Under the Mistletoe with John Doe. Judy Duarte
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thinking of her as a doctor. Pretty much the night he’d first laid eyes on her in the E.R., he guessed. He’d asked one of the nurses about her yesterday and had learned her name was Betsy. He’d also heard that she was one of the hardest working and most dedicated physicians on staff.
As she entered the room, she asked, “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” Did he dare tell her he was bored, that he wanted to get out of here, even if he didn’t have any place to go?
When she reached his bedside, her petite frame hiding behind a pair of pale teal scrubs that made her eyes appear to be an even deeper shade of green, he studied her.
She wore very little makeup—not that she needed it—but she downplayed her beauty, which was a shame. He bet she’d look damn good in a sexy black dress with a low neckline, spiked high heels, her cheeks slightly flushed, a light coat of pink lipstick over lips that had a natural pout—a mouth he’d been paying a lot of attention to.
Her shoulder-length curls were pulled back into a simple ponytail, which was probably a logical style for a busy E.R. doctor. But John couldn’t help imagining those locks hanging wild and free. Or envisioning her in an upscale jazz club, a lone saxophone playing a sultry tune in the background.
She placed her hand on the bedrail, her nails plain and neatly manicured. Her grip was light and tentative, though, as if she was a bit hesitant. A little nervous, even.
“I talked to Dr. Kelso,” she said. “He’s probably going to discharge you in the next day or so.”
“He said something about that to me this morning. So I guess that means I’m almost back to fighting weight.” John tried to toss her a carefree smile, but it probably fell short. He was as uneasy about the future as he was about the past, and it was a real stretch to pretend otherwise.
“Do you have any idea where you might like to go when you get out of here?” she asked.
If her gaze wasn’t so damn sympathetic, if her eyes weren’t so green, he might have popped off with something sarcastic. As it was, he shrugged. “Not yet. I keep hoping that I’ll wake up and my memory will come rushing back. But it looks like I’d better give my options some thought.”
“I have one for you,” she said.
“An option?” He pushed the portable table aside, clearly interested. “What’s that?”
“I talked to Dr. Graham. He needs some help on his ranch, if you don’t mind doing some of the heavier chores for him. He’s agreed to pay you a small salary and provide you with room and board. Of course, not until you’re feeling up to it and Dr. Kelso has released you to go to work.”
At the same ranch where Betsy lived? Had she gone to bat for him? It certainly seemed that way, and he could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that she’d done so for a stranger.
“Thanks for orchestrating things. I probably ought to stick around in Brighton Valley until… Well, until my life comes together for me again.”
“It’ll happen,” she said. “Your memory will come back to you.”
He wanted to believe her, but that’s not exactly what Dr. Kelso had said. He’d used words like probably and eventually. But no one knew if or when John’s memory would return. Or to what extent.
“For what it’s worth,” he told her with a grin, “things could change at any time. But for right now, you’re the best friend I’ve got in the world.”
The best friend he had.
The sincerity in John’s words burrowed deep into Betsy’s chest, pressing against her heart and stirring up all kinds of emotion—including a little guilt. Getting involved with her patients, even one she’d handed over to Jim Kelso, wasn’t a good idea, especially when he was breathtakingly handsome.
So she tried to downplay his comment or thoughts about any kind of relationship with him. “I’m sure you have a lot of friends, family and acquaintances who would be here to visit you if they could.”
“You might be right, but I’d be happy just to see my driver’s license and to know my name.” His gaze locked on hers, and she felt his frustration, his uneasiness.
She’d give anything to know more about him, too.
What kind of person was he? Honest and trustworthy? Loyal and caring?
Or was he a liar and a cheat?
She wished she could say that she had a sixth sense about that sort of thing, but she’d completely misread Doug, the man she’d once married.
They’d met at Baylor University, when he’d been a graduate student trying to earn an MBA and she’d been in medical school. She’d found him to be handsome and charming, the kind of man who could have had any woman on campus.
Looking back—and knowing what she did about his cheating nature—she realized he could have slept with the entire female student body and she never would have guessed.
She’d been naive back then, and if there were signs she should have picked up on, she’d missed seeing them. All she’d had to rely on were her feelings about him and her hormones. And boy, had they been wrong.
So how could she trust her instincts about John now, when she had even less to go on about him?
“A couple of police officers came by today,” he said, drawing her from her musing. “They asked about the robbery, but I couldn’t provide them with any information.”
She wished she could promise him that everything would come back to him someday, but there was a strong possibility that he wouldn’t ever remember anything about the assault, just the things leading up to it and afterward.
“Were the officers able to give you any clues to your identity?” she asked.
“They told me that I’d had a little run-in at the bar with two local thugs who were harassing a cocktail waitress. They might have resented my interference and waited for me in the parking lot.”
So John had a heroic nature? Betsy hoped that was the case. She’d hate to think she was drawn to another loser.
Time and again she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let Doug’s deceit completely shatter her ability to trust a man in the future. And each time her father showed a kindness to her ailing mother, each time he’d kissed her cheek or patted her frail knee, Betsy was reminded that good men did exist, that they honored their marriage vows. That they stuck by their women through sickness and health and through thick and thin.
But was John Doe one of them?
She couldn’t be sure. And she feared falling for the wrong man again. That’s why she’d focused on her medical practice after her divorce. And it’s why she’d poured her heart and soul into her patients and the hospital.
After all, she had a skill and a responsibility to heal. And she wasn’t going to let anyone or anything interfere with her calling again.
But now here she was, visiting a man she knew nothing about, thinking about him in a purely feminine way. And while she’d tried to convince herself that her interest in him was influenced by a desire to see him heal and get on with his life, she knew better than that.
She was attracted to her patient.
Or rather, to a patient. John Doe was no longer hers, so she could easily nullify the rule, at least in her mind. But her attraction to him was increasing by leaps and bounds, and that was unsettling.
He reached over and tapped the top of her hand, which was resting on the bedrail. His fingertips lingered on her skin for only a second or two, but the heat of his touch sent her nerve endings helter-skelter, her blood racing.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.” She tried to smile, to shake it off. “Why