Chapter 1

The dogs barked insistently in the front yard of the old white, two-story farmhouse. Placing her fingers back on the keyboard, Alainna sighed, trying to pick up the thread of the sentence she had left dangling.
Refusing to be ignored, the dogs continued barking for her attention. It wasn't angry barking, but it was definitely 'come and see' barking. Living alone in the country, the dogs were important for her protection and companionship. Sometimes they can be a royal pain, she silently amended.

Alainna moved the cursor to the save function, clicking the mouse. I can't afford to lose any of this, not after all this work. Pushing back from the computer, she stood and stretched, groaning when her muscles informed her she had been sitting too long.
Wandering out onto the front porch, she turned towards the sound of the barking coming from the stand of trees to her right. She sighed and hurried down the steps, breaking into a trot when she reached the bottom. With my luck, they've cornered a skunk, she thought ruefully.

What she found was definitely not a skunk. Alainna's jaw dropped in astonishment as the dogs emerged from the woods, accompanying a man who was barely able to keep his feet under him, reeling and staggering. From a distance, her first thought was that he was drunk. However, her dogs, whose judgment of character she'd never known to be wrong, seemed to have accepted the stranger, and she ran to intercept him.

Drawing closer, she halted a few steps short of him. She could see someone had beaten him, badly. His bruised face was caked with dried blood. Gasping for air, nearly doubled over, he continued to move forward under sheer determination and will power. Pain-filled eyes turned to Alainna, pleading, "Help me."

Wrapping an arm around his waist, she pulled his arm around her shoulders. "Just lean on me. Let's get you to my car. I'll take you to the hospital."
"No!"
He dug in his heels and refused to move further.
Alainna was startled by the vehemence in his response.
"No, please," he softened his approach, but still was insistent. "No hospitals. They'll find me."
"Okay, then let's get you into the house." Alainna continued to support at least half of his weight as they stumbled together towards the front porch.

Guiding him up the steps and through the front door, she nearly fell as the man suddenly slumped over onto her. "Whoa, there, big fellow. Stay with me here. I've got to get you upstairs and if you pass out on me now, that's not going to happen. Come on." Grabbing his chin in her left hand, she gave it a squeeze. "Hey!"

She could see his eyes clear slightly as her shout reached through the haze rapidly clouding his mind.
"That's it, buddy, stay with me." She began to guide him up the staircase.
"What's your name?" she asked, wanting at least a name before he passed out on her.
"Peter…my name's…Peter."
"All right, Peter, just stay with me 'til we get to the top of the stairs, okay?"
He gingerly nodded his head, wincing at the stab of pain the move created. She continued to half drag, half carry him up the stairs. If he collapses on me now, we could both end up back at the bottom. That would not be good.

He made it exactly as far as she had suggested. Reaching the top of the stairs, his legs buckled and Alainna slid to the floor with him, unable to support his full weight. Well, you told him to the top of the stairs, Idiot, she chastised herself. Take a note, next time suggest he make it to the bed.

Sliding out from beneath him, she carefully assessed the situation, looking at the guestroom, far down the hallway, then at her own room, much closer. There's no question. I'll be lucky to get him to my bed.
Grabbing him under the arms, she took a deep breath and pulled him into her room, thankful for the hardwood floors that gave her little resistance. She chuckled. You should have dusted the floors earlier, she told herself, now this guy's dusting them for you.

Dragging him as far as the side of her bed, she paused to catch her breath. Studying the difference in the height of the queen-sized bed with that of the floor, she tried to devise a plan for getting him up onto the bed. Heaving him into a sitting position with his back against the bed, she held him by the shoulders and jumped onto the bed behind him. Reaching down to again grab him under the arms, she tugged with all her might. Eventually she succeeded in getting him onto the bed. Pulling off his black leather boots, she tossed them to the old wooden floor where they bounced with a resounding thud.

