Montana Mail-Order Wife. Charlotte Douglas

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      Dr. Sinclair, a tiny, birdlike woman with enough nervous energy to power a city, marched to the bed and checked Rachel’s pulse. She removed a penlight from the pocket of her white coat, lifted Rachel’s eyelids and examined her pupils.

      Straightening as if her back ached, the doctor brushed a strand of salt-and-pepper hair from her forehead and confronted Wade. “Did she speak to you?”

      “Briefly.” Long enough for him to learn her voice was as soft as a mountain breeze.

      “Was she lucid?”

      “She was rational, if that’s what you mean.”

      The doctor’s shrewd gaze skewered him. “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Garrett?”

      “Her memory’s gone.”

      Her intense blue eyes behind gold-framed glasses gave nothing away, and she gestured toward the door.

      He followed her into the hall before posing his question. “Is it a brain injury?”

      Dr. Sinclair shook her head and stuffed her stethoscope into her pocket. “CAT scan and EEG are both normal, now that her concussion is subsiding.”

      He rammed his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t expected this crimp in his plans. He should have been halfway home by now, as he’d promised Jordan, but how could he leave Rachel alone and frightened, not knowing who she was? “Why can’t she remember?”

      “She suffered a bad bump on the back of her head. Amnesia caused by physical trauma should clear up within a couple of days.”

      He expelled a sigh of relief. “So she’ll be all right?”

      “Unless we’re dealing with hysteria.”

      He frowned. “She seemed calm enough. But she did shed a few tears.”

      Dr. Sinclair smiled and shook her head. “Not that kind of hysteria. Amnesia caused by psychological trauma. Imagine what she experienced, plunging into that deep ravine in a tumbling, burning railroad car.”

      Wade nodded. Rachel had been air-lifted to Libby, partly because Wade was there, but mostly because the Kalispell hospital was filled to capacity with other wreck victims. He jerked his wandering attention back to the doctor.

      “Her mind may be protecting her from reexperiencing that nightmare by shutting down her memories.”

      “But she’ll get them back?”

      Sinclair patted his hand, reminding him of his long-dead mother. “In a few days, if her memory loss is due to physical trauma.”

      “And if it isn’t?”

      “When she’s strong enough to face the memories.”

      “Soon?”

      The little doctor shrugged. “Maybe the next time she awakens, maybe in a few days.” Her voice had an upward inflection, hinting of things left unsaid.

      “Or?”

      Dr. Sinclair avoided his eyes. “Maybe never.”

      “Never? But you said there’s no permanent injury to her brain—”

      “In spite of medical advances, many mysteries of the human mind are still unsolved.” Her smile didn’t hide her weariness. “But you’re worrying prematurely. She may recall everything when she awakes again.”

      “And if she doesn’t?”

      “Her memories could come rushing back anytime, or they could return gradually in bits and pieces.”

      He glanced into the room at the sleeping Rachel. If she didn’t remember soon, she’d be in for a rough time. She’d need care, attention and reassurance. The prospect of providing for her warmed him—until his common sense kicked in.

      Feelings played no part in their relationship, and Jordan was enough to worry about. Rachel was supposed to ease his troubles, not add to them.

      He hardened his heart and looked away. No point in worrying about what only time could cure. He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he might reach home before Jordan’s bedtime. “What about her family?”

      Dr. Sinclair shook her head. “The local authorities traced her to Atlanta, then back to Missouri. Her parents are deceased. She was their only child.”

      “No aunts or uncles, cousins?”

      The doctor shook her head. “Not that they could find.”

      “What about close friends?”

      “There’s no one.”

      The tenderness he’d tried to suppress surged through him. “Poor kid.”

      “I wouldn’t say that.” Dr. Sinclair patted his hand again. “After all, she has you.”

      Chapter Two

      “Rachel.”

      Sitting up in bed, she shaped the alien name with her lips, but it lacked familiarity.

      She grimaced in disgust. So what else was new? Nothing seemed familiar. Nothing except her face in the mirror. She choked back a derisive laugh. What a big help. She recognized herself.

      When she’d awakened this morning, she’d thought at first she’d dreamed Wade Garrett and her amnesia, until she had to admit her encounter with Wade was the only memory she possessed.

      He’d said they weren’t related and had never met. But who was he?

      Some religious zealot dedicating his life to visiting the sick? She quickly rejected that idea. The man had too much devil in his deep brown eyes.

      Maybe he was a plainclothes policeman. Had she been fleeing some crime when her train crashed? After her heart stopped thundering in her chest, she discarded that possibility, too. Although she couldn’t remember, she could still feel, and she didn’t feel like a criminal.

      In frustration, she pounded her pillow with her fists. No use wondering who Wade Garrett was when she’d probably never see him again.

      The thought gave her no comfort.

      “Rachel. Rachel O’Riley.”

      She repeated the name, hoping to trigger a response, but her mind remained a wasteland, barren of any recollection except the most mundane.

      “The doctor says fresh air will do you good.” Wade Garrett lounged in the doorway of her room, one elbow propped against the doorjamb, the thumb of his other hand tucked in the low-slung waistband of his jeans.

      His sudden appearance delighted and annoyed her, immobilizing her with indecision. “Who are you?”

      His СКАЧАТЬ