The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming. Judy Duarte

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      Where the hell was...? Oh, crap. He’d showered back in the room and changed clothes. He must have left his wallet on the nightstand, next to his cell phone and... Damn. The key to the room had been right beside it. All he had on him was Dave’s letter and the photograph, neither of which would do him much good tonight.

      So much for hiding his valuables out of sight. Talk about being too tired to think straight. He blew out a ragged sigh. “I’m not trying to pull a fast one. I’m staying across the street at the Night Owl. Apparently, I left my wallet there.”

      “Sorry, buddy. The guy who worked here before me got fired for serving a minor, and I was told to card anyone who looked younger than thirty.”

      “I understand. I need to get my cash anyway. Keep that beer cold for me. I’ll be back.” Joe slid off the bar stool and headed for the door. He felt like a batter with two strikes against him already. What else could go wrong?

      As he stepped outside and made his way to the parking lot, a drunk stumbled past him, walking toward a Silverado pickup, the keys in his hand.

      “You got someone you can call?” Joe asked the guy.

      “Get off my back,” the drunk said. “You sound like my wife.”

      Joe was going to argue, but a woman came out a moment later and called out to the man. “Larry, I told you I’d drive. Wait for me. I can pick up my car tomorrow. Just let me get my purse and tell Shannon goodbye. I’ll be right back.”

      Glad the guy had a ride, Joe headed for the Night Owl. Did he want a beer badly enough to return to the bar once he got another key to his room? He wasn’t so sure that he did. Just seeing the drunken man—Larry—was a reminder of his uncle and all the nights Tío Ramon had come stumbling home, slurring his words and raising his fists, ready to strike up a fight with his aunt or whoever crossed him.

      For the most part, Joe didn’t drink much at all. But tonight, he might be tempted to tie one on, just like Dave had been prone to do ever since they’d both been sent to the hospital in Germany.

      Dave’s injuries had been pretty severe. And just thinking that he’d have to go through life physically damaged had sent the already emotionally impaired man into a depression from which he hadn’t been able to recover.

      Hell, Joe had been bummed, too. His own gunshot wound had made him rethink his intention to reenlist, which was why he was here now—no longer officially in the corps, but always and forever a marine.

      He’d shaken his own discouragement and disappointment, focusing instead on Dave’s recovery and rehab. That is, until he’d been discharged and sent back to the States. Upon Dave’s arrival two weeks ago, Joe had picked him up at the airport, determined to help him mend. But Dave’s depression and attitude had sunk to an all-time low, and on one of his first nights back, he downed more than his prescribed dose of meds, followed by a glass of ninety proof, ending his pain forever.

      The coroner had ruled Dave’s death an accident, an unintentional overdose. But Joe believed otherwise.

      There was a life insurance policy somewhere, which wouldn’t do anyone any good if the death was ruled a suicide. Joe had the power to throw a wrench into the machinery and blow things sky-high, which he was tempted to do. After all, Dave had told him that he’d made Chloe his beneficiary. And on top of that, he’d left her everything—his money, his family ranch in Brighton Valley.

      How lucky could a heartless woman get?

      As Joe started across the street, heading for the Night Owl, the Silverado started up, but something wasn’t quite right about the sound. Instead of backing out in a normal fashion, the driver gunned the engine and the tires spun, kicking up gravel as it blasted forward and over the curb.

      Joe’s pause to look over his shoulder at drunk Larry cost him his opportunity to make it all the way across the street as oncoming cars zoomed by him, leaving him no safe retreat as the truck shot onto the highway, barreling right at him.

      He’d thought his day couldn’t get much worse and might have considered this strike three, but he was too busy trying to dodge the speeding truck as it nailed him in the side, sending him flying into the night.

      * * *

      When Chloe Dawson received the call from the Brighton Valley Medical Center asking her to come to the hospital and identify a hit-and-run victim, a patient they believed to be David Cummings, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and her grip on the receiver tightened. “Is he...dead?”

      “No, he’s unconscious.”

      “I’ll be right there.”

      The moment she hung up, she threw on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and sweater. Then she climbed into one of the ranch pickups and drove to town, her hands clammy as they struggled to control both the steering wheel and the gearshift at the same time, her knee wobbly as she stepped on the clutch.

      Thank God her dad had insisted she learn to drive a stick when she’d turned sixteen, although this beat-up old GMC wasn’t anything like the little Honda Civic she’d once driven.

      She kept her eyes on the darkened country road until she reached city limits twenty minutes later and turned down the highway that led to the medical center. She snagged the first parking space she could find and rushed to the E.R. entrance.

      Once inside, she told the receptionist to alert Dr. Betsy Nielson of her arrival. It gave her some comfort to know that Dave was under the care of one of the best doctors at BVMC.

      After making several visits to the emergency department with Teresa Cummings, Dave’s mother, and also with some of the elderly residents at the Sheltering Arms Rest Home, where Chloe had once worked as a nurse’s aide, Dr. Betsy Nielson and Chloe had become well acquainted.

      Fortunately, within a matter of minutes, Betsy, an attractive redhead wearing a pair of light blue scrubs came out to the waiting room personally to find her. “Thanks for coming in, Chloe.”

      “No problem. I’m glad you called. How is he?”

      “He’s conscious now, but I’m afraid he’s not going to be any help. He has amnesia—and no ID.”

      “And you think it’s Dave?”

      “I’ve never met Teresa’s son, so I have no idea what he looks like. But the patient is in his mid- to late-twenties. A tattoo of the marine insignia on his left biceps indicates he is or was in the military. So I made the assumption. Sheriff Hollister is checking into that.”

      Chloe hadn’t heard from Dave in months—not since she’d had to take a direct approach and tell him that a couple of shared dinners in the hospital cafeteria didn’t mean they were altar-bound. She’d felt badly about hurting him, especially with him being so far from home, but each letter he’d sent her from Afghanistan had included more and more marriage plans. And she’d needed to make it clear that she only wanted to be friends.

      “How badly is he hurt?” Chloe asked. “Is he going to be okay?”

      “He’s bruised, with cuts and lacerations. But there aren’t any broken bones. His most serious injury appears to be a concussion.”

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