Once she had him settled, she took a good look at him. He looks like he's probably in his early thirties, give or take a few years. He had sandy brown hair, and she couldn't recall the color of his eyes, but the right one was blackened. His lower lip was split and crusted with dried blood. Although the right side of his face was bruised and swollen, the left side was mostly untouched. She evaluated his build, taking in the wide shoulders and narrow waist. He looks like he'll clean up to be fairly handsome, but right now he looks more like he's been hit by a bus.

Running her hands gently over his head, she was not surprised when she discovered a large lump on the back of it. She wondered where else he was hurt. Judging by the way he'd groaned when she'd wrapped her arm around his waist, she was betting on some upper body bruising as well, possibly a cracked rib or two. I hope he doesn't have any internal injuries, she mused.

She glanced down at the shirt he was wearing and hesitated. Well, it has to be done. She began to unfasten the buttons. This figures, she thought, first time you've ever had a guy in your bed and he's unconscious. Your readers would never believe it. She winced sympathetically when she saw the bruises along his ribs. Cracked or broken? she wondered. Rolling him onto his side, she pulled his arm free of the shirt, repeating the maneuver for the other arm.

There was bruising on both his forearms. Probably from defending himself. She picked up his arm for a closer look, nearly dropping it when she discovered the tiger. That's not a tattoo. Running her fingers over it, she felt the raised, scar-like texture. How did he do that? Checking the left arm, she found a similar scar in the shape of a dragon. "Very interesting," she muttered to herself. "File this for future reference."

Realizing that this man definitely needed more medical attention than she could provide for him, she picked up the phone from the night table, dialing a number she knew by heart.
"Hi, Doc? Yeah, it's me, Alainna. Listen, I know it's Saturday and you've got your poker game tonight, but I've got a situation here. Bring your big black bag. I think you'll still make your game." She listened to his response. "Okay, thanks. I'll see you soon." She hung up the phone. Doc Waldron was an old family friend. He had become a substitute father to her since her parents' death several years earlier. She knew she could count on him to keep his mouth shut.



Just as she was finishing gently washing the dried blood from Peter's face, the dogs began to bark again. Jumping up from the bed, she went to the window; peering out, she spotted Doc's old pick-up truck. She returned to Peter's side, knowing the physician would let himself into the house.

"Alainna? Alainna, where are you?" Doc's voice echoed up the staircase from the foyer. "Get off, you beast."
Alainna chuckled. Either Mandy or Molly probably just slobbered all over him. Crossing to the doorway, she yelled down the stairs, "Doc? I'm up here, in my room. Come on up." How am I supposed to explain this one? she pondered, glancing back at Peter.

Doc Waldron climbed the stairs to the second floor, wondering just what Alainna had gotten herself into this time. She was a child - woman, he corrected himself, of contradictions. One the one hand, she was a loner, yet put her in a crowd of people and she shone. She was quiet and conservative, but could find more ways of stirring up a commotion than a pair of bear cubs in a beehive. Her writing career often got her into strange situations. She called it doing research. He called it getting into trouble.

Even so, he was totally unprepared for what he found when he walked into her room. A battered man was lying shirtless in her bed.
"Alainna…"
"Let's not get into it now, Doc. This man needs your help."
"I'd say he needs to be in a hospital." Doc Waldron set his bag on the night table and began to examine Peter, running his hands lightly over the bruised ribcage, peeling back his eyelids to check his pupils.

"He doesn't want to be in a hospital, Doc." She hovered behind him, watching his every move.
"He's unconscious, 'Lainna, so how would you know?"
"He told me before he passed out. In fact, he was most emphatic. He seemed afraid that whoever did this to him would find him if we took him to the hospital."
Doc Waldron sighed and closed his mouth. He had a patient who needed him, and that was where his energy needed to be focused. Arguing with Alainna could wait until later.
"All right, Alainna, out," he ordered, pointing towards the doorway.
He waved his hand impatiently at her as she began to splutter, "I mean it, young lady. I need to finish the job you started here and peel this young man's jeans from him so I can examine his lower extremities. Now, get!"
"Oh, sure, kick me out just when things get interesting," she muttered, stalking from the room, the door closing loudly behind her.

