The Reckoning

But how was she supposed to be independent, let alone a mother, if she couldn’t remember the simple things?

The other woman must have read the question on her face. “You handled the situation, didn’t you, Linda? You recognized the error, coped with it. That’s all any of us can ask of ourselves.”

Linda had never been a whiner, but still… “It was a shower,” she muttered. “You’d think I could get that right.”

“Is there something else bothering you, Linda? Some worry? You know that can put you off your game.”

Linda drummed her fingertips against the tabletop. A few months back, she hadn’t had the dexterity to do such a thing. The hours of drilling with computer games had paid off. “It’s…it’s a man,” she admitted.

“Ryan Fortune?” The counselor rubbed Linda’s shoulder. “Grief is perfectly normal, too.”

Linda gave a vague nod. She did grieve for Ryan. He’d been a gentle friend to her, like a kindly uncle, and he’d given her a much-needed anchor in those first months after she came fully, miraculously conscious. It had been Ryan who had found this wonderful facility, and had paid for it. It had been Ryan who, she learned a few days after his death, had set up trusts for both herself and her son that gave them financial security for the rest of their lives.

“But it’s a different man I’m thinking of,” she told the counselor. Her hand automatically reached for her notebook and flipped it open to the most recent page. It was what she’d written after the breakfast reminder.

9:00 a.m., you have a meeting with the Armstrongs…

The Armstrongs were another miracle in her life. After Ricky’s birth, Ryan had met the couple through the Mothers Against Drunk Driving organization. They’d lost their daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter to a drunk driver. Learning of what had befallen Linda, they’d opened their home to Ricky and their hearts to his mother, as well, even though for long years she hadn’t been aware of their weekly visits or their prayers and hopes for her recovery. They were going to bring her to their house when she was released from rehab and assured her that she and Ricky had a place with them for as long as she liked. She knew they regarded her as a daughter and Ricky as their treasured grandson.

The Armstrongs didn’t worry her.

9:00 a.m., you have a meeting with the Armstrongs and Emmett Jamison.

Emmett Jamison. Now he worried her. Her finger nervously tapped the page beneath his name.

“Who’s Emmett Jamison?” the counselor asked.

“What is more like it,” Linda said under her breath. FBI agent. Tough guy. So take-charge he had made her feel flustered, hot and confused with just one level look from those searing green eyes of his. A woman who’d been half-asleep for so many years didn’t have one technique on hand to cope with him.

The day they’d met, he’d been adamant about who he was. “I’m the man who’s going to be looking after you,” he’d said, then stalked off, leaving her staring. She would have dismissed him as a loony or some figment of her misfiring memory if Ricky hadn’t discovered the intriguing FBI agent, tough-guy tidbits from some others attending Ryan’s memorial. And then yesterday, Emmett had phoned to tell her he’d arranged to speak with her and the Armstrongs. She had no idea why. She was afraid to guess.

“Linda, who is this man?” the counselor prodded.

“Emmett Jamison is…” Her hand lifted. “Emmett Jamison is…”

“Early,” filled in a deep voice from the doorway of the dining room.

Linda shivered, because there he was, staring at her with those intense green eyes of his and looking dark and determined. A big, bad wolf from the big, bad world.

Two

Linda discovered that the hallways of the rehab facility weren’t wide enough when Emmett Jamison was walking by her side. He seemed so big, so male, in his casual slacks and open-throated dress shirt. It wasn’t as if he tried to crowd her, but he just seemed to be so close, so there, as she led the way toward her room.

He was loud, too. Not in the usual sense—as a matter of fact, he didn’t even make an attempt at small talk—but the quiet way he moved, the confident aura attached to him made his very presence noisy. There was no way to ignore someone like that.

She couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

“You didn’t say why you wanted to meet with me,” she ventured. If she hadn’t been so surprised and confused when he’d called the day before, she would have insisted on finding out the reason then.

“I didn’t?” His expression remained unreadable as he glanced into one of the rehab classrooms. Three of the center’s clients sat at different tables, one working on a computer game, another inserting pegs in a pegboard, another putting together a simple puzzle. “Is that the kind of thing you’ve been doing the past year?” he asked.

“Yes,” Linda answered. There was no point in pretending otherwise. “Computer games and puzzles to improve dexterity and memory and focus. And then there have been sessions of physical therapy, speech therapy and occupational therapy. In many respects—most, maybe—I was like a child when I came here. There was a lot I had to relearn.”

“But now you’re… What would you call it? Up to speed? Cured?”

Anxiety washed over Linda again like a cold sweat. “I’ll never be cured,” she admitted. It was the hard truth that the rehab center tried to make the head-injured understand. “I’m a different person now than I was before the car accident.”

But exactly who was that new person? The question was only exacerbated by the decade that she’d lost. With her past nearly as hazy as her future, she continued to struggle with developing her identity—even believing that she could. Leaving the rehab center, she worried, would only make that problem more overwhelming.

More frightening.

Finding Nancy and Dean Armstrong already waiting in the small sitting area of her room didn’t ease the feeling. They were wonderful, generous people who had always cared for Ricky and her, including visiting her regularly during her rehab and taking her out on day trips around the area and to their San Antonio home. But seeing them today only served to remind her that soon, so soon, she would be moving into their household and she would be expected to not only begin making a life for herself, but begin making herself into a mother for her son.

“Nancy, Dean. It’s good to see you.” Linda exchanged brief hugs with them.

“I brought more pictures.” Nancy pressed a packet of snapshots into her hand. “Soccer photos and some from the field trip I chaperoned last week.”

Linda’s fingers tightened on the pictures. The Armstrongs were so conscientious about integrating her into Ricky’s life. They shared photos and stories and the boy’s company at every opportunity. It wasn’t their fault she had trouble accepting herself as a mother.

Ducking the thought, she gestured toward her companion. “And do you two know Emmett Jamison?”

They apparently did, which puzzled Linda even more. So with everyone seated, she decided to get the situation straightened out. “Mr. Jamison—”

“Emmett,” he corrected.

“Emmett, then. What can I—” she looked at the older couple “—what can we do for you?”

On the love seat across from the straight chairs that she and Emmett were seated upon, Nancy and Dean exchanged glances. The big, bad wolf kept his gaze trained on her. “It’s what I can do for you.”

She did not like the way he said the words. She did not. “But I don’t need anything.”

Emmett’s gaze flicked toward Nancy and Dean. “You’ll be leaving the rehab facility shortly. I want to be a help to you.”

Was he offering his services as a mover? That was the only thing that made any sense. “I’m going to be living at the Armstrongs’ house, and I have very little to bring with me there from here. Some clothes, a few books, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away, leaving a silence to well in the room. Her stomach gave a nervous jump, and she withdrew the photos from their envelope to give her fingers something to do. The glossy images fanned across her lap.

“I promised Ryan,” the man said.

She frowned. “Promised him what?”

“That I’d look after you. That I’d do what I could to make things easier for you.” He finally looked away from her face. “I’ve made a couple of promises, and I intend to keep them.”

Oh-kay. “That was very…nice of Ryan, and typical of him to be worried about me, but I don’t need to be looked after. I don’t need anyone to make things easier.” Well, of course she did, but she doubted there was a person in the universe who could make her feel like a real mother and a complete woman instead of the jumble of unconnected puzzle pieces she regarded as herself.

“More convenient then,” he put in. “I could make things more convenient for you.”

Uncertain how to reject his offer, she looked over at the Armstrongs in mute appeal. It was then she read the worried expression on Nancy’s face. “What is it?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”