something I have to tell you now. I’m going to have to leave you until this evening.” He felt her hand stiffen in his and saw the fear in her eyes. “There are things I have to take care of,” he said, standing firm although he felt as though his heart was breaking.
“Work?” she said in that whispery, frightened little voice with which he’d become so familiar.
Clint nodded. “Work and other things. You’ll see me again no later than eight tonight.” There were tears in her eyes, and he took a tissue from the box on the stand and gently blotted the escaping moisture, carefully keeping away from her stitches and abrasions.
“You have every right to cry,” he said softly. “I’m not going to tell you to keep a stiff upper lip and a lid on your emotions. Sometimes a good cry is very good medicine.”
“It—it isn’t that I want to cry,” she said brokenly. “I just can’t seem to help it.”
“And it’s fine with me. Never feel that you should hold anything back with me, Sierra.”
She blinked at the tears and attempted a shaky smile. “I feel so different with you than with anyone else. I wish I knew why.” She sighed then. “There’s so much I wish I knew.”
“You will. Try to hold that thought.” On impulse Clint leaned over the bed and gently pressed his lips to the uninjured portion of her forehead. This woman, helpless and bewildered, and known only as Sierra, touched him deeply. She needed him, was relying on him, and he vowed not to let her down. He straightened up and forced himself to smile. “See you this evening, all right?”
“Yes, this evening,” she whispered, and let her hand slip from his as he left the bed and then the room. Alone, she darted her eyes around the room. There were no demons in the early morning shadows, nothing to fear, and yet fear was an enormous part of her when Clint wasn’t holding her hand. She believed what he told her much more readily than she did the doctors and nurses. Did he remind her of someone she knew and couldn’t remember? Someone who was kind and gentle and completely honest?
She lay there and thought about Clint Barrow. He was a handsome man, or at least she saw him as handsome. His looks didn’t matter, however; his kindness, thoughtfulness and consideration did. He was probably a wonderful father to his son, caring, loving and genuinely interested in anything Tommy did or said.
Did she have a father somewhere? A mother? Maybe a...husband? She adjusted her position, tried to ignore the additional discomfort movement caused, and looked closely at her left hand. She wore no jewelry, but there was a faint indentation on her ring finger that indicated she’d worn a ring for some time.
It could be a clue! Anxiously she pushed the nurse’s call button. A young woman came almost at once. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Was I wearing a ring when I was brought in?” Sierra asked.
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. But I’ll check your admission slip and find out, if you’d like.”
“Please. You see, my finger looks as though I’ve been wearing a ring.” Although the IV was in her left wrist, Sierra lifted that hand from the bed.
The young nurse peered at it. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll go and see what I can find out.”
Sierra felt excitement coursing through her system. A husband could mean children. A family would certainly be looking for her. But if she had a family, why had she been traveling alone?
Her head started aching more than it already had been. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and fought impatience, doubt, frustration....
Footsteps announced the young nurse’s return. Sierra’s eyes flew open. “Did you learn anything?”
“Your admission slip lists only a watch.”
“No ring?” Intense disappointment gripped Sierra.
“I’m very sorry. You were counting on a ring, weren’t you?”
“I...guess so.”
“Is there anything else, ma’am? Breakfast will be served shortly, and then you’ll be given a bath. A bath always makes a person feel better.”
“Thank you,” Sierra said dully.
Clint was waiting in the yard when Tommy drove in from school. “Dad,” the teenager exclaimed as he jumped out of his truck. “How’d you get home?”
“I had Lyle drive in and pick me up. How are you doing, Tom?”
“Okay, I guess. I think I did all right on the exams today.”
“That’s good.” Clint studied his son’s face and eyes and felt relief; Tommy’s color was back to normal, and he seemed like his usual exuberant self.
Tommy reached into the truck for a book, which he held up with an exaggerated grimace. “Trig test tomorrow. Thought I’d better do a little boning up.”
“Aren’t you going to ask about Sierra?” Clint asked quietly.
“Uh, yeah, sure. Does—does she remember the accident?”
“She doesn’t remember anything, Tom. I spent quite a lot of time with her, and I told her what happened. She seems to trust me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a trustworthy guy, Dad,” Tommy quipped. “I’m starving. What’s Rosie cooking for supper?”
“I’m not sure. Chicken, maybe.” Clint felt a strange disappointment over Tommy’s lack of interest in Sierra’s progress. He’d thought Tom would be full of questions, and instead he hardly seemed concerned. For a young man who had shed tears over the death of a foal only two weeks ago, unconcern for a human being seemed greatly out of character.
“I’ve gotta get something to eat,” Tommy said. “Are you coming in, Dad?”
“Not right now, Tom. You go ahead.” While Tommy sprinted to the house, Clint walked over to a corral and leaned his forearms on the top rail. There were horses in the enclosure, but he didn’t see them. A sense of something being not quite right gnawed at him, occupying his mind and wrenching his gut.
But never once had he not given Tommy the benefit of the doubt. Tommy was young, still only a boy, really, and maybe he couldn’t dwell on the accident. Even though it had been no more his fault than Sierra’s, it was possible that Tommy was suffering feelings he couldn’t talk about.
Clint pushed away from the corral, thinking that must be it. It would be a first—he and Tommy had always been able to talk about anything—but “anything” before the accident had been topics without such serious ramifications. His best course would be to let Tommy deal with this in his own way and time, Clint decided. Tommy knew he was here for him, and that was really what was most important.
When Clint approached the open door to Sierra’s room that evening, he first saw the empty bed, then her still form sitting in a chair near the window. It was dark outside, but her face was turned to the glass. The cap was gone from her head, and he registered the rich, dark color of her hair, its marvelous length secured at her nape with something red.
He thought of that for only a moment, though, as he was so pleased to find her out of bed. He stepped into the room. “Sierra?”
Her head came around. The forlorn, lost expression on her face tore at his heartstrings. Hastily he crossed the small room and knelt beside her chair. “What’s wrong, Sierra?” he asked gently.
“There is no driver’s license,” she said dully. “There’s nothing. My van was completely destroyed in the accident. A police officer came by to speak to me today, and he told me everything. Did you know?”
“Yes, but the doctors didn’t think it was my place to tell you about it.” Self-recrimination thinned his lips. He should have