The doctor laid a hand on his arm. “K.C., do you remember having an auto accident this morning?”
He looked at the doctor, then up at the circle of faces again. He leaned back, smiling with relief. “Is that why you all look so worried? Here I am, spouting away like a hot spring.” He started to sit up once more. “Again, I’ll thank you for your concern and care, but besides feeling as if a bronc got the better of me, I’m fine.” He pushed back the sheet.
Again the doctor’s hand pressed on his forearm. “K.C.—”
“Kent. Kent. His name is Kent.” The woman’s voice split the air.
K.C. looked at her anguished face. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to—”
“I’m not your ‘ma’am.’ Good God.” She came to the bed, grasped his hands. “I’m your fiancé.”
He pulled back from her imploring gaze. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but—”
“Kent,” the doctor interceded, “this morning you lost control of your vehicle and ended up in an embankment off I-5. Fortunately, your air bag engaged, and you suffered a few bruises and a concussion. However, a blow to the head often results in a loss of memory, a blocking out of critical personal information.”
“What’re you saying, Doc?”
“You’ve got amnesia.”
“Amnesia?”
“Most cases last only a few days or, at the most, a few weeks. The rate of recovery is often quite amazing during the first six months after the head trauma. Often the brain just needs time to recover from the impact. Impairments could begin to disappear within days. I’d like to schedule a few more tests, but preliminary indications suggest you can expect a full recovery.”
K.C. looked up at the white marble woman, the full-faced short man. He looked back at the doctor. “No one else was hurt, were they?”
“No.” The doctor allayed his fear. “According to the report, you were following too close behind a bus and when it braked to take the ramp, you steered right to avoid hitting it, lost control and went over the side.”
“You rolled the Range Rover good a few times,” the short man noted.
K.C. looked at him, studying him. “You’re…?”
“I’m your business partner, Leon Skow.”
“Business partner?”
Leon chuckled, his soft cheeks shaking. “We’re not exactly even-Steven, but I’ve been with you since you started beefing up surplus PCs and selling them from your dorm room.”
“And I’m your fiancé, darling,” the woman said.
He looked her way.
“Hilary Fairchild.” She brushed a hand across his arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, and we’ll get you better in no time. After all, the wedding is less than a month away.”
K.C. studied the woman’s beautiful face. He saw a stranger. He looked to the man. Nothing.
Business partner, fiancé, beefed-up PCs, wedding?
“I’m sorry, but there’s been a mistake. You must have me confused with another Kent Landover.”
The man chuckled again. “Believe me, there’s only one Kent Landover.”
K.C. looked to the doctor for an explanation. The doctor watched him, said nothing.
K.C. said, “Where’s Anna?”
The doctor looked at the short man, the beautiful woman.
“Darling.” The woman stroked his hair, but her voice was sharp. “There’s no Anna.”
K.C. pulled away from her touch. He grasped the doctor’s arm. “What’s happened to Anna?”
The doctor looked down at the hand too tight on his wrist. “Was Anna in the Range Rover with you at the time of the accident?”
“No, she was on the bus.”
“On the bus?” Hilary questioned.
“She was wearing her crown.”
“Wearing her—”
He didn’t hear the rest. Instead, he saw Anna as he’d seen her then. First it’d been a glimpse, so fast he wasn’t sure. He’d accelerated. She’d come back into focus. The tilted tiara, the wide-set eyes, the crooked grin that made him feel good just looking at it.
How long had it been since he’d last seen her? A lifetime.
Lying there in the hospital bed, he remembered—he’d been driving on the freeway, and he’d seen Anna bigger than life on a passing bus. He’d followed the bus, memory welling into emotion. Happiness, for a few short seconds, was his once more. His life contracted to a square no larger than the narrow panel of a bus’s backside. He’d seen the lights come on beneath the square, warming to red, guiding him like a beacon in a storm.
Then there’d been nothing…darkness deepening, becoming complete. Yet he hadn’t been afraid. There was peace, a long, deep sigh such as he might have imagined. There was silence all around. Nothing except for his own cry, his own call.
Don’t leave me, Anna.
“I saw Anna,” he told the faces curved above him.
“When did you see her?” the doctor asked.
“Right before the accident.”
“You remember this?”
He nodded.
“Do you remember anything else?”
“No.”
The doctor glanced at the others. “Nothing?” K.C. laid his head back against the pillows. He closed his eyes.
“I remember only Anna.”
HE MUST HAVE SLEPT, because when he woke it was dark, and he was alone except for the sounds of the hospital coming from the hall. The tube that had led into his arm had been removed. An untouched tray of green Jell-O, ginger ale and a covered plastic coffee cup sat on the thin table beside his bed. He sat up slowly. He was stiffer than the day after the Laramie River Rodeo when Big, Bad Blue had bucked him high, and he’d landed low.
He slid his legs over the side of the bed and stood, then sat down as a wave of dizziness curled his knees.
“Shoot.” He shook his head to clear it, scolded himself with a rueful smile. “That’s what you get for taking off your boots for too long.”
He made his way to the bathroom. The face that stared back at him would’ve been more familiar with a Stetson pulled low along the brow. He had a purplish bruise on his right cheek tender to the touch, dark circles under his eyes and a swollen shape to his brow. His blond curly hair had been cut much too short. He wondered when that had happened. Had it been necessary to treat his head injury? Didn’t matter, he thought, stepping back from the mirror and going to the bed. Soon enough it’d grow back. The important part was he was alive and in L.A., and so was Anna.
He sat on the edge of the bed, poured a glass of water from the plastic pitcher on the table and took a sip. He grimaced. City water. How did Anna stand it here?
He set the cup down and pushed the table away. Leaning back on the pillows, he looked at the lights of the city, thinking. People had been here earlier—nodding doctors, a pug dog of a man, a T-bone of a woman. They’d confused him with another Kent Landover who owned some big company and was engaged to marry the lady. He stretched and folded his arms behind his head, wincing as his muscles protested. He hoped they got everything straightened out, because he didn’t intend to lie around here as useless as a .22 shell in a 12-gauge shotgun. He had plans.
Wide