal one.
He sure hoped so. Her visits had become the highlight of his day. Of course, he figured that even if he was back in his real world, her smile would be a welcome sight.
His first postmugging memory was of her pretty face, those vibrant green eyes and that wild auburn hair that she kept tied back by a barrette or a rubber band.
The night of the accident, he’d wondered for a nanosecond if she was an angel. If she had been, he would have run to the light. Gladly.
After finishing his meal, he reached for the tub of low-fat chocolate ice cream and pulled off the circular cardboard top.
Before he could dig in, her voice sounded in the doorway. “Good evening.”
John turned to his personal Florence Nightingale and smiled. “Hey. Come in.”
He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped thinking of her as a doctor. Pretty much the night he’d first laid eyes on her in the E.R., he guessed. He’d asked one of the nurses about her yesterday and had learned her name was Betsy. He’d also heard that she was one of the hardest working and most dedicated physicians on staff.
As she entered the room, she asked, “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” Did he dare tell her he was bored, that he wanted to get out of here, even if he didn’t have any place to go?
When she reached his bedside, her petite frame hiding behind a pair of pale teal scrubs that made her eyes appear to be an even deeper shade of green, he studied her.
She wore very little makeup-not that she needed it-but she downplayed her beauty, which was a shame. He bet she’d look damn good in a sexy black dress with a low neckline, spiked high heels, her cheeks slightly flushed, a light coat of pink lipstick over lips that had a natural pout-a mouth he’d been paying a lot of attention to.
Her shoulder-length curls were pulled back into a simple ponytail, which was probably a logical style for a busy E.R. doctor. But John couldn’t help imagining those locks hanging wild and free. Or envisioning her in an upscale jazz club, a lone saxophone playing a sultry tune in the background.
She placed her hand on the bedrail, her nails plain and neatly manicured. Her grip was light and tentative, though, as if she was a bit hesitant. A little nervous, even.
“I talked to Dr. Kelso,” she said. “He’s probably going to discharge you in the next day or so.”
“He said something about that to me this morning. So I guess that means I’m almost back to fighting weight.” John tried to toss her a carefree smile, but it probably fell short. He was as uneasy about the future as he was about the past, and it was a real stretch to pretend otherwise.
“Do you have any idea where you might like to go when you get out of here?” she asked.
If her gaze wasn’t so damn sympathetic, if her eyes weren’t so green, he might have popped off with something sarcastic. As it was, he shrugged. “Not yet. I keep hoping that I’ll wake up and my memory will come rushing back. But it looks like I’d better give my options some thought.”
“I have one for you,” she said.
“An option?” He pushed the portable table aside, clearly interested. “What’s that?”
“I talked to Dr. Graham. He needs some help on his ranch, if you don’t mind doing some of the heavier chores for him. He’s agreed to pay you a small salary and provide you with room and board. Of course, not until you’re
