A Stranger She Can Trust Page 3

  Her heart kicked against her ribs at the thought of a hospital. “Your opinion will do,” she said. “No hospitals.” Her feet shifted. Every instinct she had told her to run, but where would she go? Her body ached from head to toe. She’d never outrun the able-bodied people here even if she could think of a direction. “Please, don’t make me go.” She was probably only making a bad situation worse, and she was definitely taking advantage of strangers who had better things to do, but she didn’t have another option.

  “Take it easy.” Carson encouraged her to have more water.

  She drank deeply, washing away the dry-cotton feeling in her mouth.

  The older man, Grant, made several notes on a card, then wrote a few more lines on a second card and slid that one across the desk to her. “You can trust Carson to take care of you tonight. Why don’t you check back with me tomorrow morning?”

  She blinked at the jumble of letters and numbers on the card, utterly overwhelmed. She could read it, but it didn’t mean anything. There had to be people she knew, people who knew her. Had to be, she thought, despite the void in her head. Could she trust what was happening to her now? Her sole possessions included her clothing, a matchbook and now this card. Her acquaintances were limited to the two men in this room until her brain decided to cooperate again.

  She was as eager as they were to learn how she’d ended up here.

  Carson seemed to understand what she couldn’t articulate. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. Picking up the card and matchbook, he placed both items into her palm and curled her fingers around them. “If you’d be more comfortable staying with a woman—”

  “No.” The word burst out of her, and tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision until she blinked them away. “You.” She gulped, knowing she had to calm down. “I trust you.” An absurd claim, considering she’d just met him.

  If her declaration surprised him, it didn’t show. His steady hazel eyes held her gaze. He didn’t look like a creep, he’d tended her wounds with kind hands, and the matchbook indicated that someone trustworthy had sent her here.

  “Then let’s get going,” he said.

  She nodded. No other choice without her memory. She placed her hand in his and let him guide her out of the office, keeping her head down so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the lights.

  He proceeded slowly down the hallway, and his fingers gripped hers a little tighter as he pushed open the back door. The yawning darkness and the smells of the river sent a tremor down her spine. This was the only familiar territory in her mind, and the bleak fact made her want to curl up and cry until the world made sense again. She managed to keep moving, thanks to the anchor of Carson’s strong hand enveloping hers.

  His palms were calloused and rough. Something inside her cringed from a memory of similar hands. When she tried to pluck at that thread, it dissolved.

  “Easy,” he said, opening the door of a big gray truck. “Need a boost?”

  “I can do it,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him as she stepped on the running board to get up into the seat. He checked to be sure she was settled before he closed the door.

  She caught her reflection in the side mirror and gave a start. Her face was a mess with the swelling and bandages and deep bruises. At least she knew she wasn’t supposed to look this way. In the mere seconds it took for him to get around the truck and into the driver’s seat, she fought back a swamping fear of being alone. The reaction startled her, and again something felt wrong about her reaction.

  Everything about everything felt wrong, inside and out.

  “Where do you live?” she asked as he started the truck. His answer meant nothing to her, and she watched a foreign world drift by in the dark as he drove through the streets. “Have you lived here all your life?”

  “Born and raised here in Philadelphia,” he answered, giving her vital information without making her feel stupid. “I’ve traveled a little, but I haven’t found another place I’d rather call home.”

  At the next intersection, he turned off the main road, and she wished for daylight so it might have been easier to remember any possible landmark. He’d told her not to push it, yet she couldn’t stop herself from trying.

  “How do you know so much about my, um, situation?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “As a paramedic, I’ve treated more than a few victims who struggled to remember what happened at the time of their injuries. The brain often blocks out facts until we can handle them, physically or emotionally. The best term for it is trauma-induced amnesia.”

  “That’s what you think is wrong with me?”

  “Without better testing, I can give you only my best guess.” He turned down another street and then into an alley tucked between rows of tall houses with only the occasional light in a window to give signs of life.

  “And people recover? They remember who they are?”

  He slowed down a bit more. “I don’t usually hear the end of the story.” He reached up and pressed a button over the rearview mirror. The big garage door opened, a light coming on inside. “My job is to stabilize patients so they can be transported and turned over to a doctor’s care.” He backed into the garage and cut the engine, hitting the button again to lower the door.

  Another shiver raced over her skin at the mention of a doctor. Her palms went damp and her breath backed up in her lungs. “Guess I don’t like being closed in.”

  “We won’t be for long.” He opened his door, and light flooded the truck. “That’s an important detail you’ve remembered.”

  She slid out of the truck and straightened her skirt. “Do you live alone?” she asked as they walked across the narrow backyard to his house. Some distant part of her mind thought she should be wary of heading into a stranger’s home, but her intuition overrode that.

  “Yes. If that’s a problem, I can call one of my sisters.”

  “No.” She didn’t want to meet anyone, not looking like this and not at almost three in the morning. “Well, yes, I’m uncomfortable, but don’t do that.”

