The Cowboy's Baby Surprise

The conference call came through two hours later.

Dr. Fields took the time for explanations. In the end, his descriptions were thorough, if not hopeful.

“Please, Doctor,” she begged. “We can give you a couple of hypothetical causes for the amnesia. Can’t you give us some possibilities?”

After a long-winded, ten-minute lecture on one possible cause, Reid broke into the doctor’s explanation. “Hold it. I need a translator.”

“The doctor’s simply saying that a person can have something so horrible happen to him that his mind refuses to acknowledge it,” Carley explained to her boss. “Sometimes the person might even blank out not only the terrible event but also everything that came before.”

Carley tried to make the doctor spell out that kind of malfunction for Reid’s benefit. “This would be more a psychiatric problem, wouldn’t it Dr. Fields?”

“Indeed, but it would be recognized under the branch of medicine called cognitive neuropsychology. Unfortunately, for the condition to continue for a period of eighteen months would, by definition, mean the person had immersed himself in a drastic, multiple-personality disorder that would take literally years of intense therapy to conquer.”

The idea of Witt having such a dire mental illness made Carley shudder. “Let’s hope that’s not the case here. What if it was not the denial of an event but rather an actual physical trauma that’s caused this amnesia?”

“That’s the other possibility. Any trauma to the head can cause brain damage, bruising the cerebral cortex and causing problems with memory retrieval. I would naturally need to study the brain scans before I could attempt to assess the extent of such damage.”

Carley was getting impatient with the doctor’s hedging. “Yes, but can’t you tell us in general the symptoms and recovery time?”

After a few seconds of indignant silence, the doctor continued. “Brain trauma can cause temporary loss of personal memories…for instance, one’s identity, while other memories like language skills and word recognition that are stored in a different part of the brain are not lost.”

“Right. I’ve seen movies where this happens.” Reid sounded as eager to get to the point as Carley felt. “But those memories do come back, don’t they?”

“Normally, following trauma, patients have what are called ‘islands of memory.’ These isolated events can act as anchors for memory recovery. In most cases, all old memories, except for the actual trauma itself, are recovered. It’s conceivable, though, that large areas of memory will be permanently irretrievable.”

“What?” Reid sounded stunned. “Carley, is he saying that Davidson may never remember who he is or what happened to him?”

“Shh, Reid. Let the doctor finish, then we’ll discuss this rationally.” Carley was amazed her voice seemed so calm when inside she was a mass of nerve endings. “Would it do any good in such a case to force the person to try to remember, Dr. Fields? Or to try something drastic like hypnosis or drugs, perhaps?”

“Absolutely not. Any further emotional or physical shock could cause the victim’s memories to retreat even further. No, the best course of action is to provide a safe environment where familiar things can be introduced slowly. If the patient inquires about his past, do not lie or confuse the issue, but gently steer him toward self-revelation.”

Carley thanked the specialist for his time, clicked him off and tried to placate Reid. Her boss was chomping at the bit to bundle Witt up and drag him off to an institution for examination and second opinions, exactly as she’d feared.

She managed to dissuade Reid by begging for some time to ease herself into Witt’s trust. Carley figured once Houston Smith trusted her, getting his memory back might come along naturally with the familiarity between them.

Finally Reid calmed enough to foresee the dangers he’d missed before. “I’m sorry I got you and Cami into this. I’d imagined that when you showed up, Witt would see you and remember everything. Guess that’s not going to happen. What do you want to do now?”

She couldn’t believe he would even need to ask the question. “Why, stay with him, of course.”

Reid’s voice softened when he said, “Carley, he has another life now. What if it takes a year…two…or more?”

“I’ll be here to help him, no matter how long it takes.”

Her boss lowered his tone to where she could barely hear him. “What if he never remembers you?”

For a moment she hesitated, but every strand of human frailty that held her to this unjust planet screamed the same answer throughout her body. “Then we’ll just have to make new memories,” she whispered. “I believe he loved me once. Deep down he’s the same person. With enough time, perhaps he’ll grow to love me again.”

“Sorry, Charleston. I can only give you a couple more weeks.” Reid’s voice had grown strong and professional once more.

“Being without Davidson has been a challenge,” he added. “Having to do without you, as well, would be more than the operation can stand.”

“Only a couple of weeks?”

