Memories at Midnight
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Joanna Wayne
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Chapter 1
Using the toe of his right boot as a wedge, Clint Richards nudged until his left boot clattered to the wooden floor of the spacious den of the ranch house he’d built himself. Home at last, but not as early as he’d liked to have been here.
His workday had stretched into the early hours of evening, robbing him of the opportunity to take care of his own after-hour chores around the ranch. Not that he would have minded if any of the day’s emergencies had been genuine, but fences cut by a couple of high-school pranksters and a neighbor’s pig rooting in Mrs. Cranston’s flower bed didn’t warrant the kind of hullabaloo they’d produced.
And then there had been the call from James McCord. Clint had rushed over, jumping to his beck and call just like everyone else in town did. His knee-jerk reaction to the senator’s call balled in Clint’s gut, adding extra force to the task of removing his right boot. The boot hit the floor with such a racket that even old Loopy opened one eye and gave his master a suspicious look before thumping his tail against the hearth and returning to dog dreamland.
Clint leaned back and propped his stocking feet on the pine coffee table before biting into the hunk of brisket he’d sandwiched between two slices of bread. Still, thoughts of McCord’s call cantered around in his mind.
Good old James McCord, everybody’s hero, gearing up to march from the Senate to the White House. Man of the people. But there would be at least one vote in Texas he wouldn’t get.
But then, canvassing for support surely hadn’t been the reason McCord had called him today and asked him to stop by. No, McCord had reasons for everything he did. This was the second time in a matter of weeks he had requested that Clint drop by with no more than a lame excuse. Well, whatever his game was, Clint wasn’t interested in playing.
He reached for the remote control and clicked on the TV, surfing a few channels and finally settling for some network’s version of a news show. He wasn’t much of a TV man unless the Cowboys were playing, but anything would beat wasting his time thinking about the good senator.
The phone jangled beside him. He swallowed a bite of sandwich and grabbed for the receiver. “Sheriff Richards here.”
“I’m glad I caught you.”
Clint recognized the voice immediately. The man behind it owned and operated Jingling Spurs, one of the big-draw dude ranches just out of Vaquero. “What can I do for you, Barry?”
“We’ve got a little problem out on Glenn Road, just before the turnoff to my place.”
“Yeah. I’m listening.”
“One of my guests just drove back from town. She said a woman wandered onto the road like a wounded animal. She only caught a glimpse of her, but she thought the woman was bloody-looking. She came so close to hitting her, it scared her half to death.”
“Did she stop and check it out?”
“Yeah. But by the time she got back to the spot where she’d seen the woman, no one was there. I figured you’d want to look into it.”
“You figured right.” Clint was already stuffing his feet back into his boots as he questioned Barry Jackson further on the details, trying to pin down the exact location that the woman had been spotted. His fatigue drowned in the spurt of adrenaline that coursed his veins as he rushed to his pickup.
The Jingling Spurs was out a long, lonely stretch of highway, and no place for a woman on foot, dazed or otherwise. Possibilities struck his mind like a nest of hissing rattlesnakes. He made a mental note to remind himself never to complain about boring, routine days again.
Grabbing a light jacket from the hook by the door and his gray-felt Stetson from the shelf above it, he stamped out the back door, glad he’d insisted that the county furnish him with a truck instead of a squad car like the city boys drove. The truck got him to places the low-riding town units could never go. Like the woods off Glenn Road.
Jumping into the front seat, Clint headed out to find who knew what, on a night so dark that the threatening rain would have trouble finding the ground—if it ever got brave enough to fall.
CLINT SLOWED HIS TRUCK to a crawl and turned on his spotlight. He searched for any sign of movement in the fenced pasture on one side of the road, and in the clumps of evergreens and scrubby brush on the other. A pair of does darted to the left of him, but other than that the black night was still.
He eased down the road, sticking to the shoulder, his spotlight emergency lights moving continuously as he scanned the area. One lone, bleeding and dazed woman was wandering somewhere in the blackness. Before he went home tonight, he’d know why, or at least see that she was safe. It was likely to be a long night.
The minutes stretched into almost an hour, and the rush of adrenaline that had fueled him earlier wore off a little more with each roll of his tires. If the woman was out there looking to be saved, she should be responding to the sound of his truck engine or the beam of police lights. If she was still out there and conscious.
He pulled into a dirt drive. Might as well turn around and retrace the mile he’d just covered. The rest of the area between here and the entrance to the Jingling Spurs was nothing but cleared pastureland, and the report had been that the woman had stepped out of a wooded area.