A half an hour later Doc joined her in the library, knowing he would find her pounding away at the keyboard, as usual. He sat down in the burgundy reclining chair next to the computer desk. Alainna held up one finger to him in a gesture he had seen many times before. It meant 'wait a minute, I've got to finish this first.' He waited patiently while she completed whatever it was she was writing.

After five minutes, she looked over at him in triumph.
"It's done! Hurray! It's done!"
He glanced at her with a chuckle. "You get obsessive at the end, don't you? Not even a strange man lying nearly naked in your bed is enough to distract you. "
The blue eyes glared at him, causing the chuckle to become full-fledged laughter. "Congratulations, Alainna. What's this one about again? I'm hoping it's a mystery. You know I love your mysteries, but those romance things you write…" He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
"Oh, sorry, Doc. No mystery this time, just another steamy romance novel."
Laughter escaped from her as she watched him wrinkle his nose further, looking like he had just taken a swallow of curdled milk.
"I'll write you a new mystery soon, I promise. "

He knew soon was a relative term to her, meaning either next week or sometime in the next two years.
"How you write those things when you've never even had a steady beau is beyond me," the old man muttered, cleaning his glasses.
"I have a marvelous imagination, Doc, you know that. Now, tell me about the mysterious stranger in my bed. By the way, his name is Peter."

Waldron ran down the list of Peter's injuries - concussion, cracked ribs, and so many bruises that he had lost count. He informed her that the beating had taken place at least several days ago, knowing it would have taken that long for the bruises to achieve the spectacular colors they were showing.
"Alainna, that boy really should be in the hospital."
"Doc, I told him he could stay here." Well, not in so many words, she thought, but it's what I implied.

Leaning forward in the chair, the older man wagged a finger at her. "Alainna Marie Anderson, what would your parents say about you keeping a strange man in your bed?"
"They'd say, 'Alainna, next time drag the young man to the guest room. It's unseemly to keep a strange man in your own bed.' " Blue eyes twinkling, she offered him a grin, and he laughed. "Come on, Doc, give me a break. It's about time something interesting happened around here. A writer's imagination is only worth so much. Sometimes you need a little real life experience to feed it." She pointed to the sign on the wall above her computer that said exactly that.

"I just hope you haven't bitten off more than you can chew, young lady. Again." He gazed at her intently, recounting some of the other fiascoes she'd gotten herself into. A compromise was the only option he had.
"All right, here's the deal. You keep him here tonight. I will call to check on him later, and I will call you first thing tomorrow morning. I'll be back tomorrow at noontime. If he's still unconscious then, he goes to the hospital. Deal?"
"Okay, Doc. You've got a deal," she agreed, hoping she wouldn't have to keep her end of the bargain.

He gave her instructions on caring for the young man through the night. No pain medications because of the head injury, not even an aspirin. She was to force whatever liquids she could into him, and monitor him all night.
On his way out the door, he paused to run his hand along Alainna's cheek.
"Are you sure you'll be okay? For all we know, that guy's a serial killer."
She chuckled. "I'm supposed to be the one with the over-active imagination, Doc, not you. The dogs approved him. You know how picky they can be. If he were a serial murderer, they'd have taken a chunk out of him, not brought him home."

"And what if the folks who did this to him show up on your doorstep?"
"Come on, Doc. You said yourself the beating happened several days ago. Those folks are probably long gone by now. Who knows how far this guy managed to stumble before arriving here, anyway? He seems to be quite a determined man." Alainna gave him a reassuring smile. "Besides, you know I'm armed and dangerous."
"You're dangerous, all right. You are your own worst enemy."
He was not completely reassured, but it was something. He bade her good-bye and saw himself out, heading home to prepare to host the Saturday night poker game.