“That’s more than I should give you. In the meantime, watch your back…and his. Whoever or whatever caused this amnesia is bound to come back sooner or later to finish the job. You want to stay there with him for a few weeks? Okay. But you’re totally responsible for his welfare. In his condition, he’s completely defenseless.”

Three

Fifteen minutes and dozens of instructions later, Carley snapped closed her mobile phone and took a deep breath. Reid had agreed to wait and to let her and Cami stay on the ranch—for now. But that wasn’t her biggest worry.

Despite what she’d told Reid, deep inside she was frozen with the fear that perhaps Witt would never remember. What if she never again felt his warm breath on her cheek or thrilled to the electric shock of having his body pulled tightly against hers?

Hearing herself make a noise somewhere between a muffled sob and a sigh, Carley fought the lump forming deep in her throat. At that moment another tiny sob penetrated the stillness of the dusty sunset pouring through the open window.

Carley spun to see Cami standing in the crib, one hand holding the rail and the other fisted in her mouth.

Silent, sad eyes stared at Carley through the shadows of the room. “Mama…home?”

Carley crossed the room and picked up her sleepy-eyed child. “Oh, baby,” she crooned, as she bent her head to gently kiss the soft, fuzzy cap of straw-colored curls. “It looks like this is home for a while. We’re just going to have to make the best of it.”

A quiet knock disturbed Carley’s reverie as she stood in the middle of the room, gently swaying back and forth, patting Cami’s flannel-covered back.

“Yes?”

“Miz Mills?” The door inched open enough to allow Rosie, the teenage caretaker, to stick her head in the room. When she saw Carley holding the baby, she stepped further inside. “Preacher Gabe said to tell you the senior staff’s supper hour is at seven o’clock.”

Cami turned from her mother’s shoulder to gaze at the intruder. When Rosie spotted Cami, Carley was amazed to see the short, dark-haired teenager grinning back at her daughter.

“Um. Do you think maybe Cami would give me another chance to be friends?” Rosie took a step in their direction.

Carley couldn’t help but smile. “You’ll have to ask Cami. But she has a forgiving nature. And I think she and I both could stand to have a new friend right now.”

Rosie’s chocolate-colored eyes turned serious, but she forced a smile as she held her arms out to entice Cami to come to her. “Want to be my friend, Cami?”

Cami gazed silently at the young woman for a moment, then turned to get a hint from her mother. Carley knew her approval was crucial, so she smiled at both of them.

“It’s okay, Cami. Rosie is our friend.”

Cami’s face broke into a big grin and she nearly flung herself from her mother’s arms into the waiting arms of the surprised teenager.

Carley gathered up some of Cami’s things. “Would you like to feed her dinner and sit with her while I eat, Rosie?”

The girl nodded as she brushed Cami’s wispy strands into some semblance of order.

“Good. That’ll give me a chance to get to know…”

The roar of an engine blasted through the quiet twilight on the range, completely drowning out Carley’s words. Her body went wire tight as she stepped to the window. Through the trees, Carley caught a glimpse of a man on a motorcycle, spinning circles in the dirt of the barnyard.

To her horror a horse and its rider picked that exact moment to ride into view. When the horse spied the motorcycle, it shied back and tried to turn. The cowboy held on and refused to let the poor, scared animal have its way. Finally the horse reared up, adding its own complaint to the gunning sounds of the motorcycle.

Carley barely had time to fuss over the treatment of the horse when its rider’s hat went flying. She froze. There on the back of a bucking animal bent on destruction was Witt.

My God. “No more physical traumas,” the doctor had said. And Reid had warned her that she was responsible.

For heaven’s sake, get off that horse!

While curtailing the hysterical scream threatening to explode from her throat, Carley threw a couple of choked instructions over her shoulder to Rosie. Flying down the stairs, she pushed through the kitchen door to the yard. Her body’s jangled nerves energized her steps with a desperate need to keep Houston safe.

The screen door slammed open and snapped back, catching her heel. She cussed under her breath but kept on moving past the trees that shaded the house and temporarily obscured her view of the yard.

After clearing the trees, she came to an abrupt halt. There in the center of the open space stood Houston Smith, holding the reins of a quieted horse with one hand while he slapped his hat against the jeans covering his massive thigh with the other. And he was smiling. Smiling and chatting with the fellow clad totally in leather who’d just shut down the powerful engine of his motorcycle.

She picked up her pace again and raced to the middle of the expanse of dirt. The smell of sweaty animal mingled with the pungent odor of motorcycle exhaust made her wish for a fresh breath of air.