  Something in his face clouded over, and he seemed so sad, although she couldn’t figure out why she would recognize that emotion in him when she didn’t recognize her clothes, her reflection or any aspect of her circumstances.

  He opened the back door and flipped the switch on the wall, flooding a gorgeous kitchen with light. It was decorated in muted blue tones and pops of sunny yellow. “There’s one better option,” he said, giving her a long look.

  She knew that he meant the hospital and he believed she’d be better cared for there. Thankfully he didn’t say the words again. She stepped closer to the central island, admiring the clean lines and tidiness of his kitchen.

  “The full house tour can wait.” He led her toward the front of the house, up the stairs, pointing out a bathroom on the way to a guest room with twin beds on either side of a centered window, covered by a decorated pull-down shade. He walked into the room and turned on a bedside lamp.

  The soft glow lent a cozy atmosphere to the room, at odds with the strange turmoil in her head. Unless she’d lost her sense of direction as well as her memory, the view through the window would overlook the backyard. “This is...” Too many emotions clogged her throat. His kindness and compassion and generosity overwhelmed her. “Thank you,” she managed after a moment.

  “No problem. I’ll get you something to sleep in.” She hovered at the doorway while he moved to the opposite end of the hall and disappeared into another room, returning quickly with a T-shirt and sweatpants. “Probably too big for you. I’m sure my sisters left something closer to your size. They use my place for wardrobe overflow. Feel free to check the closet or dresser for better options.”

  She took the clothing he offered. “Thank you.”

  He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Anything you need, j
ust ask. I’ll be checking on you a few times through what’s left of the night.”

  “You will?”

  “Just a precaution. You might not even notice.”

  He’d mentioned that. Or Grant had. Not that it mattered. Exhaustion pushed at her from every side, and she thought it might be easier to give in and fold to the pressure. “You have to do it?” She was torn between wanting to be alone and being terrified of the same situation.

  “Yes.” He backed up a step, hand on the doorknob. “Get some rest. I’m right down the hall.”

  Rest. What an easy thing to say, but she didn’t think it would be nearly as easy to accomplish despite her rampant fatigue. With the clothing in her arms, she sat down on the edge of the nearest bed. The fabric smelled freshly laundered, and under that, she caught a whiff of the man who’d helped her. Carson.

  He had a crisp, honest scent. The scent of safety, she thought. Curling up on top of the denim-colored bedspread, she hugged the clothing close to her chest and stopped trying to think about the infinite details and information missing from her mind.

  Chapter 2

  Carson slept in short cycles, much as he did during the overnight rotations on the ambulance rig. Observation protocol wasn’t fun for either the injured person or the one doing the checking, but it had to be done for her safety.

  The first time he’d gone into her room, he worried about startling her, but she hadn’t yet fallen asleep. Or changed into the T-shirt and sweats he’d given her. In her position, he probably wouldn’t have done that, either. Though he tried, he couldn’t imagine the challenge of her situation and her complete lack of self-history and awareness.

  The remainder of the night went on in a similar fashion, with him padding down the hall and rousing her gently, exchanging a few words and then heading back to his room. He’d chosen a few questions she could answer with her limited memory, and her answers were consistent with each check. While that was great news for her health, he’d breathe easier if she would agree to be seen by professionals.

  He recognized his frustration stemmed from the invasion of privacy. He hadn’t had a woman stay over since well before the ambulance was ambushed, and his current houseguest was about as far removed from a date with a happy, sexy ending as a man could get. She was, in essence, a patient, and more than once as the hours ticked toward dawn, he was grumpy that Grant hadn’t sent her home with one of the women on staff at the club.

  At the 8:00 a.m. check, he let her curl up and go back to sleep while he returned to his bathroom to shower and shave. After tugging on comfortable jeans and a shirt emblazoned with the logo from the last 5K he’d run for a charity event, he opened his bedroom door.

  The woman—his patient—stood there looking lost, her hand raised to knock. Her bruises stood out in stark relief against her skin, and he mentally ran down options to reduce the swelling. “You’re awake.” He gave her his best reassuring-paramedic smile.

  “I am,” she agreed. “Thanks for keeping tabs on me.”

  “Just doing my job,” he said quickly. He didn’t want more thanks. He wanted to hand her off to a qualified doctor. “Are you hungry?”

  Her warm brown eyes lit up as she held a hand to her midriff. “Yes, I am.”

  That was another good sign. “Any memories come back to you yet?”

  She gave a small shake of her head and pushed her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket. He suspected she was clutching the business card and matchbook.

  “I’ll get some breakfast going.” He’d make something soft and easy to chew as he was pretty sure her jaw would ache like crazy today. “Anything in particular sound good?”

  Her dark eyebrows flexed into a frown. “I can’t remember having any favorites.”

  “You will,” he replied confidently. He would cling to that belief, sure her memory would return, for both of them. “The hall bathroom should have whatever you need. Feel free to raid the closet or dresser. My sisters leave stuff here all the time and they won’t mind.”

  “Are you always this generous?”

