The Sheriff's Amnesiac Bride. Linda Conrad

or two stashed away—ladies he could visit on Saturday nights. But in general the single life suited him just fine.

      Now that Macy was hedging, Jericho felt ashamed to admit that her change of heart would seem like a reprieve. His only sorrow if they didn’t marry would be T.J. But maybe things around the county would settle down enough now for him to spend more time with the boy despite not being his stepfather.

      “Sheriff Yates.” Dr. O’Neal met him just inside the front door. “I’d like to speak to you in private before you see the patient. Let’s sit out here in the empty waiting room.”

      Jericho followed the doc. “What’s wrong? Did the bullet do serious internal damage?”

      Dr. O’Neal sat down on the flimsy, fake leather couch and removed his glasses. “No. Her gunshot wound is superficial. The bullet went right through the flesh on her left side and completely missed her ribcage. She twisted her ankle when she fell, but it’s not broken or sprained. She also has some old bruising and a few nontreated cuts that appear to be at least twenty-four hours old. All things considered, her physical condition is unofficially ‘beat-up’ but not serious.

      “That’s not the worst of it, though,” Doc added thoughtfully.

      Jericho leaned against the edge of Doc’s desk. “What are you trying to say?”

      “She can’t tell me how she got the bruises or the cuts. In fact, she doesn’t remember a thing before this morning. I’m no expert in head trauma, mind you. But even with the small bump on her head, I don’t believe she’s suffered any major jarring of the brain. Certainly there’s not enough outward damage to suspect a physical blow caused her amnesia.

      “There is a condition known as a fugue state or psychogenic amnesia,” he continued. “It’s caused by a traumatic event so frightening to the patient that they flee from reality and hide themselves in another, safer life—one with no memories. I don’t have a lot of training in psychology, but I do remember learning that this kind of state may last for months or years.”

      “Amnesia? But it’s just temporary. The memories will eventually come back, right?”

      “Hard to say,” Doc hedged as he blew dust from his glasses. “I understand that in some cases snippets of memories will flash through the mind and memories may fade in and out until the full picture emerges. Sometimes…nothing comes back at all.”

      Jericho took a breath. He couldn’t imagine how hard that would be. To never be able to bring back the memory of growing up or the memory of his mother’s face. What would that do to…?

      He jerked and straightened his shoulders. Whatever would possess him to think such a thing? His mother had been a drunk and had left the family when he was only a kid. Truth be told, he hated her. Why would he care to remember what her face looked like? That was one memory he wouldn’t mind losing for good.

      “Let’s go talk to the patient, Doc. What’s her name?”

      Dr. O’Neal shrugged. “No clue. She doesn’t remember and your deputy said he couldn’t find any ID in her clothes or at the church scene.”

      Now, that was one thing Jericho would hate to forget. The Yates name meant something. There were generations of Yates men who had been lawmen, sportsmen and landowners. It was a name to be proud of and to do right by.

      Sheriff Yates. He’d worked hard to get that title. He’d paid his dues as deputy, been appointed when the old sheriff retired, and finally had been elected on his own merit. He anticipated continuing to be a man worthy of everyone’s respect. And it was high time to do his job.

      As Jericho walked through Dr. O’Neal’s office door to meet the mystery woman, he didn’t know what he expected to find. But it was definitely not the most gorgeous woman he had ever beheld.

      Yet there she sat on one of Doc’s plastic chairs. Miss America, Miss Universe and Venus de Milo all wrapped into one—with a bad haircut and wild, sky-blue eyes. Jericho had to swallow hard in order to find his voice.

      “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Sheriff Jericho Yates. How’re you feeling?”

      She lightly touched her temple, but continued to stare up at him, those strange electric eyes boring holes straight into his. “The headache and the four stitches in my side are the worst of it. No, I take that back. Not knowing my own name is the worst of it. Did Dr. O’Neal tell you that I can’t remember anything? He says I have amnesia.”

      “Yes, ma’am. I understand. But we need to talk about what you do remember. Can you start with your first clear memory and tell me everything that happened up until the time when you were shot?”

      “Um…I guess I could do that.” She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck. “But can you sit down first? I’m getting stiff just looking up at you. How tall are you anyway?”

      Jericho found a chair and dragged it over while Doc moved to sit behind his desk. “Six-three.” They both sat. “There you go, Red. Is that better?”

      “Yes, thanks.” Lost and feeling vulnerable, even in the presence of someone as safe as the sheriff, the woman had to take deep breaths in order to calm herself down.

      “Did you just call her ‘Red,’ Sheriff?” The doctor was scowling over his desk pad.

      The sheriff looked perplexed. “Well, I suppose. We’ve got to call her something. ‘Hey you’ just won’t do and she has all that bright red hair. Seemed to work.”

      “Bright red hair? Do I?” She put her hands in her hair. “But that doesn’t feel right.”

      “Don’t upset yourself by trying to force the memories of your lost past,” the doctor said soothingly. “Not yet. Give it some time.” He turned back to address the sheriff. “Jericho, I want you to take things slow. Pushing her to remember will only make it worse.

      “Oh, and I don’t believe ‘Red’ is the least bit feminine,” the doctor continued. “It doesn’t fit this beautiful young woman and it doesn’t sound respectful to me. Can’t we come up with something else?”

      Still with her hands in her hair, she worried that more seemed wrong with it than just the wrong hair color. Though God only knew what she meant by that.

      “Okay, Doc,” the sheriff conceded. “How about ‘Rosie?’ That’s in the same color type.”

      “Rosie’s okay with me,” she agreed quickly. The name didn’t nauseate her nearly as much as the wrong feeling about her hair.

      “Okay, Rosie,” the sheriff said with a deliberate drawl and a tight smile. “You can call me Jericho. Now tell me what you do remember.”

      She wasn’t sure she could do this. Every time she thought of how terrifying those men had been, her whole body started trembling. Looking up at Sheriff Jericho for support, she was surprised to find an odd softness in his eyes as he waited for her to speak.

      She’d thought he had looked so tough. Scary-tough, with all his hard angles and rough edges, when he’d first walked into Dr. O’Neal’s office. Now, it seemed that at least his eyes held some empathy toward her, and the idea made her relax a little.

      “The…um…first thing I remember clearly is two men pushing me around. One was pointing a gun at me while the other kept shaking me by the shoulders, hard. I felt as though I’d just woken up from a deep sleep. But now I’m not sure that was the case.”

      “And these two men didn’t look familiar?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Where was this? What do you remember of your surroundings?”

      “After a few minutes, I decided it had to be a cheap motel room. But I…never found out whose.”

      “Okay,” the sheriff said as he rubbed a thumb across his neat mustache. “Don’t strain for answers. Let’s just take