Linda O. Johnston - Marriage - Classified

Much, much later, they put her in a hospital room. Once the nurses had gotten her situated, she lay in the bed, her eyes wide open, and stared at the ugly, sterile room.

“Sara,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the two short syllables. Her name was Sara.

Why hadn’t she been able to remember?

Oh, Lord, why couldn’t she remember anything? Anxiety welled up in her once more.

Lying beneath starched white sheets, she wore a skimpy green gown, tied in the back—a ludicrous contrast to the lovely wedding gown she had been wearing earlier.

Wedding gown. There was something about it she should know…. Her shaking grew more pronounced. Why couldn’t she remember? She swallowed a sob. She wouldn’t cry, at least. She was a brave woman…at least she hoped so. And crying would not bring back her memory.

Everything would come to her, and soon. It had to.

But thinking hard didn’t resurrect any memories. All it did was intensify the horrible, pounding ache at the side of her head. She bit her bottom lip, determined not to ring the call button looped over the side rail of her bed for the nurse. She didn’t need medication to muddy her mind further.

Were there any drugs that would make her memory return?

Jordan had reassured her that it was all right to take something for the pain. He had seemed so caring, so attentive…but she couldn’t remember anything about him.

“Sara, are you awake?”

She felt as though she had conjured Jordan from thin air, for there he was, standing in the doorway. He hadn’t changed clothes, although he no longer looked so amazingly suave and urbane in his tuxedo. Now, the jacket and bow tie were gone and the top buttons of the starched white shirt were undone.

Earlier, his light brown hair had been parted and combed down. Now, it was brushed back from his face, revealing a high, broad forehead. She couldn’t be certain of the shade of his eyes beneath his jutting brows, but she had a slight recollection that they were a deep, dark blue, the color of blackberries ripened in the sun.

How did she know that?

“How are you feeling?” he asked. His stride, as he crossed the sparsely furnished room, was brisk and certain, as though he knew she would welcome him. And she did.

He had been the only constant in the turmoil of the short lifetime that she remembered. In fact, she smiled at seeing him.

“I—I’m okay,” she lied.

“Does your head hurt?” His deep, slow voice was soft with apparent concern. He stood at the edge of the bed and touched her cheek. His hand was cool, as though the hospital air conditioning had chilled it. He gently moved her face so he could look at the area where she had been struck—for she knew now that the injury to her head had been from a very hard blow. Of course, he couldn’t see much; the area was bandaged.

“It hurts some,” she admitted. But she hastily added, “I can take it, though.”

“Of course you can.” He smiled at her. Why did she have the sense that this was a rare occurrence, that she had seldom seen him smile? Maybe it was because she could see, with him still standing so close beside her, that there was no humor at all in his dark blue eyes. They appeared almost blank, as though he allowed no emotion at all to reflect from his soul to the world. “But there’s no need for you to suffer. If you want, I’ll have the nurse bring something for you in a minute, before I leave.”

“Please don’t go.” Panic washed over her again, so intense that she felt she could dig her fingernails into it.

Her fingernails. Shaking, she glanced at her own hands. Her nails were short and neatly rounded. She wore a light rose polish on them. Polish? It didn’t feel right. Maybe she had polished them because she had been dressed up. In a wedding gown…And on her left hand was a gold band. Was she married? That didn’t feel right either, but—

“You need some sleep, Sara,” Jordan said soothingly, interrupting her strange train of thought.

“I—I don’t want to sleep!” She knew she sounded almost hysterical. “Please stay here.”

Why had she said that? She wanted him to leave…didn’t she? She needed time to herself. To think. To remember.

But to lose the one fragile thread to her life, this man who had been there for her—

“I’ll be here until you fall asleep, Sara. I promise. And there will be two uniformed police officers guarding your room from the hall. You’ll be fine.” He sat beside her on the bed, and she felt the mattress sag with his weight. He took her hands. His were large, his fingers thick and rounded, his nails blunt. She stared at them, not willing to meet his eyes.

But then he bent down and kissed her forehead. Shocked, she stared at him.

“Oh, Sara.” He shook his head slowly. How had she thought she’d seen no emotion in his eyes? They looked abysmally sad. “Is this an act? It’s okay to tell the truth. You can trust me.”

“An act?” She didn’t understand at first. And although he had shown a great deal of concern toward her, how did she really know she could trust him?

Someone had been killed, in the same room as she’d been injured.

Jordan had been the first, beside the maid, to come in.

Of course, he had been nothing but kind to her, for as long as she could remember.

Yes, but that was only a few hours, she reminded herself ironically.

In any event, she didn’t see any downside in telling him the truth. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but I don’t remember anything.” To her horror, her voice broke.

He studied her for a moment, and she wanted to shrink from his intense gaze. She didn’t, though. She pulled her hands away and forced herself to sit up just a little straighter.

He finally said, “All right. I’ll assume it’s real, for now at least. And if so, there are some things you should know.” He sighed. “But most will keep until tomorrow. We’ll talk then about how long it will take to get your memory back. We need for you to remember what happened.”

“To catch whoever did it?”

He nodded, and she had a feeling that there was a lot hinging on solving this crime.

Solving the crime…why did that seem so crucial to her? The idea seemed—well, familiar. But she couldn’t remember why.

“We have to catch the murderer,” she said out loud.

“That’s for certain,” he said grimly.

Suddenly questions bubbled up inside Sara, insisting on spilling out. She blurted the first. “Who was the man who died?” She knew, somehow, that the answer was vital.

“If you really don’t remember, then this isn’t the time to get into that.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Tomorrow, we’ll—”

“Tell me now,” she insisted.

“But—”

“Please.” She steeled herself, realizing, after his dissembling, that what she would hear would be painful.

“He was your father, Sara.” The man gathered her into his arms while she stiffened in shock. “He was Casper Shepard, Chief of Police of Santa Gregoria.”

“No-oo—” Sara heard her own keening as though it were issued from someone else. Her father? Even seeing him on the floor that way, lifeless, she hadn’t remembered him. Still couldn’t. But the ugliness of having lost him, coupled with her inability to recall, finally drove her into a frenzy of emotion. She tried to push against the strong, hard chest of the man who still held her. She wanted to stand. To run…somewhere. Anywhere.

“I’m so sorry,” the man whispered in her ear, his accent slightly more pronounced with emotion. “It was partly my—Never mind. I’ll find the murdering SOB.” The man who held her seemed as upset as she, and she pulled back. She stared at him.

Despite the hardness that turned his deep blue eyes to steel, his hollow cheeks were damp.