The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming. Judy Duarte

supposed to say, other than “Thank God. What news do you have?”

      Yet for some reason, facing the lawman sent a wisp of apprehension through him.

      Damn. Did he have some reason to feel guilty?

      Rather than stew about all the memories that evaded him, he shook off the uneasiness and said, “Hello, Sheriff.”

      Hollister gave him a once-over. “It’s good to see you up and around. How are you doing?”

      “Not bad. But I still can’t remember squat—if that’s what you mean.”

      “Well, maybe I can help.” The sheriff handed him a wallet. “I meant to give you this before you left the hospital, but I missed you.”

      “That’s okay.” Joe turned the dark leather over in his hands, then flipped it open. He pulled out the California driver’s license.

      Sure enough, that was his photo staring back at him, verifying his name was Joseph Wilcox, even if it still didn’t sound familiar. According to his address, he lived on base at Camp Pendleton.

      “Please,” Chloe told the sheriff, “come in and have a seat.”

      Hollister chose one of the chairs near the fireplace, then pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket. He flipped through a couple of pages before launching into his reason for coming by.

      “We got a hit on your military service record,” he told Joe. “It looks like you were medically discharged from the Marine Corps a few months ago.”

      If that were the case, then his address was no longer valid.

      “The military won’t release much of your information,” Hollister said, “but I have a buddy up at the Houston NCIS office looking into it for me.”

      “NCIS?” Chloe asked.

      “It stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” Hollister explained. “They work with both the navy and the Marine Corps, so my friend should be able to access info for us. Hopefully we’ll know more later this week.”

      “Was there any word about Joe serving with Dave?” Chloe asked. “Or do you have any idea where Dave might be?”

      “Not yet. That’s something my contact at NCIS might be able to provide.” Hollister turned his focus back to Joe. “It looks like you joined the Marines about six months after your eighteenth birthday. You were a staff sergeant at the time of your discharge, which tells me that you probably had a stellar service record to move up the ranks so quickly.”

      Joe blew out a ragged sigh. “That’s good to know, I suppose. It’s too bad I can’t recall some of that stellar service myself.”

      Chloe eased up to his chair and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Nielson said to give it some time. Her husband suffered from amnesia a few years back, and his memory returned slowly over the course of a few weeks.”

      “That sounds like ages to me,” Joe said. “I’ve never had much patience.”

      “You haven’t?” As if eager to grab on to anything positive, Chloe gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’d say that’s good news.”

      Joe looked up at her and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

      “If you know that so readily about yourself, then it sounds like a memory has returned already.”

      Unfortunately, Joe didn’t find that very helpful and returned his gaze to the sheriff. “Have you found out anything else about the person who hit me?”

      “Judging from the tire tracks and a couple of eyewitness accounts, we think the perp was parked at the Stagecoach Inn and jumped the curb before hitting you. I have a couple of my deputies questioning all the patrons who were there that night—and looking over their cars to see if there’s any corresponding bodywork damage. But that’s assuming it was one of the locals. We’re still gathering credit-card records in case it was someone who was just passing through on the highway and decided to stop off at the bar for a few drinks to wait out the evening traffic.”

      “I appreciate your efforts to find whoever it was who hit me,” Joe said. “And for helping me piece my life back together.”

      “No problem.” The sheriff put away his notepad and got to his feet. “That’s my job. But you might want to consider that this wasn’t a mere accident.”

      Chloe’s hand slipped off Joe’s shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

      “There weren’t any skid marks, so either the driver didn’t see you or was aiming right at you.”

      The thought that someone might have been out to get him didn’t sit well, but when Joe shot a glance at Chloe and saw the worry that marred her brow, his concern shifted.

      He didn’t like seeing her on edge, which was surely the case since she’d removed the warmth of her support when she’d taken her hand from his shoulder. Neither did he want to bring any trouble her way. But he wasn’t about to reassure her with false promises, especially if he had no clue what kind of complications his presence could cause.

      “I don’t want to alarm you or be a conspiracy theorist,” the sheriff added, “but there’s a lot we still don’t know about you. And with your temporary memory loss, you can’t answer any of those questions for us. I can’t ignore the fact that someone might have been out to hit you for some reason. Or that they might not want you in town.”

      Joe wished he could reassure both Chloe and the sheriff, but he couldn’t. He might not feel like a wanted man, but how would he know for sure? The lawman was probably just trying to cover all the bases, which was wise. It made sense not to restrict his investigation to the easiest, most obvious case solution.

      And while Joe had hoped that the sheriff’s arrival would toss him a life raft of sorts, instead, it had only opened up more worries, more concerns, more what-ifs.

      What little solid ground he’d once felt under his feet had been whisked away, leaving him alone, tossed about on a choppy sea with no compass, no oars and no sign of the shore.

      “So what do we do?” Chloe asked.

      We? He couldn’t expect her to help. She’d done a lot already. But the thought of having someone in his corner of the rowboat helped a little.

      “My suggestion would be for Mr. Wilcox to try to keep a low profile,” Hollister said. “It might be best if he stayed here at the ranch until we can investigate further.”

      “I’d hoped someone in town might recognize him and be able to tell us more about who he is—and why he’s here,” Chloe said.

      Joe wasn’t as concerned for his own safety as he was for hers. So far, she’d been a friend, an ally in his messed-up world, and he didn’t want to do anything that might put her in jeopardy.

      “Maybe it’s best if I moved on,” he said.

      Chloe placed her hand back on his shoulder. And this time, her fingertips sent a whisper of heat through his veins. Her gaze met his, stirring something deep within. “Where would you go?”

      He raked a hand through his hair. How the hell did he know? But he’d figure something out. He had to, before this beautiful stranger turned his mixed-up brain even more inside out.

      “It has to be frustrating not to know who you are or why you’re here,” the sheriff said. “But from a safety standpoint, I think it’s more important to get to the bottom of this accident first and then figure out the memory problem later.”

      Joe could see how Hollister would be more concerned with a crime being committed in his quaint small town. And while it was helpful of the sheriff to go above the call of duty and look for his personal records, it wasn’t as if Joe was suffering from a simple little “memory problem.” It was a full-blown loss of identity, a loss of control over his life. And his gut clenched