Undercover Memories. Lenora Worth

an intriguing, freckled way. Wearing just enough lipstick to make him wonder. From what he could tell from the sickly yellow streetlight hanging by a thread in the corner, dark auburn-colored hair, long and matted with blood, a slender, buff body, average size in height. She wore jeans and a lightweight blue button-up shirt. And a nice pair of black boots. Pointed toes that looked lethal.

      Sirens sounded off in the distance.

      “Hang on, beautiful,” he said after checking for a pulse. Weak, but still fighting. Careful, he frisked her, searching for identification. He found a tiny wallet in her back jeans pocket, along with a credit card and some cash, which indicated whoever did this wasn’t trying to rob her. But Pierce showing up could have stopped that. He did say they’d run away.

      Careful, Ryder searched her once more and found two more interesting items.

      A Glock semiautomatic nestled against her backbone. He held the gun with the handkerchief he kept in his coat pocket and then handed it off to Pierce for safekeeping. Then he went back to the wallet to see if he could find any names or meeting schedules. This was interesting—her wallet also contained a private investigator’s license.

      Emma Langston. From what he could see from the yellow glow of the streetlight, the photo matched her physical appearance. Birth date matched the age she looked to be—around thirty-one years old. Her driver’s license was registered to Galveston County and her address listed a property in Galveston. She’d sure come a long way inland for something.

      Or someone. Who was this unconscious beauty after?

      “Must be important for you to case this joint,” he mumbled while he checked her pulse and tried to make her comfortable. Staring down at her, he asked, “What’s the story, Red?”

      Ryder silently prayed she would wake up and answer that question. And all of the other ones forming in his head, too.

      Pain stomped through her head like a herd of longhorns.

      Trying to push through, she rode the wave of urgency sounding like an alarm throughout her system.

      Emma woke with a start, sweat chilling her body and a muted sun shining through the slanted blinds. Sunrise or sunset? Glancing around, she blinked and went into defense mode. She was in a hospital room. “Hey?”

      That set off all kinds of alarm bells, but then another kind of panic set in. The kind that could make a person nauseated and full of sick dread. Emma didn’t like this feeling of floating on an empty cloud while her head screamed with agony.

      What had happened to her?

      She blinked and gripped the sheets, her gaze moving to the beeping machines hooked up to her body. She hated needles. But when she lifted her head, it rolled like a punching bag. A ragged pain shot through her, cutting off her breath.

      The panic thickened like a heavy fog.

      She couldn’t remember what had happened to her, but her whole body ached in a crushing sequence that moved from her brain to her toes.

      “Hey?” she called again and then after a frantic search for the bed’s remote control handle, she buzzed for a nurse.

      And got one right away. “Tell Dr. Sherrington she’s awake. And...keep that detective out of here until we can check her vitals and verify her condition.”

       Detective?

      Emma watched as the nurse did her thing. Blood pressure, heart rate, beep, beep. Lifting tubes and checking fluid bags. Beep, beep, beep. Emma touched her head because at least a hundred hammers kept knocking at her brain. Heavy bandages. “What happened to me?”

      The nurse shined a light into her eyes. “You suffered a concussion.”

      “How?”

      The nurse summed her up and, from the look of respect in her eyes, must have decided Emma could handle the truth. “Blunt force object. Otherwise called a baseball bat.” Then the nurse checked her blood pressure. “But you were smart. Looks like you fought back and possibly deflected the blow, according to the paramedics who brought you in last night.”

      Emma had a flash of memory, a feeling of bracing against something. And the one last thought. This is gonna hurt.

      But she forced control. “Oh, okay. Happens a lot.”

      She didn’t know why she’d said that or how she even knew that she’d been injured before. And that scared her more than knowing.

      The gray-haired doctor came in, his dour expression not really helping. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, haven’t you?”

      Emma didn’t tolerate patronizing. “Well, I don’t know. I can’t quite remember.”

      She pushed at the panic following that statement. She wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of watching her cave. Trying to breathe in and out, in and out, she watched the doctor watching her.

      He checked her over, poking and prodding and testing. Moving his bright light and his fingers in front of her eyes, asking if she could feel this or see that. She didn’t want to feel anything, but she did want to see it all in her mind.

      “Things are fuzzy,” she admitted, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.

      Finally, he looked at her chart and then he looked at her. “What do you remember?”

      She shook her head, swallowed the fear. She could go dark and not discuss this. That MO had worked for her for years now.

      And how had she remembered that?

      “Talk to me,” the doctor said, no longer in a playful mood. “We need to get you well.”

      Emma nodded and decided it might be wise to cooperate. “Doc, I... I don’t remember anything much.”

      “Do you know your name?”

      She blinked, thought long enough to make the hammers go into overtime. “Emma?”

      “Yes, you’re Emma Langston. That’s a start.” He gave her chart to the nurse. “Give it some time. We’ll do more tests and see how you progress. You’ve suffered a moderate but serious concussion, but you woke up within the one-to twenty-four-hour period, and that’s a plus. No swelling or bleeding on the brain. Another good thing. Temporary amnesia is common after a head injury, but we’ll monitor you while we wait it out.”

      “I don’t have time to wait it out,” she replied, trying to get out of the bed. She knew one thing: she had to be somewhere. But where and why?

      The doctor pushed her back down. “Whoa, you can’t go anywhere just yet. You’ve been unconscious for close to fifteen hours now.” Showing an edge of compassion, he added, “You’ll need some therapy. Head trauma is serious stuff.”

      “I’ll be okay,” Emma said, already dizzy again. “I’ve been here that long?”

      The doctor nodded. “They brought you in around midnight and now it’s five in the afternoon.”

      “That’s long enough for me.”

      “Let me be the judge of that.”

      He asked some more questions. She gave feeble, weak answers. She couldn’t bluff her way out of this one.

       Why am I here?

      “Where am I?” she finally asked, wishing she could remember. “What city is this?”

      He named the hospital. “You’re in Dallas, Texas. Do you remember where you came from?”

      Shards of memories danced just out of her reach.

       Dear Lord, help me. Help me in my time of need.

      Funny, she remembered praying that same prayer long ago. For some reason, Emma wanted to cry. To curl up and cry, long and hard. But she didn’t cry, she reminded herself. That much she knew.