AllFreeNovel
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The call is probably one of my brothers. Being back in our hometown equals up to me being a set of free hands for all kinds of projects. Help me with this… help me with that… all of which, I don’t mind. It’s good to spend some time with them slinging hammers or doing farm chores.
But on the third call in four minutes, I begin to really wonder what the hell’s up. I pull the thing out. There’s a single text on the home screen from a buddy in the Air Force. “911.”
Frowning, I bring up the missed calls. Cade Slaughter. All of them.
Pushing up from the table, I excuse myself. “Gotta take this. Something serious.”
I’m leaning against the porch railing, watching snow swirl in the air, when the call connects. “Cade, what the hell is going on?”
“Man, I’m glad you answered. Look, something crazy is going down and you’re the only person I can think to call.”
“You got my attention. Go ahead.”
“Sierra’s in trouble.”
My skin bristles. The mention of my former girlfriend’s name causes a weird twisting sensation in the pit of my gut. “Shit. I hate to hear that, but why are you calling me? I’m the last person she wants involved in her business.”
“Because you’re the only one I can think of to handle this.”
I don’t like the way he sounds. “What is ‘this’, exactly?”
“You need to come to Virginia to get her—”
I bark out a laugh. “Wait a minute, here. One, I’m in Utah. Two, we’re history. The bad kind. Sierra would just as soon run me over with her car as talk to me.”
“Not now, she won’t.”
A long pause stretches between his words and my brain. “Cade, you never talk in circles. So, what’s got you tongue tied?”
“Sierra’s got amnesia.”
Chapter 2
Norfolk, Virginia
Medical terms fly back and forth between the three men standing at the foot of my hospital bed. They talk so fast, I’m reduced to bouncing my eyes back and forth as my head pounds like someone’s drilling for oil.
All I know is that my memory is like Swiss cheese. Really holey Swiss cheese. My name. My job. My age. Why I’m in the hospital. All of it, gone.
The military guy who says he’s my commanding officer tilts his chin toward me. “What are the odds of a full recovery since it’s been six days already?”
“Uncertain,” the man in the long lab coat replies quickly. He’s Dr. Williams, or so his name tag says. “But at this point, we’re doing nothing here. Her concussion was mild, of no consequence now, really. But she’s shown little improvement. It’s time for her to be relocated. Either to a private residence or a mental health unit.”
My heart stutters as my mouth drops open. “Wait, you can’t be serious. A mental health facility?”
Williams tilts his head and eyes me over the top of his glasses. “Serious as a heart attack.”
I swallow down a shocked gasp. Did he really just say that? What happened to giving comfort to your patient?
My voice comes out shaky, “I thought you were letting me out.”
He shoves his tablet in his pocket with an air of finality. “Not without someone to assume round the clock care.”
It only took one day to realize Williams gets a big fat F in bedside manner. The man makes me want to spit nails on the regular. More than once, I’ve fantasized about shooting flames out of my eyes and setting his stethoscope and lab coat up ablaze in a fit of rage.
Swallowing my warring fear and frustration, I remind them all, “I amcompletely capable of taking care of myself.”
Doctor Williams shifts and glances at the military guy leaning a shoulder against the wall. Oh, now I get it—why three of them are here this morning. They needed backup for the news that I’m either out under the care of someone or getting transferred to some inpatient facility.
