Texas Gun Smoke. Joanna Wayne
the one who rescued her from the wrecked car last night.”
“I just happened to be the first one to show up. How is she?”
“She ate a big breakfast and she seems to be feeling fine, but she can’t remember a thing. Poor woman. She can’t even call her husband and tell him she’s safe.”
“Is it okay if I stop in and see her? I promise I won’t stay long.”
“Stay as long as you like, but I don’t know how much conversation you’ll get out of her. She hasn’t said but a few words to any of us all morning. I think the confusion is making her depressed. I was just taking her a lunch tray. You can tag along with me.”
“Thanks.” His boots clomped across the tile while her rubber-sole shoes barely made a sound. The nurse balanced a tray of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green peas in one hand and tapped on the door with the other, though she didn’t wait for a response before pushing into Jaclyn’s room.
“I have lunch and a visitor,” the nurse announced in a singsong voice that sounded as though she was talking to a toddler.
She set the tray on the table that swung over the bed. The covers were tousled and pushed back. Jaclyn was nowhere in sight. “You have company, honey,” the nurse said again, this time looking toward the closed bathroom door.
There was no response.
Bev asked about Bart’s grandfather Jeremiah, who was recovering at home from a stroke, and listened to his explanation before walking to the bathroom door and tapping lightly.
Still no response. She knocked again, then turned the handle and pushed the door open. “Not in there,” she said, turning back to Bart. She shrugged her shoulders and placed her hands on her bulging hips. “Now where did that woman get off to?”
“Are you certain she wasn’t discharged?”
“I was standing right here when Dr. Cane said he wanted to keep her another day. The patient didn’t even put up an argument.” Bev opened the small locker built into the wall. “Now this is strange. Her clothes are missing.”
“Looks as if she discharged herself,” Bart said.
“I don’t know where she’d go when she didn’t even know her name.”
Which gave a lot of credence to his belief that the amnesia was faked in the first place.
“I better call Dr. Cane and let him know his patient ran out on him and her bill.” The nurse was muttering to herself as she shuffled from the room.
Bart grabbed a piece of chicken on his way out. Seemed a sin to let good fried chicken go to waste. He took the stairs again and exited through the back door. He was almost to his truck when he caught a glimpse of someone hunched down and darting between cars.
A second glance and he knew it was Jaclyn, her handbag and duffel flung over her shoulder, trying car doors. He dashed across the parking lot, reaching her just as she found the kind of easy mark she’d been looking for. Not only was the door of the white compact car unlocked but the keys were also dangling from the ignition—not all that uncommon in Colts Run Cross.
Bart grabbed her arm as she started to climb behind the wheel. “Care to explain what you’re doing?”
She groaned. “Don’t you have a life?”
“Not nearly as exciting as yours.”
“I was only going to borrow the car.”
“We call taking a car without permission ‘stealing’ in Texas.”
“You do have the quaintest customs.” She stepped away from the car. “Now I suppose you’re going to call that nice sheriff so that I can spend some time in one of your friendly jail cells.”
“I’m giving it serious thought.”
“Look, no harm was done. I didn’t even start the engine. Why don’t you forget the sheriff and give me a ride to the nearest Greyhound bus station so that I can go home?”
“What about your amnesia?”
“That’s the neat thing, see. My memory came back, just like the doctor said it would.”
“Then I guess you have a last name now?”
“Sure. It’s Jones. Now are you going to give me a ride or not?”
Jaclyn Jones. He doubted that. “Why take a bus? You could just rent another car. The one you were in is going to be out of commission for a while.”
“Like I said last night, I’m a little short of cash.”
“Tell you what—level with me about who ran you off the road and why, and I’ll give you a ride wherever you want to go.”
“I’ve already leveled. I don’t know the who or the why. And what do you care, anyway?”
“Call me nosy—and law-abiding.” Bart started punching numbers on his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“The sheriff.”
She grabbed his hand before he completed the call. “Okay, I’ll tell you everything.” She scanned the area. “Just not out here in the parking lot. Where’s your truck?”
“A couple of rows over.”
She walked with him to his vehicle, then threw herself into the passenger side and propped her duffel between them. “It’s an ugly story.”
“I wasn’t expecting Cinderella.” Though with Jaclyn, it could well be a fairy tale. “Why don’t we start with your real name?”
“Jaclyn Jones.” She spelled Jaclyn for him.
“I’ll buy the Jaclyn part. The nurses couldn’t find your driver’s license last night. Where is it?”
“I left it in my other handbag.”
“How convenient. What part of Louisiana are you from?”
“I’m currently living in New Orleans.”
That might actually be the truth. “So what brought you to Colts Run Cross?”
“I don’t see as it’s any of your business, but I’m having an affair with a married man who lives in Houston. We wanted to go somewhere where we could venture out of the bedroom for a change and not risk running into anyone we knew.”
“Where’s the boyfriend now?”
“We got into a fight last night, and I broke it off with him. He went berserk and evidently followed me when I left the motel.”
“Which motel?”
“I don’t remember the name of it, just some shabby, nondescript motel. Anyway, I’m sure he’s cooled down by now and is ready to beg my forgiveness.”
“But not sorry enough to rent you another car or even drive you home?”
“I’m going home to my husband and putting all this behind me—at least I am if I can get there.”
Bart didn’t know how much, if any, of her story was true, but it would explain why she hadn’t wanted to call her husband. He started the truck and backed out of the parking spot. A few minutes later he was headed in the same direction from which he’d come, toward Jack’s Bluff and the spot where she’d been run off the road last night.
“Did you talk to Hank about your friend Margo’s car?” he asked.
She visibly bristled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Buick was registered to a Margo Kite. I was assuming that was a friend—unless you stole the car from her.”
She looked away. “Right. Margo. I’ll explain