Judy Duarte - The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming

Hell, Joe had been bummed, too. His own gunshot wound had made him rethink his intention to reenlist, which was why he was here now—no longer officially in the corps, but always and forever a marine.

He’d shaken his own discouragement and disappointment, focusing instead on Dave’s recovery and rehab. That is, until he’d been discharged and sent back to the States. Upon Dave’s arrival two weeks ago, Joe had picked him up at the airport, determined to help him mend. But Dave’s depression and attitude had sunk to an all-time low, and on one of his first nights back, he downed more than his prescribed dose of meds, followed by a glass of ninety proof, ending his pain forever.

The coroner had ruled Dave’s death an accident, an unintentional overdose. But Joe believed otherwise.

There was a life insurance policy somewhere, which wouldn’t do anyone any good if the death was ruled a suicide. Joe had the power to throw a wrench into the machinery and blow things sky-high, which he was tempted to do. After all, Dave had told him that he’d made Chloe his beneficiary. And on top of that, he’d left her everything—his money, his family ranch in Brighton Valley.

How lucky could a heartless woman get?

As Joe started across the street, heading for the Night Owl, the Silverado started up, but something wasn’t quite right about the sound. Instead of backing out in a normal fashion, the driver gunned the engine and the tires spun, kicking up gravel as it blasted forward and over the curb.

Joe’s pause to look over his shoulder at drunk Larry cost him his opportunity to make it all the way across the street as oncoming cars zoomed by him, leaving him no safe retreat as the truck shot onto the highway, barreling right at him.

He’d thought his day couldn’t get much worse and might have considered this strike three, but he was too busy trying to dodge the speeding truck as it nailed him in the side, sending him flying into the night.

* * *

When Chloe Dawson received the call from the Brighton Valley Medical Center asking her to come to the hospital and identify a hit-and-run victim, a patient they believed to be David Cummings, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and her grip on the receiver tightened. “Is he... dead? ”

“No, he’s unconscious.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The moment she hung up, she threw on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and sweater. Then she climbed into one of the ranch pickups and drove to town, her hands clammy as they struggled to control both the steering wheel and the gearshift at the same time, her knee wobbly as she stepped on the clutch.

Thank God her dad had insisted she learn to drive a stick when she’d turned sixteen, although this beat-up old GMC wasn’t anything like the little Honda Civic she’d once driven.

She kept her eyes on the darkened country road until she reached city limits twenty minutes later and turned down the highway that led to the medical center. She snagged the first parking space she could find and rushed to the E.R. entrance.

Once inside, she told the receptionist to alert Dr. Betsy Nielson of her arrival. It gave her some comfort to know that Dave was under the care of one of the best doctors at BVMC.

After making several visits to the emergency department with Teresa Cummings, Dave’s mother, and also with some of the elderly residents at the Sheltering Arms Rest Home, where Chloe had once worked as a nurse’s aide, Dr. Betsy Nielson and Chloe had become well acquainted.

Fortunately, within a matter of minutes, Betsy, an attractive redhead wearing a pair of light blue scrubs came out to the waiting room personally to find her. “Thanks for coming in, Chloe.”

“No problem. I’m glad you called. How is he?”

“He’s conscious now, but I’m afraid he’s not going to be any help. He has amnesia—and no ID.”

“And you think it’s Dave?”

“I’ve never met Teresa’s son, so I have no idea what he looks like. But the patient is in his mid- to late-twenties. A tattoo of the marine insignia on his left biceps indicates he is or was in the military. So I made the assumption. Sheriff Hollister is checking into that.”

Chloe hadn’t heard from Dave in months—not since she’d had to take a direct approach and tell him that a couple of shared dinners in the hospital cafeteria didn’t mean they were altar-bound. She’d felt badly about hurting him, especially with him being so far from home, but each letter he’d sent her from Afghanistan had included more and more marriage plans. And she’d needed to make it clear that she only wanted to be friends.

“How badly is he hurt?” Chloe asked. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’s bruised, with cuts and lacerations. But there aren’t any broken bones. His most serious injury appears to be a concussion.”

“Where did it happen?”

“On the highway outside the Stagecoach Inn.”

Chloe had worked at the honky-tonk for a while, hoping to earn some spare cash so she could go back to nursing school once Dave got back home and was able to run the ranch himself. But she’d never liked getting involved in confrontations and tried to avoid them at all costs. Needless to say, she’d gotten tired of having to put some of the rowdier patrons in their places as the night wore on. So she’d quit last month.

“Did anyone inside the Stagecoach Inn know who he was? I mean, Dave wasn’t much of a drinker—unless that changed while he was deployed.” Had he stopped by the bar to look for her? He hadn’t liked the idea of her working there, but since he’d quit writing to her and her last letter to him had been returned, he might not know that she’d quit.

“From what I understand,” Betsy said, “he might have gone inside, but he never ordered a drink.”

“So what happened? How’d he get hit by a car?”

“The sheriff’s department is still investigating, so I’m not entirely sure. Apparently he was on foot. A bystander heard the squealing wheels and the thud, but only caught sight of the taillights of the vehicle. She called 9-1-1, and he was rushed to the hospital. But because he has no wallet, the only clue to his identity was the letter he was carrying.”

“The letter?”

“Apparently it was written by Dave Cummings and addressed to you. That’s why I called the ranch and wanted you to give us a positive ID.”

“Where is he?” Chloe asked. “Can I see him?”

“Of course. Come with me.”

The doctor led Chloe through the E.R. door and along a maze of exam rooms until she reached a small area just off the nurses’ station and slowed to a stop. “He’s right here.” She pulled the curtain back.

But when Chloe spotted the man lying in bed and took in his dark hair—clipped short but not in the customary military high and tight—as well as his olive complexion and square cut jaw, she froze in her tracks. His eyes were closed, and he had a couple of scrapes on a notably handsome face.

While she’d like to be of help to the doctor, she realized that she wouldn’t be. “I’m sorry, Betsy, but that’s not Dave Cummings.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“I’ve never seen him before.” She certainly would have remembered if she had. Even asleep and with bumps and bruises, the man definitely aroused a woman’s soul and would leave a lasting impression.

Upon hearing their voices, he stirred. When his eyes opened, her breath caught at the sight of their stunning sky-blue color.

He zeroed in on her, and his brow furrowed. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Chloe Dawson. You had a letter addressed to me.”

He merely studied her, his gaze laced with confusion.

“Do you know Dave Cummings?” she asked.

“I suppose I should, since they tell me that’s who wrote the letter I had in my pocket. But the name doesn’t ring a bell.” He reached up and stroked his head, massaging the temple.