Page 21 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

There had been something about him that was unnerving and rough; an edge about him that she’d sensed. He’d joked, but hadn’t smiled. He’d been in this room and he’d said he was Nick. The outlaw . . . That’s what he’d called himself. And there was something about him that had been . . . distrustful or sinister; she’d sensed it even in their brief encounter.

Her pulse pounded. He hadn’t been lying. He’d looked like some sort of twenty-first century Jesse James with his leather jacket, tanned complexion and jeans.

But this was crazy. She was a married woman. She had only to look at her left hand to prove it. There, winking under the dimmed lights, wrapped around her third finger was a ring that glimmered with diamonds set deep into a wide gold band. Her wedding ring. Staring at the shiny piece she remembered nothing about the day it was placed on her finger or of the man who had presumably said “I do,” and slipped it over her knuckles.

Think, Marla, think!

Nothing.

Not a clue.

She wanted to scream in frustration.

Looking at the band was not unlike staring into Nick Cahill’s eyes. No quicksilver flashback of another time

and place, not one glimmer of recollection, no reaction other than a keen sense of curiosity. About the man. About her marriage. About her children. About herself.

“So you did wake up.” A tall man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat had pushed open the door and was walking inside. He wore a pencil-thin moustache that set off his thin face. Completely bald with too many teeth crammed into a small mouth, he said, “Do you remember me?” then must’ve read the dismay in her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Amnesia sometimes follows a coma . . . it should clear up.” His smile was meant to instill confidence. “Just for the record, I’m Dr. Robertson.” He leaned down and shone a penlight into her eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” she admitted. No reason to sugarcoat it.

“I imagine. Any pain in your jaw?”

“Tons.”

“Your head?” He was eyeing the top of her crown.

“It aches like crazy.”

“We’ll get you something for it. Now, tell me about your memory.”

“What memory?” she asked, trying not to wince as he moved his light from her left eye to the right.

“That bad?”

She thought, and even the act of concentrating increased the pressure in her head. “Pretty bad. Saying I was foggy would be optimistic.” She forced the words out through teeth that felt clamped into cement.

He leaned back, clicked off his light and folded his arms over his thin chest. “Tell me about yourself.”

Wow. She thought. Dig deep. “It’s . . . it’s weird. I know some things, like, oh, I can read, understand, think I’m pretty good at math, but I don’t remember taking it. I think I like horses and dogs and the beach and scary movies . . . but . . .” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, and forced her lips to move around her immobile teeth. “. . . I don’t remember my family, not my children, not my parents, not even my husband.” Her voice was failing her and tears filled her eyes and she felt absolutely pathetic, a sorry, needy creature without a past. She tried to grit her teeth but they were already locked shut.

“Just remember, this isn’t abnormal,” he said with a comforting glance as he double-checked her vital signs, then tested her reflexes. “Here, now hold on to my fingers and squeeze as hard as you can,” he said, holding up the index finger of each hand. She gripped for all she was worth. “Good, now release.” He made another note on her chart. “As for your memory, it should return. Your brain took quite a shock with the concussion and you’ve been comatose for a while.” He flashed her a grin. “But everything should come back to you.”

“When?” she demanded, desperate to know that she would be all right.

“Unfortunately, I can’t predict that.” He frowned and shook his bald head.

Well, it had better be soon, she thought, or I’ll go out of my mind—or at least what’s left of it.

“I wish I could.”

“You and me both.”

“You’ll have to be patient. Give yourself time to recover.”

“Why do I think I’m going to get tired of hearing that?” she asked and he shrugged.

“Maybe you know yourself better than you think.”

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