In the large country kitchen, Alainna pulled a container of frozen homemade soup from the freezer, defrosting it in her microwave. Filling two large glasses with cold water, she gathered the other items she needed for her dinner and the care of the man in her bed.
Loading the bowl, glasses, and other necessities onto a tray, she climbed the back staircase to the upper floor. Striding down the long hallway from one end of the house to the other, she decided she had been right not to try to get him to the guestroom. There is no way I could have dragged him that far, she laughed.

She ate her dinner while staring at the man's face. Despite the bruises, his high cheekbones and fine features captured her writer's mind. Oh, please, can't you just take one night off? she asked herself, knowing it was impossible. Writing was in her blood. It was her passion, almost an obsession. She couldn't help it; it was who she was.

She pulled her rocking chair alongside the bed, but before she settled into it for the night, decided to push some fluids into him. Carefully taking a straw, she inserted it into the glass of water, covering the top of it with her thumb.
Using her other hand to gently part his lips, she slipped the straw into his mouth. Slowly she allowed the water to trickle into his mouth. It certainly wouldn't do to choke the…Peter, she corrected herself. She nodded in satisfaction when he swallowed. She repeated the operation several times before switching to chicken broth. Mom always said it was good for what ails you, and if you don't have it, it'll give it to you. A grin lit up her face as she pondered her mother's probable reaction to a strange man in her bed. Mom would have had a cow over this little stunt.
Finally settling into the rocking chair, she picked up a paperback novel.

The phone rang at 9:30. Snatching it from the base, she gave Doc an update on their patient.
By 10:00 she decided to try to get some sleep. First she gave Peter more water, snugged the covers around him, and touched his forehead to make sure he hadn't developed a fever. She took the dogs out and returned to her position in the rocking chair. Leaning her head back, she promptly fell asleep.



Chapter 2

Sunlight was streaming in the windows when he awakened. A quick glance around confirmed that he was in unfamiliar surroundings. His eyes came to rest on the young woman who was sleeping in a rocking chair next to the bed he was in. Clearing his throat lightly, he groaned when shifting his weight created daggers of pain in his ribs.

Opening her eyes, she found him gazing at her intently.
"Well, good morning," she said brightly. "I'm glad to see you're awake. Now, Doc has no excuse to try to take you to the hospital."
"Do I know you?" His voice was soft, hesitant.
She laughed. "Not exactly. We didn't really have the chance for introductions yesterday." Reaching over to take his hand, she introduced herself. "I'm Alainna Anderson."
"Alanna?" he repeated incorrectly, unsure of the pronunciation.
"No, Alainna. Uh-lay-nuh." She was accustomed to people falling all over her name. "Most people around here call me Al." She grimaced at him, hating the nickname, but it was the truth.

He scrutinized her closely, evaluating her physical appearance. She had shoulder-length, sandy -blond hair, and intense blue eyes that reminded him of a cloudless spring sky. Slender and delicate, she looked like a strong wind would blow her away. Fine facial features, smooth, creamy skin and small nose with a smattering of freckles added to a porcelain doll appearance. Peter didn't like the nickname either.
"You're too pretty to be called Al," he told her.

Shaking her head, she laughed. "Okay, now I know that head injury is serious. I'm calling Doc right now and he's going to cart you off to the hospital."
Panic rapidly clouded his face.
"Hey, now," she soothed with a smile, "I was only kidding. No one is taking you anywhere until you say so."

Exhaling loudly, he released the tension from his body, sinking back into the comfortable bed. Resting his head on the plump pillow, he tried to control the rest of the fear that had washed over him.
"Now, I'm tired of thinking of you as 'the man.' What's your last name, Handsome?" she asked with a grin.
His eyes twinkled up at her, amused at her choice of last name.
"You managed to give me Peter, that's as far as we got yesterday."

