Just A Memory Away. Helen Myers R.

dashboard, to dab at the worst of the blood already beginning to dry on the side of his face. Once she got most of it, she pressed the tissues into his hand, grabbed her flashlight out of the glove compartment, and ran to look for his clothes and whatever else she might find that would indicate his identity.

      She found an empty beer can, an ice-cream stick, and a number of cigarette butts, which made her grateful they’d been crushed out when discarded. She didn’t, however, find anything that would help her solve her mystery.

      After prolonging her search a bit more, she returned to the idling truck and paused beside the open passenger door to consider the shivering stranger. The way he stared back at her made it clear that no matter what she asked him, she wasn’t going to be reassured by the answer.

      But what a nice face—despite the ugly abrasion on his forehead, a less severe one on his cheek, and the dirt and weeds in his brown hair. He had a face that spoke of strength and frankness, centered by an Anglo-straight nose, balanced by a wide, generous mouth, and punctuated with a slightly stubborn chin.

      It was his mouth that drew her attention most. With the slightest smile, he would undoubtedly steal hearts. With the grimmest frown, he would undoubtedly scare the hush puppies out of anyone. If she’d been the betting type, she would have bet tonight’s tips that this was the man everyone in school would have voted Most Likely to Succeed. Here was the guy no girl ever forgot, even if she never got lucky enough to date him. No doubt some woman somewhere was beginning to pace the floors and chew her fingernails to nubs with worry over him.

      Frankie felt another pinch in the area of her heart, and in self-defense shifted her attention to the large-boned hands that clutched at the blanket. He wore no ring, which meant nothing; these days guys were professionals at hiding such minor technicalities as wives and children. But surely this man wasn’t one of those? Why else would she have such a powerful impulse to say, “Finders keepers"? He was definitely keeper material.

      “I’d better get you to the hospital,” she told him, concerned that she’d let her fantasy go too—

      “No!”

      His sharp response stopped her from shutting the door. “Look, you’re hurt. You need medical attention.”

      “You. You help me.”

      As charming as this you-Jane-me-Tarzan dialogue was, it was starting to wear thin. “Listen, gorgeous, it doesn’t take a medical degree to see that this is more than a kiss-andmake-it-better situation.”

      “You.”

      He had no idea what he was asking of her. Shaking her head, she took the tissues from him—he hadn’t done a thing with them, anyway—and once again dabbed gently around his worst wound. “I don’t know why you’re making this difficult for me.”

      “Just need to rest.” He winced, and shifted slightly away from her.

      “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. At a hospital you could. And they would contact the police, who would—”

       “Please.”

      Frankie stopped dabbing and leaned close to look deeper into his eyes for a clue as to what was going on. In the dim overhead light the color wasn’t exactly dark like a deepwater blue, but more of a slate or stormy shade. Of course, some of that gray could be a result of the concussion or whatever it was that he was suffering from. In any case, it bothered her to be tempted to find out how they would look in the light of day, or when he was healthy. Smiling.

       Stop it, Jonesy. You don’t need the trouble or the heartache.

      Nevertheless, she heard herself murmur, “I guess I could take you down the road to my place. But I should warn you, it’s not fancy.”

      “I only want to lie down. Get warm.”

      He was cold? She’d thought he’d been shaking from the fright she’d given him, and from whatever he’d gone through that had put him in this state. After all, it was July, and it had to be at least seventy degrees or better. That more than anything else decided her.

      She tossed the soiled tissues onto the floorboard, and carefully shut the passenger door. When she once again slid behind the steering wheel, she shot him a wry look.

      “Maybe I’d better warn you about a few more things. I don’t live alone.”

      He seemed confused for a moment, but soon inclined his head. “I won’t stay. Just… rest.”

      Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she could have sworn he looked disappointed. “You misunderstand. I mean that you won’t quite have the privacy you might want, because I have pets and they, um, get around.”

      “I like dogs and cats. I think.”

      She chuckled softly and shifted into gear. “Well, that’s a start.”

      They drove a few miles, and during that time Frankie waited, hoping he would initiate more conversation, but he didn’t. He simply sat beside her. The shaking eased a bit; nevertheless, it didn’t stop entirely.

      “I’d turn on the heater for you, but it doesn’t work. Neither does the air conditioner. Petunia has a few miles on her.” She patted the truck’s worn dashboard with affection.

      Her companion merely peered into the dark night, as if trying to recognize something of his surroundings.

      In an attempt to help him relax—and maybe herself, too—she offered, “My name is Frankie.”

      That got his attention. “Why do you have a boy’s name?”

      “Blame it on my mother.” Frankie made a face. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being an actress. Not only didn’t that happen, she ended up marrying my father and inherited the last name of Jones. What a curse for poor Mom. All during her pregnancy with me, she went through book after book of baby names, until she came up with Francesca.”

      “Francesca… pretty.”

      Ugh, He would say something like that. “It’s not bad,” she said with hard-won grace, “but not for someone like me. Before I was five, I had everyone calling me Frankie.”

      Her passenger went back to studying his surroundings. Almost as an afterthought he murmured, “I don’t know if I like my name.”

      Boy, she’d all but stuck her whole leg in it that time. Frankie shot him an apologetic look. “Don’t worry. No doubt all you need is a good night’s rest.” Belatedly, however, she remembered having read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to let a concussion victim drift into too deep a sleep. She decided she would let the experts warn him about that when she finally got him to the hospital.

      It took only another few minutes to reach her home. The Silver Duck was parked on the southwest boundary of Mr. Miller’s farm. Mr. Miller was a widower who owned several hundred acres bordering a creek that fed into the Trinity River. That creek also filled the stock pond where Frankie had parked her trailer. Her agreement with the oldtimer was that she watched over his southernmost boundary—he’d often been the victim of poachers and cattle rustlers—and in exchange, he let her tie into the utility box that he’d set up for a former ranch hand, who hadn’t stayed on.

      No sooner did she park beside the hail-damaged and timeworn trailer than they found themselves surrounded by a small herd of animals. Amid the barking, meowing and general ruckus, Frankie noted her passenger’s wide-eyed stare at the three-legged cat that stared back at him through the windshield.

      She grinned. “Don’t worry. This only looks and sounds like Little Big Horn. I assure you, they’re all fairly friendly. Hello, babies,” she cooed, as she eased open her door. The animals swarmed around her to nuzzle, lick, and playfully nip at her jeans and T-shirt.

      When Frankie made it to the passenger side and opened the door to help out her newest houseguest, he hesitated. “I thought you said dogs and cats?”

      “No, you did.”