Within a few feet of the men, she had to hockey-stop before plowing right into Houston. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Ma’am?”

He turned around, and Carley felt a sucker punch to her gut. His gaze was wary and confused. Not at all the look she was used to getting from her lover. All these lonely, desperate months she’d dreamed of that cocky grin and the sexy inspection he usually bestowed upon her. Now, here he was, only a few feet away, and he practically looked right through her.

“You might have been killed. You shouldn’t be riding a horse.” She sucked in a breath and tried to stem the shakes causing her voice to quiver. “Stick to walking and cars, why don’t you?”

“Ma’am?” His eyes took on a rather quizzical, dancing quality, as if he suddenly found her quite amusing.

She’d be amusing, all right. If he didn’t quit calling her ma’am, she might have to ignore the doctor’s orders and punch him right in that gorgeous, grinning mouth. How was she supposed to explain to him why he had to be careful—why another blow to the head might kill any chance for him to remember his past life—his past love?

“Uh. You were too rough on the horse. He almost threw you. You’re too important to the ranch to be doing anything so dangerous.”

“Ma’am?” This time the tone of his voice was more than casual but less than cordial.

She ground her teeth and stepped closer to him. “Stop saying that. I’m only trying to make you think about being more careful, that’s all.”

A roar of raucous laughter erupted behind her. She spun to face the other man, still seated on the chrome and black motorcycle. His eyes were covered by reflector-type, aviator sunglasses, and he was grinning widely.

“I think that’s a slam aimed at your horsemanship, amigo.” The dark-skinned man removed his glasses and aimed a decidedly sexual ogle in Carley’s direction. He let his gaze wander slowly down her face, across her chest and linger around her hips. “You want to warn me about the dangers of a motorcycle, sugar?”

She sniffed once, raised her chin and turned back to the cowboy with the horse. “Look, I…”

“No, you look…ma’am.” Houston’s eyes glinted the color of iron in the shadows of the setting sun. “I don’t know what you thought you saw, or why you thought it concerned you, but I was definitely not too rough on this horse. And I was not about to be thrown.”

She felt her eyes widen at his sharp tone. Just when she thought she’d better devise some lie to cover her behavior, his eyes softened and his mouth curled up in a semblance of a smile.

“You know much about horses? Ever ridden one?”

“Me? No, but…”

Houston slid the Stetson on his head and pulled down the brim to partially cover his eyes. “Well, now. I’d say that’s an oversight we should do something about. I think a riding lesson might be just what you need to be more comfortable around the ranch.”

“I don’t think so.” She gulped. “In fact, I was about to suggest you start doing your work from the front seat of a truck. They do use trucks on modern ranches, don’t they?”

He chuckled and reached around to pat the nose of his horse. “No call to be afraid of horses. Take Poncho here, for instance.” Houston continued to stroke the horse’s neck. “He’ll work as hard as any man for however long you ask of him, and with barely a sign of complaint.”

“Only if you treat him right.” The man on the motorcycle, with jet-black eyes matching his shoulder-length hair, cut in. “And Houston Smith is better to his animals than any man on earth.”

Carley faced the man still astride his bike.

“There’s no need to concern yourself with Houston’s welfare, miss. The horses respect his authority and his attention. They know he’d die before he’d let anything bad happen to them.”

That’s just what she was afraid of.

Houston cleared his throat with what she sensed was embarrassment. “Uh. Carley, have you met our veterinarian’s assistant, Manny Sanchez?”

Manny Sanchez, the FBI undercover agent.

Carley felt her old dauntlessness returning, and her feet were suddenly back on solid ground. She bestowed a sultry grin on the jaunty, windblown man astride the bike while he showed a typical interest in her sexual overture.

She also delighted in watching his eyes change expression when she purred in her best Southern accent, “Pleased to meet you, Manny. My name’s Carley Mills and I think we have a mutual friend…Reid Sorrels from Houston. You remember him, don’t you, sugar?”

Manny’s shoulders straightened, and he swung his leg over the motorcycle. He practically stood at attention when he faced her. “Carley? You’re Carley Mills?” He flicked a glance between Carley and the man still holding the reins of his horse.

Carley was positively amused at the range of emotions that filtered across Manny’s face before he found his professional mask. “Yeah. Y-yes, certainly,” he stammered. “Reid Sorrels. How is good ol’ Reid, anyway?”

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