Under the Mistletoe with John Doe

“You had a beer and left. In the parking lot, someone decided to lift your wallet, but didn’t want to risk a tussle with you. So they hit you with a tire iron and made sure you couldn’t put up a fight.”

She let him ponder that for a while, then said, “When the medics brought you into the E.R., you asked about a child and her mom. No one was with you at the bar. Could they have been witnesses?”

“It’s possible, I guess. But you’ll have to forgive me. I’m still drawing a complete blank.”

“That’s understandable. But you might want to pass that information on to the sheriff, just in case.”

“All right.” For some reason, she got the idea that he was used to giving orders. If so, being laid up was going to be tough on him.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She crossed her arms and tossed him a wry grin. “I’d venture to say that you’re in your late twenties or early thirties. You stand about six foot tall or more and you’re in good shape.”

He was also one of the most attractive men she’d seen in a long time, with broad shoulders and tight abs—as bruised as they were when she’d examined him—she couldn’t help noticing. He also had eyes the shade of Texas bluebonnets, which was unusual for a man who appeared to have more than a little Latin blood.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Pretty much. You were well dressed and wore expensive clothing, so I think you’ve got a decent job—or a trust fund.” Of course, Doug had taught her to be skeptical of men like that, so she added, “Then again, you could be a con artist.”

“Yeah, well, apparently whatever money I may or may not have isn’t available to me anymore.”

Rather than answer, she gave a little who-knows? shrug.

He paused a beat, then sobered. “So you think that I was just passing through town?”

She doubted that he was a drifter, if that’s what he meant. And the mystery about him, both medical and otherwise, intrigued her.

So did the spark of life in his eyes.

And the square cut of his jaw.

But she wasn’t comfortable talking to him about her observations, when he might think that she found him attractive.

Okay, so he definitely was hot, and any woman who still had breath in her body couldn’t help but agree.

Betsy wouldn’t act on it, though. And if John picked up on those vibes, no good would come of it.

“Well,” she said, backing away from the hospital bed. “I’d better head home. I’ve got to get some sleep because my next shift starts in—” she glanced at the clock on the wall “—less than twelve hours.”

“Will I see you again?”

His tone, as well as the question, took her aback. And she didn’t know what to tell him. In truth, there wasn’t any reason for her to come back to see him, but she couldn’t seem to bow out completely. “I’ll stop by around dinnertime.”

He smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”

There went her heart rate again, and she struggled with the wisdom of a return visit. Yet she nodded, then turned and walked out of his room.

She wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened in there. But she blamed it on a lack of sleep.

And a lack of sex, a small voice whispered.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Her self-imposed celibacy had been working out just fine. So why him?

And why now?

She’d be darned if she knew—or dared to pursue—the answer.

John Doe slept off and on the next morning, hoping that eventually he’d wake up with his memory intact. But so far, nothing had come to mind.

Just before lunch, Dr. Kelso came in to perform some kind of mental evaluation, this one more complex than what he’d had so far. John had passed most of it with flying colors. He had some basic knowledge, although he certainly wouldn’t try his luck on Jeopardy or Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

But memories of anything prior to his arrival at the E.R., anything of actual value, had been lost to him.

“So what’s the verdict?” he asked the neurologist.

“Well, the good news is that the MRI has ruled out a skull fracture, but you have a cerebral contusion.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a bruise on the brain tissue,” Dr. Kelso had explained. “I don’t think you need surgery at this point, but we’ll keep an eye on it. If it worsens, we may have to go in and relieve the pressure. But for now, we’ll be giving you steroids to lessen any swelling.”

“What about my memory?” he asked.

“You have retrograde amnesia.”

“How long is it going to last? When will I remember who I am?”

“It’s hard to say. The causes and symptoms of amnesia vary from patient to patient. And so does the recovery process. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait and see what happens in your case.”

Great. “How long will I have to stay in the hospital?”

“That depends, too. I’d say at least a couple of days, maybe a week. But that could change if there are complications.”

He wondered how he was going to pay the bill. Did he have health insurance? A job?

Of course, that was the least of his problems now. As it was, he was stuck in limbo—and in Brighton Valley—until his brain healed and his memory returned.

“I’ll be back to see you later this afternoon,” Dr. Kelso said. “In the meantime, get some rest.”

There weren’t many other options, John decided, as he settled back into his pillow, hoping to find a comfortable spot. Besides the outside wounds from the tire iron, his brain was bruised. No wonder his head ached.

As he dozed off and on during the afternoon, he periodically glanced at the clock that hung on the wall across from his bed, wishing that the hours would pass quickly. Dr. Nielson had said that she’d be back around dinnertime, and he couldn’t help looking forward to her return.

Sure, she was an attractive woman, in spite of the blue scrubs she wore. He wondered what she’d look like dressed in street clothes—maybe a pair of tight jeans and a slinky blouse. A splash of makeup to highlight the color of her eyes. Her auburn curls hanging soft and loose around her shoulders.

But it was more than the redhead’s pretty face and intense green eyes that appealed to him.

As he’d watched her leave his bedside this morning, he’d felt as if he’d just lost his best friend.