A Montana Man. Jackie Merritt

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      “It’s Sierra.” Clint reached out and gently took her hand. “Sierra?” he said quietly. “Rest easy, Sierra, no one’s is going to hurt you.”

      To Dr. North’s amazement, she stopped fighting him. Her eyes went to Clint in a blank but much calmer stare. Taking a breath, Dr. North released his hold on her shoulders.

      “You don’t know me, Sierra,” Clint said in that same even, quiet voice. “But I’m here to help you.”

      Sierra tried to focus her blurred vision on the man’s face, but his features really didn’t matter, his voice did. It was so kind and soothing, and she wanted to hear more of it.

      Nurse Cummings returned with a syringe. “Here you are, Doctor.”

      “We may not need that, after all,” he said in an undertone. He backed away from the bed and beckoned the nurse to a corner of the room. “She’s responding to this man’s voice,” he said in a near whisper. “I want to see where it leads. You may go, I’m going to sit in here for a while.”

      “Yes, Doctor.”

      Clint was aware of Dr. North sitting out of Sierra’s line of vision, but only vaguely, as he was focused on her and what he should say next.

      Then instinct told him that she wouldn’t care what he said as long as he kept talking. “I’m staying in the Bixby Motel. It’s down the street a block or so. I awoke about an hour ago and decided I needed to see you again. I stopped in an all-night diner for something to eat, then came on over.”

      “Where am I?” she asked in a thin, wispy voice.

      “In a hospital in Missoula, Montana. It’s a very good hospital, Sierra. You are receiving the best care possible. Have you been hospitalized before?”

      She lay silent and staring, and in the corner of the room Dr. North held his breath awaiting her answer.

      It finally came, a very weak, very frightened, “I...don’t know.” Dr. North noiselessly breathed again. He now knew what the patient’s problem was.

      Clint, however, was at a loss and could only rely on that instinct to keep talking to her. “I was hospitalized once, Sierra, about ten years ago. A horse threw me and I landed wrong. Broke three ribs and—”

      She interrupted. “Who are you?”

      “Name’s Clint Barrow. Sierra—”

      “Is Sierra my name? What’s my last name? Do I live in Missoula?” It was all said in a whispery, shaky voice.

      Clint was finally catching on. He darted a glance at Dr. North, who responded with a nod. Sierra had amnesia. She remembered nothing, not even her name.

      Clint’s stomach sank, and he licked his suddenly dry lips. He was in over his head here. How much should he tell her? Should he mention the accident, explain what had happened to her, tell her that her van had been totally destroyed and that no one, not one single person in this hospital, maybe even in Missoula, knew who she was?

      He mustered an unsteady smile. “Now, that’s information you’re going to have to tell me. You see, I’m merely a concerned friend.”

      “You’re a friend. I see,” she whispered, and Clint knew that her cloudy mind was placing him as an old friend, even though it was an illogical conclusion when he had just told her he had no answer to her questions.

      Dr. North rose and approached the bed. “Perhaps we should let Sierra get some rest now, Mr. Barrow.”

      Her eyes became wild again and she clung to Clint’s hand. “Don’t leave,” she begged him. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

      “May I leave you alone for five minutes?” he asked gently. “I promise I’ll be right back.” He had to speak to the doctor alone.

      “I...do you promise?” she whispered.

      “You have my word.” Gently he disengaged his hand and strolled from the room, knowing Dr. North would follow. They walked down the corridor and stopped in a quiet nook. Clint’s eyes bored into the doctor’s. “She can’t remember anything, can she?”

      “That appears to be the case. Mr. Barrow, her injuries were not sufficient to permanently destroy her memory. I will, naturally, order more extensive testing in the morning, but I honestly do not feel her loss of memory is physically caused. Trauma such as she went through in the accident can result in any number of emotional side effects. I strongly believe her amnesia is temporary.”

      “How temporary? Are we talking a few days, a week, a month?”

      “I’m sorry, but there’s no way of knowing. I find her response to you quite remarkable. You didn’t know her before this?”

      “No, we never met. Let me ask you something. How much should I tell her? I mean, should I talk about the accident?”

      Dr. North thought for a moment. “My opinion is to avoid that topic for tonight. Talk in generalities. You were doing very well, and I think I’d keep conversation on that level until a psychologist sees her. I’ll arrange for one to visit her first thing in the morning.”

      Clint was not normally a nervous man, but he was nervous about this. Why did Sierra trust him? What if he inadvertently said the wrong thing and sent her into another tizzy?

      He took a long breath. “I’d better get back to her. Are you going to be available if something happens I can’t handle?”

      “I’ll be here until 6:00 a.m. Call the nurse if you need me, and she will take it from there.”

      Clint returned to room 217 and saw that Sierra had a death grip on the safety rail on each side of her bed. Forcing a smile, he walked over to her. “Told you I’d be right back. Let’s lower that rail, and then I’m going to move a chair over here so I can sit next to you.”

      Sierra watched his every move. She was so grateful he’d come back that tears stung her eyes. When he was seated and holding her hand again, she released a long, heavy sigh and closed her eyes.

      “Thank you,” she whispered, and fell asleep.

      Clint stayed right where he was, and he was glad he had, because every ten minutes or so she woke up and looked at him briefly, as though subconsciously needing assurance that he was still there. Then she closed her eyes again.

      Actually, he was damned glad she was sleeping at all, as he couldn’t help worrying about further conversation with her.

      Watching her sleeping and holding her hand was a bonding experience, he realized. She wasn’t just the other half of Tommy’s accident anymore, nor merely the woman in room 217, she was a flesh and blood human being with a troubled mind and the warmest, softest hand he had ever held.

      He turned it once, looked at the abrasions on her palm and became choked up. The physical evidence of the accident would heal and vanish. Would the emotional damage heal and vanish, as well? Dr. North believed her amnesia was temporary.

      All Clint could do was pray he was right.

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