"I'm Peter…Peter…" Concern began to cloud his face. He tried again, "I'm Peter…" He stared at her and she watched fear overtake his hazel eyes again, more sharply than before. "I don't know."
"Well, that's okay," she hastily told him, reaching out to pat his arm in a gesture of reassurance. "I'm sure it will come back to you. You've got a nasty bump on your head, so I guess a little memory loss isn't all that unusual. Doc will be here in a couple of hours and I'm sure he'll be able to let us know."
Peter nodded his head and tried to relax. Why can't I remember? Who am I? Where am I? He absorbed as many details about his surroundings as he could.

The spacious bedroom seemed to occupy the entire front of the house. He was lying in a large four-poster bed, finished in a light oak. Two matching night tables flanked either side of the bed, and a long dresser sat on the opposite wall, a large mirror hanging over it. White eyelet curtains blew in the breeze from the open windows and a cedar chest with a tapestry top sat beneath. Oil paintings of English cottages hung on several walls. A floor lamp stood in the corner, and Peter could tell by the vast empty space that the rocking chair she was seated in normally occupied a place next to it. A small oak desk was the only other piece of furniture.
The room was reasonably tidy, although there were piles of clothes on the dresser, and several shirts strewn across the cedar chest. The desk, however, seemed to be a point of chaos, papers strewn about haphazardly, a large dictionary perched precariously on the side, and a half-dozen paperback books scattered about on its surface.

Becoming aware that he was wearing only his briefs under the blue and white quilt, he looked back over at the woman, a blush slowly spreading across his face. What am I doing practically naked in the bed of a woman I don't even know? Is this something I do often? Somehow, he didn't think so. She didn't look like it was something that happened often to her, either.

Gingerly shifting on the pillow to gain a better view of her face, he asked, "Do you often spend the night in that rocking chair watching a strange man sleeping in your bed?"
She laughed delightedly, shaking her head and causing the rocking chair to wobble. "No, Peter, I can safely say that you are the first. In fact, you are the very first man, strange or otherwise, to land in that bed."

His eyes darted around the room. "Where are my clothes?"
"They're over there." Pointing to the top of her dresser, she interpreted his blush correctly, and a matching flush crept across her own face. "Um, I have to confess, I snagged your shirt, but Doc took care of the rest. There's nothing to be embarrassed about," she told him, cheeks flaming scarlet in direct conflict with her words. "Do you remember anything about what happened to you?"

Peter closed his eyes and tried to focus. Nothing. He shook his head.
"Near as we can tell, Peter, several days ago somebody, probably a few somebodies, beat the snot out of you." He smiled at her choice of words. "Now, you seem nice enough to me, but somebody obviously didn't like you."
Checking out the bruises on his arms, Peter gasped when he saw the brands. What the hell are they? He ran his fingers over the tiger, marveling at the raised texture.

"That's exactly the reaction I had when I saw those things," Alainna told him. "I take it that means you don't recall how you got those, either." Peter again shook his head mutely at her.
"Well, I'll tell you what. Since you can't tell me about yourself, how about I tell you a little bit about me?" she asked, in an effort to distract him.
He nodded his head. I'd like to know more about this porcelain doll who takes strangers into her home - and bed.

"Okay, let's see. I've told you my name. I'm a writer." She interpreted the look he gave her as disbelief, which wasn't uncommon. "Honest, cross my heart and hope to die, a real, published writer. In fact I just sent my latest novel out to my editor last night over the net."
Peter turned his head to look at the cluttered desk again. Looks like writer junk to me.
"Okay, I believe you. That's…interesting." I don't think I've ever met an author before, but then again, I could be a writer, too, for all I know. He chuckled at the thought, then winced at the sharp pain it caused in his side.

He turned to face her again, watching her sit with a pensive expression on her face. She wasn't looking at anything in particular; her eyes had a glazed, slightly vacant look. He could tell that his writer had already run out of words. Why don't I just ask the questions? "Do you live here by yourself?"
The empty look in her eyes vanished quickly and she glanced back down at him. "Yes, just me and the dogs."
Dogs? I haven't seen or heard any dogs, he thought.

