A Hero To Hold. Linda Castillo
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he sitting here trying to help her remember when he had absolutely no intention of getting involved?
As if reading his thoughts, her gaze sharpened on his. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
John gazed back at her, telling himself it wasn’t his responsibility to tell her about the bruises—or the very real possibility that someone had, indeed, tried to hurt her.
“I’ll go see what’s keeping the doc,” he said, rising.
“Look, whatever it is you’re not telling me, I can handle it. It’s not like I’m going to fall apart or something. I deserve to know what happened to me.”
The edge in her voice stopped him. Trying not to look at the bruises on her throat, trying not to let his outrage show, he met her gaze levelly. “You’ve got some suspicious bruising.”
“What do you mean by suspicious?”
“Bruises probably not sustained in the fall. Around your neck area. Your arms.”
“You mean like someone…” Her words trailed off. What little color she had left in her cheeks fled. She stared at him, her eyes dark and frightened within the pale frame of her face.
Even through the bandages John could see that her hands were shaking. He should have known she wouldn’t let him walk out of there without asking the question he had no desire to answer. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her she may have been battered, or that she may have been the victim of a crime. He might be adept at walking away, but John had never been one to hedge the truth, no matter how ugly. Judging by the way she was looking at him—and the way he was responding—he wasn’t going to start now.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he offered. “I thought you should know.”
Shoving a lock of hair away from her face, she looked at him squarely. “It’s okay. I needed to know. I can handle it.”
She didn’t look like she could handle anything at the moment. She looked pale and troubled and so vulnerable, it took most of his discipline not to go to her just to let her know she wasn’t alone. John might be good at dangling from a cable a hundred feet above the ground, but when it came to the more delicate side of medical care, he figured there were times when he could use a little more tact. Times like now when he should have kept his mouth shut and let the doctors deal with her questions.
Turning away, she looked out the window. An alarm clanged in his head when she blinked rapidly. The alarm burgeoned to an all-out wail when he saw the first tear slip down her cheek. He’d never known how to deal with female tears; he’d spent most of his life avoiding those kinds of situations. He didn’t want to have to deal with them now. Not on top of those bottomless brown eyes and all that flowing red hair. The combination was doing funny things to his resolve to walk out the door. Hard telling what it would do to his resolve not to touch her.
John spotted the pitcher of water next to the bed and poured a glass for her. “Here.”
Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the bandages, she sipped, then relaxed back in the pillows. “Thanks.”
A spike of heat hit him low in the gut when her hair fanned out beneath her, framing her face like a pool of glossy silk. For a crazy instant, John was tempted to lean forward and take it between his fingers, just to see if it felt as soft as it looked.
“You’re good at that, you know,” she said.
“At what?”
She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “A few minutes ago my heart was pounding, and I was an inch away from losing it. Thanks for calming me down.”
The thought that it might be interesting to get her heart rate up in a different way fluttered in the back of his mind, but he quickly stomped the notion, knowing that was the one line he’d never cross no matter how sexy she was. “Well, Red, I’m not sure if I’ve told you this, but I’m pretty damn good at what I do.”
“I think you’ve mentioned that. Twice, actually.”
John’s IQ slipped another notch when she smiled. He should have known it would be dazzling. He tried not to notice the dimple in her left cheek or the way her eyes tilted at the corners; he knew better than to let himself be charmed. But he’d fought enough personal battles over the years to know he was losing this one.
“Do you flirt with all your patients?” she asked.
“Shamelessly.” He couldn’t help but grin. “For a head trauma patient you’re not doing such a bad job yourself.”
Color rushed back into her cheeks. John liked the dimple, he decided, even though he’d never been taken in by “cute” when it came to women. He figured as long as he didn’t let his interest in her go any further than harmless flirting, they’d both be just fine.
Movement at the door caught his attention, and he turned to see Dr. Anna Morgan enter the room and head directly for her patient. She was a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair and rhinestone-studded bifocals that sat on the end of her nose like fancy little marquees. “Are you flirting with my patient, Maitland?” she asked, picking up the chart and making a notation with the sweep of her hand.
John was acquainted with most of the staff at Lake County. Over the years, he’d transported dozens of patients to the emergency room. He’d trained under the expertise of Dr. Anna Morgan when she’d headed up the E.R. Though she was old enough to be his mother, they’d developed a relationship that teetered comfortably between professional regard and personal friendship.
Rising, he approached her and extended his hand. “I just needed an excuse to see you, Doc.”
The doctor humphed good-naturedly as she shook his hand, then looked at the woman lying in the bed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t let this man charm you. It’s lethal, and I’ve yet to come up with an antidote.”
John had intended for the banter to alleviate Hannah’s anxiety, but one look at her told him all the humor in the world wasn’t going to help. He couldn’t blame her. He’d had to rebuild his life once. As many times as he’d wished he could rewrite his past, he didn’t envy the chore ahead of her.
Hannah’s gaze swept to Dr. Morgan. “I don’t remember anything that happened before the rescue,” she blurted. “I don’t remember how I got up on the mountain. Or how I fell. I don’t remember…anything.”
The doctor’s brows creased as she regarded the younger woman. “The CT scan shows you received a concussion, more than likely during a fall.” Easing the bandage away from Hannah’s temple, she assessed the stitches beneath.
John winced at the size of the cut. The sight of the injury itself didn’t bother him—he’d long ago grown accustomed to that aspect of his job—but that this particular woman had been purposefully hurt put a hot ball of outrage squarely in his gut.
“A concussion is caused by head trauma,” the doctor explained. “In your case, there was no bleeding around the brain. However, some minor swelling occurred. That’s not unusual, but it can affect short-term memory and mental clarity.”
“I wouldn’t be quite so worried if it was just a little mental clarity I was lacking, but my entire life is just…gone.”
“Actually, you remember more than you realize,” the doctor said. “I treated a young man last winter who sustained a severe head injury in a ski accident. He had to relearn how to walk, how to feed himself and even how to speak.” She replaced the bandage, then stepped back and crossed her arms. “Memory loss, or amnesia if you will, is extremely rare but certainly not unheard-of when it comes to head trauma.”
“How long will it be before I start remembering?”
Dr. Morgan shrugged. “I’m not an expert, but from what I’ve read about amnesia, most head-trauma patients begin remembering within minutes or hours after the initial injury. You could remember everything all at once. Or you might remember bits