The blue lights ricocheted off metal. He turned and tried to find the source of the gleam again, but he’d lost it. Jumping from the driver’s seat, he grabbed his searchlight and flooded the area with the powerful beam.
His eyes hadn’t deceived him. There was a pickup truck parked not forty yards from the road, all but hidden by a stand of young pine trees.
“Anybody out there?”
The only answer to his call was the hooting of an owl overhead and the howling of a coyote in the distance. Clint’s hand settled on the butt of his pistol, his feet shuffling the dry leaves under his feet and crunching them into the dry earth. Likely an abandoned vehicle, but this was not a time to leave possibilities unchecked.
He made his way to the truck, listening for any sound of movement. Close enough now to see the full outline, he knew the pickup hadn’t been abandoned for lack of value. The truck was black, expensive, the new millennium model. Just like the one McCord had been driving around town for the last couple of weeks. Apprehension stretched Clint’s control, and his finger coddled the trigger of his .44. What could McCord be doing out here and why—
A weak moan killed his speculation. He spun around in time to see a woman step from the bushes and slump to the ground. He crossed the ground between them, gun drawn. The woman’s clothes were torn and wet with blood, and it wasn’t likely she’d done that to herself. Meaning someone else might still be lurking behind any tree.
He stooped, getting down to her level, yet keenly aware of everything about him. “I’m not going to hurt you, miss. I just need you to tell me what happened.”
She shook her head, never looking up, but her hands trembled as she pulled a light jacket tighter around her chest.
“Who hurt you?” Clint leaned closer and tilted her face so that he could look into her eyes. “Darlene.” The name shook from his lips, and his stomach rocked violently.
She stared at him through frightened eyes, and without thinking, he wrapped his arms about her and hugged her to him. She went limp in his arms, and for one horrible moment he thought she might have stopped breathing. For one awful instant, his own heart and lungs ceased to function. But she moved again and struggled to push away from him.
He released his hold on her. Even hurt and in danger, she wanted no part of him.
“I’m just trying to help,” he said, his voice more in control than his emotions. Gingerly, he pushed back strands of blood-matted hair and examined the wound on her head. There was a knot the size of Texas, and a gash that dipped over her left eye.
“Does anything hurt besides your head?” he asked, checking her pulse.
She shook her head. Wincing, she cradled her head in her right palm. “Just my head, I think. Where am I?”
“On Glenn Road. But we’re getting out of here.” He lifted her in his arms and started toward his truck. She was light, and even through her skirt and jacket he could tell she was still way too thin. “Want to tell me who did this to you?”
“I...I can’t.” Her voice was weak, unsteady.
He let her answer ride, but he suspected won’t would have been a far more accurate word choice than can’t.
He trekked the path back to his own truck and settled her gently into the passenger seat, so as not to start the wound bleeding again. She moaned softly, and he clenched his hands into fists, wishing he had a woman-beating man to plow them into.
“We’ll be at the hospital in a few minutes,” he said, striving for a reassuring tone. “The doctor will check out that head wound and give you something for the pain.”
Jerking the car into gear, he jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator and attacked the night with his flashing lights and screaming siren. No need to call for an ambulance. He could make better time. Clutching his radio phone, he contacted the hospital, letting them know he was bringing in a victim with a trauma to the head.
A victim. The word tasted metallic on his tongue. He reached across the seat and clasped her hand in his. It was cold, almost lifeless. He squeezed it gently, fighting the emotion that stormed inside him. For all the promises he’d made himself, he knew that the years that had passed had changed nothing between them.
FEAR SWAM THROUGH her mind, shaking her awake in a cold sweat of panic. She opened her eyes and looked around. The walls were dark and shadowy, lit only by the dim glow of a light above her bed. Her head was pounding, and there was an ache in her left arm.
She tried to touch trembling fingers to her head. They scraped the rough edge of a turban. Bandages. But where was she, and who had applied them?
“About time you woke up.”
The male voice cut through the quiet. She tried to swallow past the wad of dryness that clogged her throat and burned the back of her mouth. “Where am I?”
“In the hospital. Don’t you remember my bringing you here?”
She circled the room with her gaze and then brought it back to the man standing over her. He looked rumpled, unshaven, worried. She ran her tongue over her scratchy lips while she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The fog didn’t lift from her mind. “Could I have a drink of water?”
“Coming right up.” The man poured water from a pitcher on her bedside table. He tucked a hand under her neck and lifted her head from the bed as he held the glass to her lips. “Slow and easy. You’ve had a rough night, thanks to the man—or men—you tangoed with.”