Noticing his puzzlement, she told him, "I ordered them to stay downstairs. I didn't want them coming up here and disturbing you. Trust me, you do not want one of these dogs' heads on your cracked ribs."
He shifted in the bed again, trying to get comfortable. Dogs that can hurt my ribs? "Just how big are these dogs?"
Alainna moved to sit at his side, reaching behind him to adjust the pillows. "Is that better?" He nodded his head, and she answered his question, "Big! Actually, it was Mandy and Molly who found you yesterday."
"Then don't you think I should meet them so I can say thank you?"

Leaving the bed, she moved the rocking chair back to its original place near the floor lamp. Having cleared a space, Alainna walked to the door and gave a whistle.
Peter heard a clamorous thudding on the stairs. Good grief, they sound like elephants, he thought. The next thing he knew, a large brown head with a black mask was staring him eye to eye as he lay in the bed, an identical one beside it.

"These are not dogs," he exclaimed, "They're ponies!" He reached out to stroke the two big heads, groaning as his body reminded him that he was injured.
Glancing at him in concern, she introduced him. "Peter, meet Mandy and Molly. They're English Mastiffs. Wait until you hear them bark for the first time. They can deafen you." Alainna gestured at the two dogs who slunk from the room at her unspoken command. "They really do like to lay their head on your chest when you're in bed. Don't let them do that to you. I guarantee, the shape you're in right now, it will hurt."
I don't doubt that, he thought, when just simply moving seems to create a symphony of aches running through my body.

Picking up the glass of water from the night table, she resumed her place at his side. "Would you like a drink?"
He nodded his head and began to prop himself up on his elbows, but winced at the pain in his ribs. She slipped her hand behind his head and gently lifted it, then bent the straw down and placed it against his lips.
He drank eagerly. "That's better," he informed her, after his thirst was satisfied. He shifted on the bed again, trying to ignore the other demand his body was making. Can't ignore it for long, he told himself. He reached out, taking her by the hand. "Now, Miss Writer, I have one other request. Could you help me drag my weary body to the bathroom?"
Her face became scarlet. "Sure. Lucky for you, this room is equipped with a master bath right through that door." She pointed to the door to the left of the bed. "Just try not to collapse on me again."
Peter gritted his teeth against the pain as she helped him from the bed.


Alainna felt the pull, as though her eyes were being drawn back to his disrobed body by the force of gravity itself, and fought against it. The lean, muscular body pressed against her side invited her curious gaze. Stop that, her mind ordered her eyes. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.
Forcefully avoiding the view as he closed the bathroom door behind him, she felt the blush creep up from her neck to her hairline.

Once he had taken care of his body's needs, he called her to help him back to the bed, and the fight began anew. The sight that greeted her as she opened the bathroom door for him was hard to resist; the unfamiliar contours of his chest, tapering down to his narrow waist, where his shorts obscured her view. Screwing her eyes shut with determination, she gritted her teeth and let him lean on her once more, assisting him back to the bed. Practically before he was even in it, she hastily pulled the covers up over him.

Glancing at her in surprise, he leaned back against the pillows, appraising the scarlet face of his hostess as she pointedly studied her own bedroom, eyes everywhere but on him. Once settled back in the bed, Peter closed his own eyes.
Tiptoeing from the room once he fell asleep, she paused in the doorway, glancing back at the mysterious man. "Sleep sweet within this quiet room, O thou, whoe'er thou art, and let no mournful yesterdays, Disturb thy peaceful heart." Raising her eyebrow, she ran her hand down the doorjamb, "Ellen Gates."


