Kelsey Roberts - The Best Man in Texas

“I’m a doctor. I’m not allowed to forget fractures, Miss Parker.”

“Who is Miss Parker?” she demanded urgently.

Justin had been in the middle of checking her pulse when he went still. “Excuse me?”

He saw a flash of emotion—anger or frustration or both—in her expression.

“Am I Molly Parker?”

Justin whipped out his penlight and again checked her pupils. He forced his tone to be placid as he asked, “Are you telling me you don’t remember your name?”

She swatted the penlight away from her face. “I’m telling you I don’t remember anything.”

Taking in a deep breath, Justin pulled back and ran several possibilities through his mind. “Concussion can often result in short-term memory interruption. What is the last thing you can remember?”

“Waking up here.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “I think it would be a good idea for me to set your ankle then transport you to the hospital in Fort Worth.”

“No!”

Justin was startled by her urgent reaction. “The hospital is better equipped to deal with a major head trauma and—”

She cut him off by gripping the sleeve of his jacket. “Please don’t send me anywhere. I don’t know why, but I just have this feeling that I’m safe here. That doesn’t make sense, does it?” She lowered her eyes and nervously drew her lower lip between her teeth.

“It makes perfect sense,” he assured her. “Your ankle isn’t your only injury. You obviously took a hit to the head, and X rays showed you have a small crack in one of your ribs in addition to—”

“You said I was in an accident?” she interrupted him.

He nodded. “You were hit by a car. But that isn’t what cracked your rib or caused most of the lacerations and hematomas to your face.”

“What?”

“Doctor talk for cuts and bruises. My guess is they’re two to three days old.”

“I was in a fight and a car accident? What kind of person am I?”

“Probably a very decent one,” he hypothesized. “If it was a fight, it was one-sided. No offensive or defensive wounds on your knuckles. Most likely, you were the victim of a crime or—”

“Or what?”

“Domestic violence. Which, by the way, is a crime.”

“Am I married?” She asked the question with abject horror in her tone.

He shrugged. “No wedding ring. No pictures in your wallet. You don’t have to be married to someone to get beaten, Molly.”

She rubbed her face with her hands. “I think I would have preferred it if you’d said I was in a barroom brawl.”

He chuckled. Obviously this woman had maintained her sense of humor under horrific circumstances. It galled him to think of a man abusing any woman, particularly this one. She wasn’t short, just petite. Fragile. What kind of animal would attack someone so physically defenseless? And why did he have an urge to scoop her into his arms?

Sobering, he said, “I should tell you the circumstances surrounding the accident.”

“It gets worse?” she asked in a defeated voice.

“Pretty much. There were no witnesses, according to Sheriff Younger, and no skid marks at the scene.”

“Meaning?”

“The driver who hit you was either seriously distracted or...”

“Or?”

“Or aiming for you.”

* * *

MOLLY SPENT the following few minutes trying in vain to recall something—anything—but her memory had been erased like a chalkboard. It was too weird. She had no problem remembering who was president of the United States or how to format and configure a computer’s hard drive, but everything personal had been selectively deleted.

Frustrated, she found herself searching the clinic for Dr. Dale, the one and only face that was familiar. He had gone to mix some plaster to make her cast. The clinic was small and rather homey looking—she counted six beds in her immediate area, someone had painted aquatic murals on two of the walls.

Molly pulled herself up to rest on her elbows in order to get a better view of the place. Peering around the curtain, she spotted an attractive brunette leaning over a crib. She could hear the woman singing softly and see small, chubby legs in the crib. The infant’s bed was shrouded in some sort of plastic and a nearby machine made rhythmic whooshing sounds.

The woman turned then and caught Molly staring at her. It might have been awkward, but she simply reached inside the plastic cover, touched the baby and walked over to Molly.

“Hi. I’m Julie,” she said upon arrival.

The woman looked on the verge of total exhaustion but her warm smile seemed genuine.

“I’m Molly Porter—um—Parker. Molly Parker.” The name still felt foreign on her tongue.

Julie rubbed her neck and rolled her head as she apparently worked out some stiffness.

“Is that your baby?” Molly asked.

Julie nodded. “Thomas. He’s finally turning the corner. I would have lost him to pneumonia if it hadn’t been for Justin.”

“Aside from miracles, I can also walk on water,” Dr. Dale quipped with an easy grin as he brought a small basin and rolls of fiberglass tape to set her ankle.

Molly didn’t recognize her own name but she sure recognized the pang of jealousy she felt when Julie gave the gorgeous doctor a familiar, playful shove. Maybe Molly had suffered brain damage after all. That was the only plausible explanation for feeling such an intimate emotion about a total stranger.

“This could be uncomfortable, but I’m reluctant to give you any pain medication that might cause drowsiness because of the concussion,” he explained.

When his palm gently slid beneath her calf, Molly was pretty sure no sedative could have dulled the flood of sensation. His long, tapered fingers were warm where they gripped her flesh. She felt oddly flushed and was glad she was no longer connected to the blood-pressure monitor. Surely it would have registered her inappropriate and humiliating reaction to his touch.

Julie excused herself and returned to baby Thomas while Molly forced herself to stare at the ceiling. Looking at the doctor wasn’t an option. Though she’d lost her memory, she was fairly sure that applying a cast was not supposed to be a turn-on. Lord, maybe she was some sort of slut!

No, she reasoned. If she were, she wouldn’t be feeling the full weight of guilt seizing her chest.

Despite her best efforts to resist, she noticed that he was well toned. Not muscle-bound, just incredibly fit. Her mind went into fantasyland when she postulated that beneath his soft shirt were broad shoulders, a tapered waist and sculpted abdominals. Her gaze darted to his legs for an instant, long enough to fuel her musings. His jeans were faded, well-worn, and she could clearly see the outline of defined thigh muscles.

The room seemed to be getting warmer by the second.

Carefully, he slipped some sort of cotton, open-toed, sock-thing over her foot. It went up her leg about five inches. It felt as if he spent a long weekend adjusting and readjusting the fabric. Molly no longer felt pain from the fracture. Instead, her mind was totally focused on the electric sensation of his determined and well-trained fingers. Each place his skin brushed hers, a tingle lingered.

She felt her face grow hot.

“Is this uncomfortable?” the doctor asked.

Big-time. But probably not in the way you mean. “Nope, not at all.”

“You look flushed. This isn’t supposed to be a test of your fortitude. I can give you something for the pain, if it’s too bad,” he suggested.

She simply shook her head, afraid if she tried to speak, her wayward thoughts would be betrayed in her tone. Besides, what she wasn’t feeling was pain. It was a thrill, a rush of excitement ricocheting around in her stomach. She wasn’t a doctor, but she was sure that her symptoms had nothing to do with any injury.