The Stranger and Tessa Jones. Christine Rimmer

the low, insistent throb.

      “What is it?” Tessa leaned closer. “What’s wrong?”

      He squeezed her hand. “Headache.”

      “I can give you a mild painkiller—acetaminophen.”

      The way she said it made him smile. “You can?”

      “Just now, before you called for me, I got out my trusty Family Medical Guide and did a little reading on traumatic brain injury.”

      Traumatic brain injury. It didn’t sound good. “That’s what I’ve got?”

      “I’m no doctor, but it looks that way to me.”

      “And?”

      “It’s a myth that you can’t have Tylenol. And you know how they always say don’t let patients with head injuries sleep? That’s a myth, too. You can sleep as much as you want.”

      “Good to know. What else?”

      Something happened in those green-gold eyes. He suspected that a lot of what she’d read hadn’t been especially reassuring. “Long story,” she answered at last. “You can read it all yourself. Later.” She pulled open the drawer in the nightstand and took out a bottle of Tylenol. Once she’d given him two and helped him swallow more water to wash them down, she tucked the covers up beneath his chin. “Rest a little. I’ll be back to check on you every fifteen minutes or so. And if you need me, just give a holler.”

      “Will do.”

      She rose and started to go.

      He stopped her in the doorway, where the bulldog waited. “One more thing…”

      She turned back, her hand on the doorframe. “Yeah?”

      “What did you do with my clothes?”

      She made a sound in her throat. “Yikes. I guess that was kind of a shock, huh? Waking up in your underwear?”

      “I got through it. And the whole process was a lot easier for me than for you—I mean, since I was out cold at the time and did nothing but just lie there.”

      She looked so earnest then. “I thought you’d be more comfortable, you know, without them. And then I did need to patch up your knees. That was easier without your pants in the way.”

      “Good call,” he reassured her. “I just wondered where they were.”

      “They’re laid out in the basement to dry now, but it’s not looking real hopeful. Everything but the socks were dry clean only. I did what I could with them—mending them and cleaning them up, I mean. But most of those greasy black stains wouldn’t come out.”

      “My boots?”

      She folded her arms and leaned on the doorframe. “I put them near the woodstove in the other room—not too close, but close enough they’ll dry a little faster.”

      “Thank you,” he said, seriously now. “Again. For everything. ” They looked at each other across the short distance from the bed to the door. He liked looking at her.

      She said, kind of shyly, “I have a question, too.”

      “Anything.” He said it automatically, and then realized there were hundreds of questions—thousands—to which he had no answers. But he’d do his best.

      For her.

      “I don’t know your name.” She glanced downward, still shy. He thought how she’d managed to drag him in here, how she’d stripped him to his boxers and bandaged him up and put him in bed. How she’d mended his clothes and washed them and put his boots near—but not too near—the fire. All without even knowing his name.

      Don’t feel bad, he wanted to tell her. I don’t know my name, either. But something had him holding back those words. He sensed that whoever he was in his real life, he wasn’t a man who’d go around admitting that he had no clue who he was or where he’d come from. Uh-uh. Not even to the woman who had saved his life.

      He smiled. Slowly. “You mean I failed to introduce myself?”

      “As a matter of fact, you did.”

      “Bill,” he said. “My name is Bill.”

      She laughed then, softly, leaning into the doorframe, that patch-eyed dog looking up at her. Then she drew herself up to her full six feet or so. “Oh, come on.”

      But he only insisted, “Call me Bill.” Why not? It was as good a name as any. Maybe he’d be a better Bill than the idiot who’d jilted her for that showgirl. “Did you leave the rest of those dishes out there in the storm?”

      She hitched up her chin. “You bet I did. They’re buried already, not to be seen until the spring thaw.”

      “You’ve got quite an arm on you.”

      “I played basketball in high school. Shooting guard. Varsity team. Boys’ varsity team.” She spoke with pride. “It’s a small school. They need every good shooting arm they can get.”

      “Wow. Impressive.”

      A modest nod. Then, firmly, “Rest.”

      “Rest, Bill,” he corrected.

      “All right. Have it your way.” Softly, she repeated, “Rest, Bill.”

      He did rest. When he woke again, his headache had faded away and it was dark in the room. The curtains were drawn over the windows and no light bled in from outside. It must be nighttime.

      The door to the hall was open. There was a light on, low, out there. The clock on the nightstand said it was 5:46 p.m. He started to call for Tessa, but then thought he’d try sitting up by himself again first.

      His sore stomach muscles complained, but he did it. He reached for the switch on the bedside lamp and turned it on. Then he twisted to bolster the pillows against the headboard for support, and winced at the sharp pain down low on his belly.

      What the hell? Wasn’t there any part of his body that hadn’t been bruised or bloodied?

      He pushed back the blankets, eased the elastic of the boxers wide and peered inside. Good news: The family jewels were there, intact. But a deep bruise had imprinted itself in purple, green and black, across his lap. From some kind of belt restraint, maybe?

       Car accident?

      Was that it? He’d been in a car crash?

      He studied his torso, checking for the mark of a chest restraint among all the other bruises. There wasn’t one. Just a rainbow of black and purple splotches at random intervals on his ribcage and across his upper belly.

      His head had started to pound again. He shut his eyes, breathed in and out through his nose. It worked. Slowly, the pounding faded. With a sigh of relief, he leaned back against the pillows. A minute or two ticked by as he gathered his strength for the next effort.

      When he thought he could manage it, he tried for water—and succeeded. He reached over and poured some into the glass and brought the glass to his lips. It tasted like heaven, cool and refreshing. He was careful, as Tessa had warned him to be, not to gulp it down. He savored it—one swallow. Two.

      So far, so good. He set the glass on his chest and rested again. Then he took a third sip.

      “You are feeling better.” She stood in the doorway, beaming.

      He felt absurdly proud and raised the glass to her in a toast. “Yes, I am.”

      “I heated up some chicken broth. Think you’re ready for that?”

      He reached over and set the glass on the nightstand. “Bring it on.”

      She fed him the broth. Yeah, okay, he probably could have managed to feed himself by then. But it felt good, to be spoiled by her.