Peter awakened the next time to find an older man leaning over him. He had snow-white hair, a white mustache, and round wire-frame glasses. He reminds me of someone. Alainna was peering over the old man's shoulder and she flashed him a smile when she saw he was awake.
"Well there, boy, you are one lucky young man," the deep voice rumbled.
Funny, but I don't feel all that lucky right now. I am bruised and battered and have no idea who I am. No, that is definitely not lucky, although I suppose it could be worse. Yeah, he told himself, you could be dead. Peter wiggled up the pillow, staring at the man who had lifted his wrist and was taking his pulse.

"I'm Doc Waldron." He set Peter's hand down gently, satisfied with the strong, steady pulse. "Alainna called me yesterday after she found you, to come and check you out."
"Thank you," he croaked, his throat dry again. "Could I please have some water?"
Responding to his request, Alainna brought the glass with the straw in it. Sitting beside him, she gently lifted his head to help him drink.
"Thanks, Miss Nightingale."
She rewarded him with a smile, then turned to face Doc. "See, Doc, I told you he was a gentleman."
"Thank you, Miss Know-it-All," the doctor responded.
She stuck her tongue out at him, preferring Peter's nickname over his.

"Alainna, I need to examine this young man again, now that he's conscious. Out." Doc once again pointed his finger at the door, an exact replica of the gesture Alainna had used with the two dogs. Reluctantly, she moved to comply, slinking towards the doorway.
She turned back to them when she got to the door. "Here we go again," she muttered. "Kicked out of my own room, in my own home. Sheesh." She gave Peter a wink. "Don't let him buffalo you, Peter. You do not have to leave this house. It's mine and I said so." Tossing Doc a smug look, she departed. "You know where to find me, Doc, when you're done."

Alainna safely out of the way, Doc gave Peter a thorough examination. Although the hands were gentle, they caused Peter to wince more than once as they probed his body.
"Sorry. Don't mean to cause you pain, young man."
"The name's Peter. I'd appreciate it if you'd use it, since it seems to be all I have left of my past right now."
Doc looked at him sharply. Alainna had neglected to tell him that Peter was experiencing memory problems.
"Nothing, young…Peter? Do you have any memory whatsoever of how you got here?" Peter shook his head. "How about your family? Job?"
"No, nothing. I mean, I obviously have some brain cells still working. I did, after all, know enough to call Alainna 'Miss Nightingale' just now. But my entire past is wiped clean."

That statement caught the doctor's attention. The memory problem could definitely have an organic cause. The blow to his head was likely strong enough to cause it. However, it also could have a psychological cause. This young man's mind could have shut down because there's something in his past that is just too painful for him to recall.
Sliding his hands over the back of Peter's head once more, Doc briefed him on amnesia.

"Unfortunately, Peter, there's not much we can do about the memory loss except bide our time and wait. Usually with a head injury like you've suffered, resulting amnesia will fade in several days to several weeks."
He eased Peter's head back down on the pillow and slid back, putting enough distance between them that they could look one another squarely in the face.

"Several weeks?" Peter stammered, his body trembling slightly in fear and shock.
Doc nodded his head. He didn't tell him that it could take longer than that, or that he may never regain his memory. He also decided to hold his tongue regarding a possible psychological trauma. The best thing for this boy right now is time, Doc thought.
"You know what they say, Peter, 'Time heals all wounds.' Right now the best thing for you is rest and patience."

Peter sighed in frustration as the first clue to his true personality set in. He was beginning to suspect that patience was not his strong suit.
"Lucky for you, you've got a great place to stay and an interesting companion to pass the time with you."
Doc's countenance changed and he gave Peter a dark glare, "But I'm warning you, Boy, if you do anything, and I do mean anything, to hurt your hostess, I will come after you myself."
Peter believed him. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt Alainna. She's been nothing but kind to me."

"Just you remember that. She is an innocent. She gets herself into some interesting situations sometimes, but she is an innocent." He stared Peter in the eyes. "Do you understand what I'm telling you, Peter?"
"Yes. You don't have to draw me a picture. I assure you, my memory regarding how to treat women is fully intact."
"Good. Now that we understand each other, is there anything else I can do for you before I go?" the physician asked.
Peter couldn't resist tweaking the old man. "As a matter of fact, yes. I'd like to take a shower and I'm not sure if I have the strength to manage it by myself. Would you like to help me, or should I ask Alainna?"
Doc Waldron shook his head. This is going to be trouble with a capital T, he thought. This young man's going to break her heart, I can see it coming.


