Texas Gun Smoke. Joanna Wayne

held it under the umbrella so it wouldn’t get wet while he adjusted his flashlight to illuminate it. “But you said the driver’s name was Jackie.”

      “Jaclyn—at least that’s what she told me, but she could have been lying. She wouldn’t give a last name. I guess the car could have been borrowed.”

      “Or stolen,” Ed said. “Approximate age of the injured?”

      “Early twenties.”

      Ed rubbed his chin. “Not a teenager, then. Was she under the influence?”

      “I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath.”

      “Stoned?”

      “Didn’t appear to be.”

      “Pretty?”

      “Not bad.”

      “I was afraid of that. The pretty ones are always the most trouble.”

      “I’ll add that to my list of truths to live by.”

      “No, you won’t. You young studs never do. I’ll run a check on the license plate. See what turns up.”

      Bart took a better look at the car while the sheriff made his call. It was a late-model Buick Lacrosse in an off-red metallic finish. It would take a skilled body man to put it back in decent shape.

      Only the trunk seemed to be relatively undamaged. Bart opened it and pulled out a blue nylon duffel with a slight rip in the side, apparently not as important to Jaclyn as her handbag had been. The only other items in the trunk were the typical spare tire, a few tools and three liter-size diet sodas that would probably spew their contents the second they were opened.

      “Car hasn’t been reported as stolen,” the sheriff said as he rejoined a Bart a few minutes later. “Your Jaclyn might have borrowed it from New Orleans Margo.”

      “She’s not my Jaclyn, but she did say she was from out of town.”

      “Did you get a good look at the car that ran this one off the road?”

      “I saw two bright lights coming at me and then a blur of metal as it sped past. New-style headlights, so I’d say it was a late-model car. A full-size sedan, but I can’t give you the make, color or any identifying marks—except that it had to take some serious damage when it collided with the Buick.”

      “I’ll have all the area body shops keep a look out for it, but unless the driver’s got peanuts for brains, he won’t take it anywhere near here to have it repaired. And he won’t be driving around Colts Run Cross with the telltale damage.”

      “My guess is he’s not from around here,” Bart said. “The locals aren’t given to road rage.”

      “I’d have to agree,” Ed said. “More likely this is trouble Jaclyn brought with her from Louisiana. Did she say why she was in the area?”

      “No, actually, she said very little. She was woozy at first and then clammed up except for saying that she didn’t need an ambulance.”

      “But she left in an ambulance, right?”

      Bart nodded. “They were taking her to the hospital in Colts Run Cross.”

      “Good. I’ll question her there. You say you don’t think she was seriously injured.”

      “She had a blossoming goose egg on the left side of her head next to a wound that oozed blood, but she didn’t appear to have any broken bones or to be in much pain.”

      Ed looked back to the car and shook his head. “She’s lucky to walk away from that.”

      “Damn lucky.”

      “Okeydoke. I’m going to call Hank’s Garage and tell him this is a two-man towing job. Then I’ll shoot some pictures of the car while I’m waiting on Hank. That camera of mine don’t take the sharpest of photos in the dark, but it will have to do. If I wait until morning and this happens to go to trial, some slick city lawyer will say the crime scene was compromised overnight. Humph. Compromised by a bunch of field mice and armadillos.”

      “I have Mother’s fancy camera in my truck. She wanted pictures of the reception tonight.”

      “Reception, huh? That explains why you’re wading mud in those city-slicker shoes. They’re ruined now anyway, so how about you taking over as crime-scene photographer?”

      “I can handle it.” Bart went to his truck for the camera. The duffel was still in his hand, so he tossed that into the backseat of the extended cab. That gave him an even better reason to show up at the hospital. Not that the sheriff couldn’t have taken it with him.

      When Bart returned, Ed was on the phone with Hank and aiming his superbright flashlight at the skid marks in the middle of the road.

      “Definitely looks intentional,” Ed said when he’d finished with Hank. “Little Miss Jaclyn has some tough enemies or some real mean friends.”

      “Looks that way. But she isn’t a ‘miss.’ She was wearing a wedding band.”

      “Bingo. When there’s a husband or a boyfriend, I always have a first lead.”

      Anger surged inside Bart as he snapped pictures, first of the skid marks and then walking around the car to get views from every angle. He hoped Ed was wrong about the husband being behind this. It was tough to think any man could do this to a woman. But a man who’d sworn to love and cherish Jaclyn…what kind of perverted bastard would he have to be to pull a stunt like this?

      “That should do it,” Ed said after Bart had taken a couple dozen shots. “As soon as Hank gets this vehicle righted and on the tow truck, I’m going to the hospital and have a talk with the victim. I’ll keep you posted as to how this turns out.”

      Bart nodded and said his goodbyes without mentioning that he planned to stop by the hospital as well. He didn’t want to have to explain his reason for doing so, mainly because he didn’t really understand it himself.

      He climbed behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and pulled onto the highway. Five minutes later he reached the gate to Jack’s Bluff. He could turn in and forget all about no-last-name Jaclyn just as she’d told him to do. But whatever she was into, whether her husband was behind her trouble or not, she definitely could use a friend with a broad shoulder to lean on tonight.

      His shoulders had nothing better to do.

      BART HAD BEEN AT THE hospital for over an hour before Dr. Cane—a tall, lanky fellow with unruly shocks of bright red hair and horn-rimmed glasses—finally came to the emergency waiting room to give him an update. “The patient is seriously disoriented and experiencing traumatic amnesia, probably caused by swelling near the brain.”

      Bart stared at Dr. Cane. “Are we talking about the same woman? The one involved in the car wreck less than two hours ago?”

      “That’s the one. The ambulance driver said you gave her name as Jaclyn, but she’s not responding to that now. She has no knowledge of who she is or how she got here.”

      “Did you look in her handbag for identification?”

      “Two of the nurses searched the purse and wallet thoroughly. There was no driver’s license or any other form of identification.” Dr. Cane scratched his whiskered chin. “How did she seem when you were with her?”

      “She was a tad woozy when I pulled her out of the car,” Bart admitted, “but she was responsive. We carried on a conversation of sorts.”

      “That would be consistent with the diagnosis of transient amnesia due to trauma. The increased swelling from the time of the wreck until the present has interfered with memory functions. This is unusual but not unheard of, even with a minor concussion such as the patient has.”

      “How long do you expect the amnesia to continue?”

      “Just