Grace Green - A Husband Worth Waiting For

He twisted his hand and trapped her wrist with strong fingers.

“Who are you?” His question came out raspingly. “And what’s going on?”

How much should she tell him? Better to say nothing. The truth might set his blood pressure skyrocketing.

“You’ll find out everything,” she said quickly, “once you’re feeling better.” Tugging her hand free, she backed away. “I’m not even supposed to be here!”

“Wait!”

Ignoring his urgent command, she whirled and fled out to the corridor.

The nurse was at the elevator with the children, and when she saw Sarah, she pressed the elevator button. The doors glided open just as Sarah got there.

With a murmured “Thanks,” Sarah guided the children inside and pressed the lobby button.

“Bye, kids!” The nurse gave the children a wave and then said to Sarah, just as the doors began to swish shut, “I’ll tell your husband when he wakes up that you paid him a visit.”

Sarah blinked and then said quickly, “Oh, but he’s—”

The doors clicked into place.

“—not my husband.”

Too late. The elevator had already begun its descent.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, with time meaning nothing to him. He gathered he was in the hospital, that he’d been involved in a car accident—not his fault, that of the other driver. He also gathered that apart from a few bruises, his only injury was a blow to his head, which he’d sustained on impact with the other vehicle.

Nurses checked on him periodically, but despite his attempts to engage them in conversation, they had little time to chat. He also had the vaguest recollection of seeing a blond angel hovering over him at one point.

He knew that in near-death experiences, people sometimes saw a tunnel of white light with figures beckoning them. He’d apparently not been near death and he’d seen no white light, but the angel had spoken to him in a husky, melodic voice. He recalled her saying apologetically that she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Perhaps she’d come to his room by mistake, thinking he was soon to be not of this world. And then discovered she’d been wrong. Even angels must make mistakes.

He dreamed of her that night; and when he wakened in the morning, the dream remained vividly in his mind.

A mind that was now, thankfully, lucid….

Except for one thing.

One problem.

And it was a whopper!

He had no idea who he was.

He knew he’d been in an accident because someone had told him; but he had no memory of it.

And he had no memory of anything that had happened prior to the crash.

Hell’s teeth. He lay back on his pillow, stunned. What a dilemma. Who was he?

He was still pondering the question when a tall gray-haired doctor appeared at his bedside. Behind him hovered a nurse.

“Rasmussen,” the man said bluntly. And proceeded to give him a thorough examination. “Right, Mr. Morgan—”

Ah, now he knew his name. Or at least his surname. It was a start.

“—you can go home this morning. Where do you live?”

Before he could answer, the nurse piped up, “The patient has a place on Whispering Mountain—about ten miles from here.”

Well, he reflected, at least he wasn’t homeless!

“He shouldn’t do much for himself for the next couple of days. He’ll be a bit off balance. Does he have someone to look after him?”

Did he? The patient turned a keen gaze on the nurse, interested to hear the answer.

“Oh, yes, Doctor. Mr. Morgan has a wife—”

He had a wife? Odd, he didn’t feel married.

“—isn’t that right, Jedidiah?” The nurse threw him a saccharine-sweet smile.

Jedidiah. What kind of a mother would stick her son with a name like that? “Oh, sure,” he said brightly. “A wife.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “Now take it easy for the next few days. You’ve had a nasty knock. No drinking, no driving. And stay quiet. Take a break from work.”

“Sure.” Work? Did he work? Or was he perhaps a dilettante playboy? Surreptitiously, hopefully, he turned over his hands and stole a glance at his palms—

Hey, would you look at those calluses! Those were not the hands of a man who lived a life of glitz and glamour.

But they were the hands of a man who didn’t ask for directions when he was lost. That much he knew, and the knowledge was innate. It probably went all the way back to caveman days, when no caveman worth his salt would have asked another caveman where the best buffalo were roaming.

“Any questions?” The doctor stood poised to leave.

“Nope.”

“Remember anything of the accident?”

Jedidiah shook his head. And winced as pain sliced through it.

“It might come back, but probably won’t. Most people find that because of the trauma it’s blocked out of their minds permanently. You may also find that the swelling around your brain will have caused further memory loss. As the swelling subsides, those memories—your personal memories—should eventually return.” The doctor was halfway to the door. “Any problems, just give me a call.”

“Will do. And thanks.”

After the doctor left, the nurse said, “You’ll find all your clothes in that locker by your bed.” She headed for the door.

Jedidiah said, “Hold on a minute.”

She turned.

“Has my…wife called this morning?”

“She called first thing and then she called again, just after ten. I told her I’d phone back after the doctor had seen you. I’ll call her now and tell her she can come pick you up.”

“Call me a cab instead.”

“But your wife—”

“I want to surprise her.”

The nurse beamed. “I’ll call you that cab. And I’ll come back shortly to wheel you downstairs.”

As the sound of the nurse’s brisk footsteps faded along the corridor, Jedidiah swung his legs off the bed, then paused as a wave of giddiness assailed him. When he finally stood, the floor seemed to tilt. He grasped the bed rail, and once he felt steadier, he moved to his locker.

When he looked at his clothes, they were unfamiliar to him. Blue jeans, denim shirt, navy jacket. It was as if he’d never seen them before.

Yet he knew what they were called; and when he withdrew his black leather wallet from his hip pocket, he knew it was called a wallet. Odd how his mind had retained that kind of information, yet all his personal memories seemed lost.

He unfolded the wallet and riffled curiously through its contents. He found over seventy dollars in bills; a few credit cards; a receipt for gas. And his driver’s license. He noted his address—Morgan’s Hope, Whispering Mountain, B.C. He checked his birth date against the date on the gas receipt and figured he was almost thirty-five. Looking at his photo was like looking at the face of a stranger—a stranger with dark hair and an even darker scowl.

He searched further, hoping to find a picture of his wife, but no luck. He slid the wallet back into the pocket, his mind swirling with questions.

When he got home, he’d get his wife to answer them.

He scraped a rueful hand through his hair. His wife.

He couldn’t wait to see what she looked like!

“Mom, how come you’re unloading all that stuff from the car and bringing it into our uncle’s house?”

Over the bulky bag in her arms, Sarah peeked at Emma and Jamie, who were zooming Jamie’s Tonka trucks over the foyer carpet. “When I called the nurse she said that when your uncle gets home, he’d need taking care of for a few days. I plan to look after him.”

Even if he didn’t want her to, Sarah reflected as nervousness churned her stomach. But she hoped he wouldn’t be up to arguing. In fact, she was counting on it. She desperately needed time to regroup, time to decide where to go when she left Morgan’s Hope.