My Favorite Husband

John made a choking sound.

“Come on, Fred,” she said to him. “Let’s help my husband, John, up off the floor, and then we can get him something for his headache.” John’s—the real John’s—eyes widened. Actually, Katie reflected, popped would be a better description.

“I can get up by myself,” Rider protested, pushing the two of them away.

John jerked his head toward the kitchen, his expression frantic.

“Okay, dear,” Katie said to Rider. “You get up by yourself, and we’ll go find some water and an aspirin for you.” She left the room with John close behind.

“Why on earth did you tell him he’s your husband?” John demanded in hushed tones as soon as she had closed the door to the living room.

“Shhh!” She led him to the far corner of the big, old—fashioned kitchen. “This is my chance,” she whispered. “I can talk to the enemy, explain the story, let him see that I’m really a good person, let him know what an injustice he’ll be doing to Nathan if he sides with my parents. If I get him in the car and on the road, I’ll have a captive audience even after he regains his memory.”

“You’re going to take him to Oklahoma with you? You can’t do that! What if somebody’s looking for him? What if he has a wife?”

“He doesn’t have on a ring, so he probably doesn’t. But what difference would that make? I don’t want to marry him. I just want to borrow him for a little while. I imagine he’d planned to go up there for the hearing anyway, so it’s not like he’ll be going out of his way because of me. And by the time we get there, he’ll be ready to help me, not my parents.”

“You’ll never get away with this. Memory loss like this is usually very temporary.”

“How temporary?”

“Could be fifteen minutes, could be twenty—four hours.”

“Twenty—four hours?”

“Maybe. It could be longer, but the point is, he could regain his memory any minute now. Maybe by the time we walk back out there. Maybe halfway across the Red River. A captive audience, yes, but a hostile one. Katie, you can’t do this!”

Katie hesitated. Everything John said was true. But the alternative was even riskier. “I don’t see that I have much choice. What do you want me to do? Go out there and tell him who he is and why he was peeking in my window and how I whacked him with a skillet, then give him back his tape recorder and let him ruin Nathan’s life?”

John ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I guess not.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you. Now first, do we need to take this creep to the emergency room? Not that I have much sympathy for him, but I’d hate to end up a murderer after all. Not to mention how inconvenient it’d be if he croaked in my car halfway to Oklahoma.”

“I don’t think he’s going to die any time soon. If you take him to emergency, they’ll check his pupils, which I already did, and tell him to take aspirin if his head continues to hurt. You do need to keep an eye on him, and if he passes out or you can’t wake him up, get him to a hospital ASAP. But I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Great. Now while I take him a glass of water and some aspirin, you go outside and get the tape re corder, that blasted contract and my skillet and take them with you.” Thinking about the contract with its revelations reminded her of Rider’s wallet. She pulled it from her pocket. “Put this in my glove compartment. No, wait.”

She flipped it open and thumbed through.

“Katie, you shouldn’t be going through his personal things,” John protested.

“I almost killed the man. Going through his wallet can’t be more personal than that. No pictures of a wife or kids. In case of emergency notify…Gary Rider. His father. And he lives in Austin. That’s good. Here’s my new husband’s business card with his phone number.” She picked up the telephone and dialed. After two rings, his answering machine picked up.

“This is Travis Rider. I’m not home. Leave a message.”

“He’s not married,” Katie reported, hanging up the phone. “He said, ‘I’m not home.’ If he was married, his wife would have made him say we. So that takes care of that worry.” She handed him the wallet. “Put this in my glove compartment, then load your luggage into the back seat of my car.”

“My luggage? Why do you want my luggage?”

“You’re pretty close to his size. Your clothes should fit. Can I borrow your identification, too, just in case?”

“No, you can’t borrow my identification! And you can’t have my clothes, either.”

“I only want to borrow them. You packed for a couple of days, right? So you have plenty more at home. If I’m going to convince Travis Rider he’s my husband, how am I going to explain to him why he doesn’t have any clothes here? And what’ll he do for clothes once we get up there? He can’t go to court in that outfit he’s wearing. At least, not if he switches to my side. If he won’t listen to reason, he can go naked for all I care.”

John expelled a long sigh. “All right. You can have the clothes, but not the identification.”

It was more than she’d hoped for. “Deal. I’ll figure out something on the ID if it comes up.”

“Don’t forget the ring.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Katie reached into her purse, took out the imitation—gold wedding band and slipped it onto her finger.

John shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m helping you.”

“I’ll do the same for you.”

“I know. You’ve always been there when I needed you. I just hope you never have occasion to repay this kind of a favor!”

“Relax. Everything’s going to be fine. You go on out the back door and take care of things, and I’ll get this cad a glass of water and two aspirin. And if he’s remembered who he is, I’ll pour the water over his head. With plenty of ice. It can’t hurt matters at this point.”

John. Somehow the name didn’t seem to fit, but that was what the woman—his wife—had called him. He settled on the sofa, leaning back to ease the throbbing in his head.

Why the hell couldn’t he remember who he was? The sensation of being lost in his own body was strange and awful. He couldn’t remember who he was, couldn’t remember his wife, couldn’t remember his home…and he didn’t particularly like his home now that he looked around.

The house itself was small and old while the furni ture, pictures and area rugs appeared new though inexpensive. He must not make very much money as a…well, as whatever he did. And his wife wasn’t much of a housekeeper. The place definitely had a lived—in look with its books, magazines, a pair of running shoes, a suitcase and garment bag—were they taking a trip?—a pencil and notepad…

“Here, John. Aspirin.” His wife approached, tentatively holding a glass of ice water in one hand and two white pills in the other, both at arm’s length.

Maybe she wasn’t such a good housekeeper, but he could certainly see why he’d married her. She was a looker. Short, honey—colored hair, big eyes the shade of bluebonnets, full pink lips, fair skin with a golden glow as if she spent a lot of time in the sun, thin cotton shirt outlining round breasts that would just fit in a man’s hand, and faded blue jeans wrapped snugly around a rear to match those breasts. Damn! How could a man forget a woman like that?

He couldn’t keep the smile from his lips as he accepted the water and the pills. “Thanks, uh, honey.” Her enormous eyes got even bigger. Had he said something wrong? Maybe he didn’t normally call her honey. But he didn’t know her name.

He tossed the aspirins into his mouth, washing them down with the cold water. The sensation of a cool liquid trickling down his throat was real and tangible and familiar in this strange, unreal, out-of-focus world.

She sat beside him. “How do you feel?”

“Weird,” he said. “But much better with you here.” He did sense some sort of connection between the two of them, but it was only a feeling. He couldn’t pull the facts out of the mist of his memory. He moved closer, wanting to strengthen that connection. “You smell good. Kind of like…uh…”

“Honeysuckle,” she supplied, inching away from him as if frightened. “You still don’t know who you are, do you?”

“No, I’m sorry.” He couldn’t blame her for being a little freaked out with the whole thing; he certainly was. “I know there’s something between us, but I still don’t remember you. I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Katie Logan. Katie Logan Dunn. That’s your name. Dunn. John Dunn. We’re married. Two days ago.” She held out her left hand to show him the plain gold band. A pretty cheap—looking gold band. Was that the best he could afford?

“Katie.” He tried the name, rolling it off his tongue. “John Dunn. Katie Dunn.” Neither name rang any bells. In fact, they both sounded kind of flat to his ears. Oh, well. Most people disliked their names.

He brightened at that thought. At least he remembered generalizations. Things could be worse.