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“I need to hide.” She swayed, placing her hands on either side of the sofa cushion. She looked frantically around as if searching for someplace to go. “They can’t find me.”

“Who can’t find you?” Despite his ingrained suspicious nature, he moved toward her. Her fear appeared very real. She could barely sit on his sofa, but at the same time, she was determined not to go to the hospital. “I can help, but I need to know your name and what you’re running from.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was a low, agonized whisper. Tears filled her eyes, rolling slowly down her cheeks. She swayed again as if it was taking every ounce of her strength to sit upright. Her sheer grit touched a chord deep within. He admired her courage, but it was easy to see she wasn’t going anywhere without assistance.

He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Okay, take a deep breath.”

She did, then looked up at him. “Please. I know I sound crazy. If I could explain, I would.” She lifted a hand to the gauze he’d used to cover her wound. “Everything in my head is foggy. I can’t seem to remember anything clearly.”

A shiver of unease snaked down his spine. He’d heard of people with head injuries suffering amnesia, but he’d figured they were grossly exaggerated. Not real.

“Sit back, before you topple over.” He pulled the blanket up to her chin, then resigned himself to allowing her to stay for a little while. “You need water and food. I hope you like beef stew because that’s what’s simmering in my slow cooker.”

“Thank you.” She collapsed against the cushion and closed her eyes. “I appreciate your help.”

Hoping he wasn’t going to regret this, Doc strode into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. After taking a moment to peer at his stew, he returned to the living room sofa. His mystery woman still sat with her eyes closed, but when he touched her shoulder, she opened them.

“Here, drink as much as you can.” The hospital would have provided IV fluids. A glass of water wasn’t a great replacement, but it was a start.

She accepted the glass, drank a third of the water, then tried to set the glass on the table beside her. When she missed the mark, he quickly snagged it. “Easy.”

“I’m sorry. I feel shaky and sick to my stomach.” She pressed a hand to her abdomen and shivered. “I’m still cold. And so very tired.”

He frowned, wondering if he should fetch a bucket in case she needed to throw up. If she’d fallen off a boat into the river, she’d likely swallowed some of the murky water. Adrenaline could also make a person feel shaky, weak, and nauseous.

Snagging a faded army sweatshirt from the nearby chair, he held it out to her. “Here, take off your wet shirt and put this on. I’ll give you some privacy. And I’m sure the beef stew will help settle your stomach.” He turned back to the kitchen. “We’ll start with a small bowl.”

“Thank you.” Her gratitude seemed genuine. She buried her nose in the fleece for a moment, before pulling the sweatshirt over her head. He turned away, as promised, but from the corner of his eye, he noticed she did some sort of maneuver to remove her wet shirt without showing any skin before slipping her arms through the sleeves. She had to fold the cuffs over several times to free her hands.

Maybe he was being suckered into some scam he hadn’t yet identified, but he couldn’t bring himself to ignore her plight. He was armed; she wasn’t. Her clothes had been so plastered to her skin he’d have seen or felt a weapon when he’d examined her.

She was also slender and in good shape but without the honed muscles and calluses that would indicate she was a martial arts expert. In fact, he was forced to admit she appeared to be an average woman in distress.

He filled a small bowl for her and a larger one for himself. They might as well eat at the same time, especially if he could find a way to convince her to go to the hospital. If her amnesia was real, she needed to be under the care of a neurosurgery specialist.

Not an army medic.

“Here. Careful, it’s hot.” He gently placed the bowl in her lap.

She cradled her palms around the bowl, then looked up in surprise as he settled in next to her. “Thank you. It smells delicious.”

He cocked his head. “You should probably try it first.”

She didn’t smile, but there was the slightest crinkling of her eyes displaying a hint of humor. Then her gaze dropped to the bowl, and she frowned. “I almost forgot to say grace.”

Doc froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Grace? She didn’t know her name but wanted to pray? Was this a new angle she was working?

“Dear Lord Jesus, we thank You for this food we are about to eat. Please keep us safe in Your care, especially this man Doc who has graciously come to my aid. Amen.”

Before he could respond in any way, she lifted her spoon and took a tentative bite. Then a real smile bloomed on her face. “Tastes even better than it smells.”

In that moment, he recalled where he’d seen her. He happened to be in a local pub the day Liam Murphy’s three-year-old colt, who’d been viewed as an underdog, won the Kentucky Derby. What was more newsworthy was that Kenny Knowls, the jockey, hadn’t used a crop during the race. Doc wasn’t much for betting on the horses, or anything else for that matter, but everyone who lived in the state of Kentucky paid attention to the racing circuit. The horse who’d won the race was Fiona’s Folly. And Liam Murphy had stood beside his daughter, Fiona, to accept the ribbon and wreath of roses.

“Fiona Murphy.” He blurted the name without thinking it through. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Fiona Murphy.”

She lifted her head and stared at him in shock. “I don’t know, is it?”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, Fiona. There’s no need for subterfuge. I’m not going to hurt you, so you may as well tell me what’s going on. Did you have a fight with your father?”