“Tangoed?”
“Sorry. Cop talk. Someone banged you over the head real good.”
“That explains the bandage.” She touched her fingers again to the gauzy turban.
The man resettled the water glass on the table, and let his fingers rest on her pillow. “Dr. Bennigan must have given you some great drugs. Feel no pain, remember no evil.”
She twisted in the bed, trying to scoot up a little higher. The move sent new spasms of pain shooting through her head. “The drugs aren’t as good as you think,” she said, fighting back a moan.
“Then you should be alert enough to give me a few details. What happened out on Glenn Road last night?”
She searched her mind for the details he requested. Her search came up empty. “I wish I could tell you.”
The man stared at her, intimidation pulsing from every muscle. Fear trembled along her nerve endings, culminating in a new series of jagged darts of pain in her head.
“Look, Darlene, don’t pull that FBI secrecy routine on me. You’re playing in my backyard. I deserve explanations. Especially since your buddy isn’t here to answer my questions.”
Darlene. The name skirted the corners of confusion that clouded her mind. This man thought she was someone named “Darlene” and that she had something to do with the FBI, but she was just...
Just who? The drugs. That had to be it. The man said the doctor had given her drugs. That’s why she couldn’t remember anything. That’s why the fog wouldn’t lift.
“Who are you?” she asked, straining to focus on the man and to concentrate on his answer. She could be in trouble, and she needed to get a handle on things quickly.
“Who am I?” He stared at her, his brows peaked. “You know damn good and well who I am. Don’t put me on, Darlene. I don’t know who you’re trying to protect, but I’m not about to play dangerous guessing games with you.”
The man was insistent, apparently used to calling the shots. She stared him down. Her bravado was false, but it was the only shield she had. “You didn’t answer my question. Who are you, and why are you in my hospital room?”
Concern flickered in his steely gray eyes as he backed away from her bed. “I’ll get the doctor,” he said, his voice edgy, his hands clasping the brim of a cowboy hat as if it might fly away at any time.
“Wait. Do I know you?”
“You did once.”
Before she could ask more, he’d all but run out the door, leaving her alone with a million unanswered questions.
Someone had hit her. She tried to think, to piece together facts. Her head spun with the questions and with new pain, but the fog only grew thicker.
The drugs. It had to be the drugs. They’d wear off soon, and she’d be her old self—whoever her old self was. In the meantime, she had to hope whoever had worked her over last night wasn’t planning on a return engagement. If he showed up again, she wouldn’t even know enough to call for help.
CLINT PACED THE HOSPITAL HALL. Dr. Bennigan and the staff neurologist had both examined Darlene and come up with the same diagnosis. Temporary amnesia brought on by trauma to the head.
Amnesia—the fodder of soap operas and novels. Of course, Clint had heard of amnesia occurring in real life, but he’d never encountered a true case, though he’d had several run-ins with the fake variety. Criminals were frequently experts at pretending they didn’t know or couldn’t recall.
But Darlene Remington was no criminal. She was an agent with the FBI. She’d been found beaten on a deserted road, and the only clue to what had happened was the truck he’d found parked nearby. A truck belonging to Senator McCord.
Senator McCord was like a father to her, she’d always claimed. Only why were she and the senator parked on a dark road in his truck? The setting seemed a little isolated for a fatherly chat. The obvious possibility ground in Clint’s gut. Darlene and the senator. Parked on a lonely road. Intimate.
Acid pooled in his gut. He had to quit thinking like this. No matter what Darlene did with her life, it wasn’t his concern. Not anymore.
His job was to find out what had happened last night. He’d had no luck contacting McCord, but a license check had proved the truck in the woods was his.
A senator who was on the fast track to becoming the next president of the United States, and a female FBI agent found near his truck with an amnesia-producing wound to the head. Clint had about as much chance of keeping this story under wraps as he did of stopping old ranchers from spitting tobacco on the streets of Vaquero.
Worse, somewhere out there, the man who attacked and almost killed Darlene would be walking around, probably waiting for his next opportunity. Which meant he’d have to work with Darlene, find a way to make her remember what happened last night. In the meantime, he’d have to keep her safe.
Even the thought of working with Darlene filled him with dread. If he had his druthers, he’d walk away from this case—leave it to someone with less to lose. But he’d never walk away. He was a lawman first, a man second.
Funny, that was one of the several accusations Darlene had hurled at him when she’d told him she was leaving him to seek a career of her own, one a long way from Vaquero, Texas.
Now she was back. Only this time it was the lawman she needed.