  “Only with their stuff.” He regretted the joke almost immediately as her gaze clouded over. “I’m kidding.” He extended a hand to offer comfort, then quickly pulled back, reluctant to send any mixed signals. At this point he was basically her doctor, and he needed to maintain that distance. “Take a shower, and I’ll redress and treat the areas that need attention when you come downstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  As she turned and walked down the hall to the guest room, he realized she was barefoot. The sight charmed him. He ducked back into his bedroom and tried to stifle the awkward blend of empathy and pride that in the midst of her crisis, she trusted him enough to ditch the shoes.

  Unwilling to have another encounter in the hallway, he waited until he heard the taps running before heading downstairs to start on breakfast. His own stomach was rumbling loudly by the time he started oatmeal, so he heated a skillet for bacon and cracked a few eggs into a bowl, whisking in pepper and a dash of salt and wondering if he should add dill and thyme the way his sisters did.

  He set out raisins, brown sugar and a small pitcher of milk to go with the oatmeal. Better to give her options, he decided, than force her brain to struggle and puzzle over what she preferred.

  The second round of bacon was sizzling in the pan when she appeared in ankle-length yoga pants and a souvenir shirt from the October music festival the Escape Club had anchored last year. Her glossy, damp hair was held back with a clip at the nape of her neck, and her hands were hidden in the pockets of the denim jacket. She’d slipped her shoes on.

  “It smells good in here,” she said with a lopsided smile.

  “Let’s hope that’s a good sign things will taste good.”

  She stepped closer to the stove. “You made oatmeal.”

  “Is that a problem?” She’d mentioned it last night, and he wanted to support anything familiar.

  “No.” She didn’t look convinced.

  “It’s a go-to comfort food in my family.” He tipped his head to the table. “We usually add apples, but I’m out. There are raisins and other toppings to make it interesting. I also have eggs and bacon going.”

  “I remember the aroma of oatmeal with cinnamon and apples, but I can’t put any faces or names with it.”

  “You will in time. It sounds like a positive memory,” he pointed out.

  “It does.” Her eyes glistened with a tear-raising emotion, but she didn’t elaborate or let the tears fall today.

  She ladled oatmeal into a bowl, added various toppings sparingly and stirred it before taking her first bite. “That’s delicious. Thank you,” she said, adding another spoonful of brown sugar.

  “You’re welcome.” He turned the bacon in the skillet. “You don’t have to thank me for every little thing. We stick by each other at the Escape Club, and we help out when and where we’re needed.”

  “That extends to people like me?” She took a seat at the counter, cradling her oatmeal bowl in her hands.

  “Yes, it does.” He pulled out a tray of bacon and eggs he’d kept warm in the oven.

  “Even when you don’t know who you’re sticking by?”

  He nudged a plate toward her. “Fill up as you please.” Treat her normally, he thought. They didn’t know her name, and it was better if they ignored that elephant-sized detail for now.

  He watched as she chose one slice of bacon and a small portion of the scrambled eggs. While it was possible she was cautious until she knew what she liked, he had the distinct feeling that someone had raised her not to waste food. As helpful details went, it didn’t rank very high on the list, but it was something to keep in mind. She murmured approval of everything she tasted and went back for seconds on the oatmeal.

  “Did you get any rest last night?” he a
sked as he set the machine for a second cup of coffee. She’d turned down the offer of coffee, sticking with water.

  “Some, thank y—” She cut off the gratitude with a self-deprecating quirk at the corner of her mouth. The move made her wince. “Some.”

  “Would you like another ice pack for the lip or the eye?”

  “Arnica oil,” she said, her entire body perking up. “You apply arnica oil to heal bruises.” She grinned and gave the oatmeal a stir. “I’m going to sit here and be thrilled I know that.”

  “Okay,” he agreed easily. “I don’t have any, but I can make a call. My oldest sister is big into alternatives to standard medicine.”

  Her grin faded. “Arnica is an alternative?”

  “It is to me,” Carson replied with an abbreviated laugh. “One more reason I’m glad I stopped at being a paramedic rather than going on to medical school. My sister and I fight enough as it is.”

  She savored the last bites of her oatmeal. “I don’t think I have a sister.” Her eyebrows furrowed a moment. “Or a brother. Thinking about siblings makes me feel strange.” She tapped a finger over her heart. “Not sad, but not happy, either.”

  He leaned back against the counter, his mug of fresh coffee steaming as he raised it to his lips. “Your injuries alone would play havoc with your emotions. Compound that with whatever ordeal has your memory locked down, and it’s not a surprise that you’re not sure how you’re feeling about any of this.”

  “I feel like I can trust you, Carson.” She gave him a lopsided smile as she used his name. “I’m basing all my reactions on that one point.”

  No pressure there. “I suppose you need to start somewhere.”

  “Right.” She twisted the paper napkin in her hands. “Now that it’s daylight, could you take me for a drive around the city? Please?”

  “Sure.” He took another gulp of coffee. “The cab driver said he picked you up near the Penn campus. We could start there and then head over to meet Grant at the club. He’ll want to see how you’re doing and share any information he’s found through his contacts.”