A Hero To Hold. Linda Castillo
Confusion closed in on her. Concussion? Well, that certainly explained the headache and the nausea twisting her stomach into knots. But how on earth had she gotten a concussion? She raised her hands and squinted at the bandages. Why were her fingers bandaged? What was she doing in the hospital in the first place? And who in the world was the handsome outdoorsman standing over her, looking at her as if he was waiting for her to tell him the answer to questions she had absolutely no idea how to answer herself?
“What’s your name, honey?” the nurse asked.
The question threw her. Only for an instant, though. Of course she knew her name. It must be the concussion clouding her mind and making her feel so confused. Her name. Sure. It would come to her in a minute. All she had to do was close her eyes and relax a little so her brain could settle down and think.
“My name?” Fear coiled in her chest as it slowly dawned on her that she didn’t have a clue what her own name was. Her heart began to pound, keeping perfect time with the throbbing in her head. The ensuing panic sent her to a sitting position. A thunderbolt of pain behind her left temple sent her back down.
The nurse and the man moved closer simultaneously.
She tried to push herself back up, but the pain in her fingers stopped her, and for the first time she wondered how serious her injuries were. Good Lord, had she been in some kind of terrible accident?
“Easy, honey. It’s just the concussion fuzzing things up for you,” the nurse said. “Try to relax. Dr. Morgan is making rounds. She should be in shortly to talk with you.”
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. That wasn’t what she needed to hear. The first order of the day was for her to remember her name. How could anyone forget their own name, for Pete’s sake?
“I don’t know my name.” Her own words turned the fear lurking inside her into a reality more frightening than the vague nightmare that still lingered in the back of her mind. “My God, I don’t remember my own name.” She looked from the nurse to the man and back to the nurse. “How can that be?”
They exchanged looks comprised of equal parts sympathy and concern that did little to quell her growing sense of panic. Propping her elbows on the pillow behind her, she struggled to a sitting position. “How did I get here? What happened?” Remembering the bandages, she raised her left hand and studied it, half-afraid to ask why it was bandaged.
Her gaze swept to the man. He returned her look levelly. Even though he hadn’t answered her questions, she found herself thankful he could at least meet her gaze without looking away. If she was facing bad news, she could tell by the character in his eyes that at least he’d have the guts to give it to her straight.
“I’ll go find Dr. Morgan.” The nurse patted her knee through the blanket. “Sit tight, honey. I’ll be right back.”
She watched the woman leave, trying in vain to ignore the grip of panic that had her breaths coming shallow and fast.
“Easy, Red, your blood pressure’s up a tad this morning.”
Her gaze snapped to the man. The sensation of the automatic blood pressure cuff tightening around her left biceps slowly registered, and for the first time she realized how close she was to all-out panic. “Yeah, well, I think my blood pressure is the least of my worries at the moment,” she muttered.
“Why don’t you sit back and take a couple of deep breaths?”
“I don’t think that’s going to solve anything.”
“It won’t solve anything, but it might help you deal with it.” He winked. “On the count of three. Deep breath. Ready?”
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the futility of deep breathing exercises when her entire life was nothing more than a black hole, she drew a shuddering breath. He did the same, and they exhaled simultaneously.
“Well, at least now we know my lungs work.” But even as she made the remark, she realized the panic had released its vise grip on her chest.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately it didn’t do a thing for my memory.” Another wave of panic threatened, but she forced air into her lungs and fought it back. “I don’t believe this is happening.”
“You’ve got a concussion. Disorientation isn’t unusual. Your memory will come back.”
She wasn’t so sure, but decided not to argue against something she wanted desperately to believe. “I remember you,” she said abruptly, a little desperately, because suddenly it was very important to her to remember something.
Images of the rescue flooded her mind. Snow. Cold. Blinding pain. A vague sense of terror she couldn’t shake even now as she lay safe and alive in this unfamiliar bed. But she clearly remembered this man with the incredible blue eyes and devil’s grin. He’d swooped down out of the sky and plucked her from the rocks and snow. As she took in his steady expression and canny gaze, she remembered vividly how safe she’d felt in his arms, the solid feel of his body against hers, the softness of his voice, the whisper of his breath against her cheek when he’d murmured gentle words and eased her terror.
“You saved my life,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I had a little help from the rest of the team.” He extended his hand. “Just a little. I’m John Maitland.”
She attempted to take his hand, but the bandages hindered her. Despite the anxiety clenching her chest, a helpless laugh squeezed from her throat. “I don’t think I’m going to be shaking hands anytime soon.”
Unfazed, he took her hand gently between his. “I’m a medic with Rocky Mountain Search and Rescue. You gave us quite a scare.”
His accent was distinctly northeastern—deep, clipped, with a hint of the streets etched into it. “I remember you. Of course I do. But I don’t seem to remember…anything else. Can you tell me what happened?”
“We got the call out yesterday morning and picked you up on Elk Ridge at about nine thousand feet. You were hypothermic.” He looked down at the bandages on her hands. “Frostbitten. We airlifted you here to Lake County Hospital.”
She remembered the rescue. But as the memory materialized, something dark and disturbing stirred in the back of her mind like the remnants of a nightmare. An acute feeling of unease. A sense of being pursued. The unmistakable aftertaste of terror.
“Where’s Elk Ridge?” she asked.
“Not far from Fairplay, about sixty miles west of Denver.”
She swallowed, realizing with a stark sense of dismay she hadn’t even known what state she was in. Oh, dear God, what had happened to her?
“What else can you tell me?” she asked, trying in vain to keep the desperation out of her voice.
His smile tightened into a grimace, and she got the distinct impression he was about to give her some bad news. But he didn’t. Instead he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a tattered piece of paper. “I thought this might be important. Buzz Malone, my team leader, found it in the pocket of the jeans you were wearing.”
An uncomfortable sense of vulnerability encompassed her when she remembered her clothes being cut away. She knew the men who’d saved her hadn’t had a choice; they were professionals and did that sort of thing on a daily basis. Still, the fact that she’d been so exposed left her disconcerted.
Hoping whatever was on the scrap of paper would help unscramble her memory, she reached for it, but the bandages on her hands stopped her.
“Sorry.” Unfolding the paper, John held it up for her.
Hannah, meet me at the shop at noon.
She stared at the words, waiting for a lightning bolt of memory, a flashback, anything that would tell her who she was.
“Ring a bell?”