Julianna Morris - Daddy Woke Up Married

The dispatcher responded with soothing efficiency, eliciting facts in a clear, concise fashion. She promised a rescue unit would be sent immediately.

With a muttered “thank you” Emily dropped the receiver and hurried outside. Nick blinked and groaned, and Emily sagged with relief. It was small comfort to be sure, but at least he was alive—breathing was always better than not breathing.

“Nick…can you hear me? Are you all right?” she asked.

He mumbled something indiscernible.

The wail of sirens reassured her, though she could tell from the pained expression in his confused brown eyes that he didn’t appreciate the noise. The sirens stopped in front of the house, and a minute later three men in emergency uniforms hurried through the gate by the garage, followed closely by a couple of Crockett, Washington, police officers and several firemen.

“You’ll be all right,” Emily whispered. She lightly touched Nick’s hand. It was all her fault, she shouldn’t have distracted him while he was working. At least he’d fallen from the one-story roof of the porch, rather than the second level of the old house.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” one of the rescue workers murmured. He patted Emily’s shoulder and took her place at Nick’s side. “Let’s take a look here.”

“He fell,” she explained quite unnecessarily—since there wasn’t any other explanation for the ladder, scattered shingles and Nick’s obvious injuries. “He was knocked out for a minute.”

Without actually ignoring her, they checked Nick’s vital signs, tried to get a coherent answer, strapped him into a neck brace and backboard, and lifted him onto the stretcher. Between the bandages and brace he looked awful.

Emily followed them to the ambulance, her hands trembling with alarm. “Sh…should I take my own car?”

Their gaze settled on the unmistakable swell of her stomach. “Er…no, ma’am. You’re pretty shaken up. You’d better ride with your husband.”

“Husband?” Nick muttered. “Whose husband? Cripes, my head hurts.”

“Take it easy, mister. Your wife is right here,” the leader of the rescue team assured.

Emily chafed impatiently when they insisted on taking her blood pressure and pulse before starting for the hospital. “I’m fine,” she said. “Let’s go.” As the sirens wailed again she dropped her head back and took several long, deep, calming breaths. So much for a quiet summer weekend.

Ouch.

His first truly coherent thought was that every molecule in his body hurt. And the rocking and jolting beneath him didn’t help a bit.

After a while most of the rocking stopped and a pencil-thin beam of light stabbed into his eyes. “Damn,” he said aloud.

“Good, he’s conscious. Nick? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Nick? Who the hell was Nick, he wondered. Was it him? Somewhere in his pain-fogged head he remembered seeing a blue-eyed angel who was supposed to be his wife, but the details seemed too much to grasp. Angels didn’t get married, they sat on clouds playing harps. So maybe that meant he was dead.

“Nick,” the voice repeated, “do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, hoping they’d just be quiet.

“Good. We’re taking you in for some X rays,” the voice informed him. “I don’t think anything is broken, but I want to be sure.”

Hell.

They weren’t going to leave him alone. But apparently he wasn’t dead, though it might be a pleasant alternative to his present state. He endured another bit of jolting, then some idiot told him to hold still. Very funny. He wasn’t a masochist. He didn’t have any intention of moving…not for about a million years.

The lights flashing overhead hurt his eyes, so he closed them tightly. A warm fog slid around him, soothing the pain, blocking out the demanding voices and pushy hands. He wished the angel was back. Her voice had been soft and melodic. Much nicer than these sadists.

After a while he grew annoyed with the poking and prodding and quietly insistent demands from unfamiliar voices. But when he finally pried his eyes open he found the pain had settled to a dull throb.

A door opened in the background, then a white-coated woman leaned over him.

“Where am I?” he asked, his throat raspy.

“In the hospital. You should learn not to jump off the roof—it’s too hard on the body. You’re not exactly Superman, you know.”

“Very funny.” He glared at the doctor, who obviously had learned her bedside manner from the Marx brothers. “Who are you?”

“Hmm…I’m Dr. Wescott. You don’t recognize me?”

A vague alarm clamored through him. “Uh, well, not really. Should I?”

The attractive redhead tapped her fingers on her stethoscope. “Can you tell me your name?” she asked, instead of answering his question.

“Sure, I’m…” The room spun lazily while he fought a growing panic. “I’m…”

Nick.

Husband.

Wife.

They were just words out of the fog, with nothing solid to attach them to. “Uh…my wife, where’s my wife?” He stalled, fighting the mad rush of his heart. Surely he would remember in a minute. He’d remember his identity…his wife.

“You mean Emily?”

“Yeah…Emily.” He grasped at the name, though it didn’t seem any more familiar than Nick had sounded. “Where’s Emily?”

“Waiting outside. She’s been pretty worried about you.”

For some reason that comforted him. Things couldn’t be so bad if the angel was waiting, worried about him. Maybe when he saw her, he’d remember everything.

The doctor put down the side railing of the bed, then lifted his arm and touched the pulse point at his wrist. “We admitted you three hours ago, but you only completely lost consciousness for a couple of minutes right after the accident. That’s good. You’re going to be fine, aside from a few bruises and a mild concussion. I’ll order more tests, but nothing is broken,” she explained.

Nothing but my memory.

“Can you tell me your name?” she asked again.

He sighed. “I think it’s Nick.”

“Good. Now what else do you remember?”

“I don’t even remember that,” he said dismally. “But I heard someone call me Nick.”

“That’s a start. Your name is Nick…Nicholas Carleton. Now, you asked about your wife…?”

His head throbbed worse as he pieced together the brief memories scattered in his brain. “I woke up and a woman was there—some guy said she was my wife. That’s all I know. But hell, at least I’ve got a family. That’s something to be grateful for, right?” Damn. He hated the edge in his voice, the need for reassurance.

“Yes.” The physician nodded. “Okay, let’s try some easy stuff. Do you know who’s president?”

He looked at her in disbelief. “President? I may have amnesia, but even I know that’s a little corny,” he said before answering.

The woman laughed. “I see your personality is intact. We’ll try something else. Do you know what planet you’ on?”

He snorted. “Unless I’ve been abducted by extremely clever aliens, I’m on earth.” Before she could ask anything else, he volunteered a series of impersonal facts. It was strange to realize he could remember who was president of the United States, and the number of innings in a standard baseball game, but couldn’t recall the most basic details of his life.

Dr. Wescott fiddled for another couple of minutes, checking his eyesight and reflexes and asking questions before giving him a reassuring smile. “You have amnesia, Nick. But don’t worry, I’m sure it’s only temporary. It’s not unusual to have some memory loss after a blow to the head.”