Under the Mistletoe with John Doe. Judy Duarte

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      “Anyone know his name?”

      “Nope.”

      “What about his vehicle?” Betsy asked. “Did they check the registration?”

      “If he had a car, it might have been stolen. From what we were told, all the cars in the parking lot have been accounted for.”

      “Didn’t anyone know who he is?”

      “Apparently, he walked in alone, asked about a guy no one recognized, had a beer and left. But he didn’t get far. Someone hit him with a tire iron and left him in a pool of blood. The bouncer found him and called us.”

      The patient moaned, and Betsy decided to quiz him. They had no idea of his medical history or allergies. Nothing to go on but what they uncovered here and now.

      The police, who’d most likely been called already, would be here shortly. And they’d want to question him, too.

      “Hi, there,” she said. “How are you doing?”

      Another moan. A blink.

      She flashed a light into his eyes, saw his pupils—dilated. She’d be ordering that MRI stat.

      When he looked at her through bloodshot eyes, she said, “I’m Dr. Nielson. Can you tell me what happened?”

      He jerked and stiffened. His eyes grew wide and panicked. “How’s the kid? Is she okay?”

      “What kid?” she asked, wondering if a child had been in the vehicle that was stolen. She couldn’t imagine someone being so negligent that they’d leave a youngster in the parking lot of a bar. But it happened.

      “The stop sign,” he said. “I didn’t see it… I’m sorry.”

      He was rambling and confused. Did he think he’d been involved in a car accident?

      She studied his pained expression, the raw emotion on his face, the concern in his striking blue eyes.

      “You were robbed outside the Stagecoach Inn,” she said, trying to shake the sympathy that drew her to him and was making it difficult to keep a professional distance. “What’s your name?”

      He stared at her blankly. Then confusion spread across his face. “I don’t know.”

      In spite of the blood and dirt on his brow and cheek, he was an attractive man, and her heart quivered with the realization.

      Get over it, she scolded herself. He was a patient. A victim. And a complete stranger.

      “Do you know what day it is?” she asked.

      A furrowed brow suggested that he didn’t, and his eyes sought hers. “No, but the…kid? Her mom? Are they okay?”

      “There wasn’t anyone with you.” At least that was the word she’d gotten. She looked to Sheila for confirmation.

      The head EMT nodded. “As far as we know, he went in and out of the Stagecoach Inn alone.”

      Betsy returned her attention to her patient. “You were the only one hurt. And it wasn’t a car accident. Someone assaulted you when you left a local bar and stole everything but the clothes on your back.”

      The tension in his expression softened, but only slightly. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off again.

      The head injury could account for the temporary amnesia, and while she didn’t suspect a fracture, she knew his brain had experienced some serious trauma tonight.

      Betsy glanced across the gurney to Dawn, who usually worked the evening shift with her in the E.R. “Let’s get an MRI and see what’s going on.”

      The nurse nodded. “Anything else?”

      Betsy issued the rest of her orders, and as soon as Dawn left to make sure they were fulfilled, Betsy took another look at her patient.

      She reached for his nearest hand, which just happened to be his left. He wasn’t wearing a ring, wedding or otherwise.

      It might have been stolen along with his wallet and other valuables, she supposed, but she didn’t see an indention or a tan line. His fingers were straight, sturdy and they appeared to have been manicured recently.

      She turned his hand over. Too bad she couldn’t read palms. It would be helpful to know more about him—medically speaking, of course, although her curiosity was mounting. Who was this guy? And what had he been doing in a rip-roaring honky-tonk on a Wednesday night?

      A hardened ridge of calluses marred his lifeline, suggesting that he might lift weights or swing a golf club regularly. Or maybe it was from gripping the handlebars of a bike.

      His build, while sturdy and strong, seemed more in line with sports than with weights and gym equipment, but it was hard to tell.

      Who are you? she wondered.

      He appeared to be a city boy, so it was easy to assume he was a stranger in town—a tall, dark and handsome one at that.

      She had a feeling that he’d be drop-dead gorgeous when he was in full form and had all of his senses about him. The kind of man who could even turn the most dedicated doctor’s head.

      Cases like this didn’t drop into town or the E.R. very often, and Betsy was glad that they didn’t. After her unexpected and painful divorce, she’d sworn off romance, especially with someone who might not be the man he pretended to be.

      She released John Doe’s hand, trying to shake her interest in him. The sooner she admitted him to the hospital and sent him up to the third floor, the better off she’d be.

      The last thing in the world she needed to do was to befriend a man who couldn’t even remember his name.

      Chapter Two

      Betsy’s shift ended at seven o’clock the next morning. But instead of going home, fixing herself a bite to eat and unwinding with a cup of chamomile tea as usual, she rode the elevator up to the third floor to check on John Doe.

      Betsy took a personal interest in each one of her patients. Typically, after they left the E.R. and were handed over to other doctors, she was able to set her concern aside. But this particular patient had really tugged at her heartstrings and she wasn’t sure why.

      She supposed it was only natural to sympathize with a man who’d been robbed of his valuables, as well as his memory, even if the amnesia proved to be temporary.

      When the elevator doors opened, letting her off on the third floor, she headed to the nurses’ desk, where Molly Mayfield sat, her head bowed as she studied a patient’s chart.

      It was both nice and reassuring to see her friend and coworker on duty today. Molly was one of the top nurses at Brighton Valley Medical Center, but she only worked part-time. After marrying race-car driver Chase Mayfield and giving birth to their baby girl, she’d cut back her hours at the hospital. But it was great having her stay on staff, even if it was only two or three days each week.

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