Parker. Molly Parker. Molly Parker. Sara practiced the name in her head. She sat quietly until she spotted the wilting roses at the entrance to Violet’s ranch.
The woman refused any offer of payment for gas when Sara stepped from the car. She simply smiled and gunned the old sedan on its way.
Sara started to cross the road when she heard the roar of an engine behind her. She looked up a split second before the car slammed into her body.
CHAPTER THREE
“MOLLY? Miss Parker?”
It took a herculean effort for her to open her eyes. The instant she did, she closed them because the bright, fluorescent light caused a pulsating pain in her head. While she was on the subject of pain, her ankle was throbbing as well.
“Miss Parker? Open your eyes for me again.”
Reluctantly, she did as instructed. Blinking several times, she began to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. She smelled alcohol and antiseptic. She was wearing a thin cotton gown and was lying on a bed covered with a paper drape. Just a slight movement of her arm caused the paper to crunch several decibels too high.
Finally, she met the intense gaze of the speaker. He loomed above her, even though he appeared to be seated on a chair or a stool at her bedside. His eyes were rich brown—the color of designer coffee. His hair was also brown, and thick and ruffled, as though he’d raked his fingers through it just recently. There was a subtle cleft in his chin, just above where he had loosened the knot on his tie.
Beneath his suit jacket, she could see a well-worn denim shirt. And shoulders that seemed to go on forever. Apparently she hadn’t injured her libido in the...in the...
“What happened?” she asked, sudden panic welling inside her. “Where am I?”
His response was a calming smile. The action caused a faint dimple to appear near his attractive mouth. “I’m Justin Dale and you’re in my clinic in Cactus Creek, Miss Parker.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Calm down,” he urged as he placed a hand on her forearm.
It tingled where he touched her. That was disconcerting, but not as disconcerting as the alarm sounding in her brain.
“I can’t calm down,” she insisted as she tried to rise.
Gently but firmly, Justin stopped her. Something wasn’t quite right. He could see it in her eyes. “You’ve got a broken ankle that I need to set,” he explained. “Lie still so I can do an assessment. You’ve been waffling in and out of consciousness for quite a while since you were found at the accident scene.”
She looked up at him. Her brown eyes were thickly lashed and golden starbursts radiated from her pupils. He chastised himself for noticing something so unprofessional. He was supposed to note that her pupils were equal and reactive, not incredibly beautiful. Man, I’ve been too long without a date, he thought.
“Forget my ankle!” she insisted.
Her voice was deep and a touch on the husky side. In spite of the fact that she’d been beaten and hit by a car, this woman still managed to exude a subtle kind of sensuality that he had neither expected nor—apparently—prepared for.
“I’m a doctor. I’m not allowed to forget fractures, Miss Parker.”
“Who is Miss Parker?” she demanded urgently.
Justin had been in the middle of checking her pulse when he went still. “Excuse me?”
He saw a flash of emotion—anger or frustration or both—in her expression.
“Am I Molly Parker?”
Justin whipped out his penlight and again checked her pupils. He forced his tone to be placid as he asked, “Are you telling me you don’t remember your name?”
She swatted the penlight away from her face. “I’m telling you I don’t remember anything.”
Taking in a deep breath, Justin pulled back and ran several possibilities through his mind. “Concussion can often result in short-term memory interruption. What is the last thing you can remember?”
“Waking up here.”
He scratched the side of his neck. “I think it would be a good idea for me to set your ankle then transport you to the hospital in Fort Worth.”
“No!”
Justin was startled by her urgent reaction. “The hospital is better equipped to deal with a major head trauma and—”
She cut him off by gripping the sleeve of his jacket. “Please don’t send me anywhere. I don’t know why, but I just have this feeling that I’m safe here. That doesn’t make sense, does it?” She lowered her eyes and nervously drew her lower lip between her teeth.
“It makes perfect sense,” he assured her. “Your ankle isn’t your only injury. You obviously took a hit to the head, and X rays showed you have a small crack in one of your ribs in addition to—”
“You said I was in an accident?” she interrupted him.
He nodded. “You were hit by a car. But that isn’t what cracked your rib or caused most of the lacerations and hematomas to your face.”
“What?”
“Doctor talk for cuts and bruises. My guess is they’re two to three days old.”
“I was in a fight and a car accident? What kind of person am I?”
“Probably a very decent one,” he hypothesized. “If it was a fight, it was one-sided. No offensive or defensive wounds on your knuckles. Most likely, you were the victim of a crime or—”
“Or what?”
“Domestic violence. Which, by the way, is a crime.”
“Am I married?” She asked the question with abject horror in her tone.
He shrugged. “No wedding ring. No pictures in your wallet. You don’t have to be married to someone to get beaten, Molly.”
She rubbed her face with her hands. “I think I would have preferred it if you’d said I was in a barroom brawl.”
He chuckled. Obviously this woman had maintained her sense of humor under horrific circumstances. It galled him to think of a man abusing any woman, particularly this one. She wasn’t short, just petite. Fragile. What kind of animal would attack someone so physically defenseless? And why did he have an urge to scoop her into his arms?
Sobering, he said, “I should tell you the circumstances surrounding the accident.”
“It gets worse?” she asked in a defeated voice.
“Pretty much. There were no witnesses, according to Sheriff Younger, and no skid marks at the scene.”
“Meaning?”
“The driver who hit you was either seriously distracted or...”
“Or?”
“Or aiming for you.”
* * *
MOLLY SPENT the following few minutes trying in vain to recall something—anything—but her memory had been erased like a chalkboard. It was too weird. She had no problem remembering who was president of the United States or how to format and configure a computer’s hard drive, but everything personal had been selectively deleted.
Frustrated, she found herself searching the clinic for Dr. Dale, the one and only face that was familiar. He had gone to mix some plaster to make her cast. The clinic was small and rather homey looking—she counted six beds in her immediate area, someone had painted aquatic murals on two of the walls.
Molly pulled herself up to rest on her elbows in order