Refreshed after the shower, Peter managed to gingerly climb from the stall shower and move to the sink. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he studied his reflection in the mirror. Whoa, you look pretty bad, he told himself. Turning his head from side to side, the bright lights from the vanity emphasized the discoloration on his face. Black and blue is an interesting color, but that green doesn't do much for you. He searched for some recognition of himself, asking some of the questions that were running around his head. Who are you? Who did this to you? Are they still looking for you? Are you putting that sweet woman at risk by being here? He placed his fingertips on the mirror, tracing the outline of his own face, then touched the growth of stubble on his face. How many days has it been since I've shaved? How long have I been…like this?

Lowering his gaze to the reflection of his chest, he scoped out the bruises along his ribcage. A scar on his right shoulder suddenly caught his attention, and he reached up to touch it with his left hand. That looks like…a bullet wound? Shaking his head, he examined the scars on his arm again. Am I one of the good guys, or the bad guys? Look at me; I'm a mess.

A sharp knock on the door tore him from his contemplations.
"Peter? You okay in there?"
Leaning heavily on the countertop, Peter sighed. "Yeah, Doc. I'll be right out." He slowly moved to the door, opening it to find the doctor standing just outside.
"Let me help you." He took Peter by the arm, assisting him the few steps to the bed, easing him to a sitting position on the edge.

God, I'm so tired, he thought, swinging his legs up onto the bed, grimacing as the movement pulled at the muscles in his chest, causing the ribs to sing out their distress once again.
Peter looked over to find Doc's hand extended out in front of him, a small white pill in his palm. "What's that?"
"This will ease the pain, help you rest some more. You've got to rest, let your body begin to heal." Doc moved his hand closer, encouraging Peter to take it.
"I don't think that's really necessary. I'm so tired, I think I can sleep without it." Lying back in the bed, he realized that he did have one other problem. "Uh, Doc? How about my clothes?"

The older man began to laugh. "Well, that is a problem, isn't it? Tell you what, you just peel that towel and slide under the covers. I'll have 'Lainna wash them for you this afternoon while you sleep." Becoming serious, he wagged his finger in Peter's face. "Just you remember what I told you, Boy. Stay UNDER those covers when she returns these to you."
Peter stifled a laugh of his own, not wanting to upset the man who was so graciously caring for him. He obviously has a strong connection to Alainna, he mused. He's very protective. "Not a problem, sir. Not a problem at all."

"I'll stop by and check on you again tomorrow, Peter," Doc informed him, heading out the door. In his arms he was holding every stitch of clothing that Peter owned.
"Thanks, Doc. I really do appreciate your help." The physician gave him a wave and left. Peter shifted in the bed, seeking a position that offered the least pain, and drifted off to sleep.


Doc found Alainna in her standard position - sitting in front of the computer. He sat in the recliner, surprised when she immediately stopped working to look at him. "Well, Doc, what do you think? How long until his memory comes back?"
"I'll tell you the same thing I told him: Only time will tell. I cannot even begin to guess how long it will take."
"What about the rest of his injuries?"
"Oh, I'd say in another week he should be fine. Try to keep him in bed for as long as you can, then limit his activity. Don't let him run up and down those stairs too many times at first." Realizing that he was still holding Peter's clothes in his arms, he threw them at her, "Oh, and 'Lainna? I think you need to do some laundry."
She laughed. "Looks like I'm going to have to go shopping, too. One set of clothes is not enough. I will not do laundry every day!"
Doc chuckled. She hates the chores. Takes her away from her passion.
Taking his leave of her, he promised to visit again the following day.

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