He brought her closer. âIâm glad I met you. Iâm even glad I lost my memory.â
âIâm glad we met, too. But you shouldnât say that about having amnesia.â
âItâs giving me a chance to start over.â
âThis isnât starting over, J.D. Itâs a break from your other life.â
âI donât care about my other life.â
âYou shouldnât say that, either. Itâs important to care about who you are.â
How could he care about something he couldnât remember? They didnât talk anymore, and he was grateful for the silence. He didnât want to disturb the bond. He wanted the luxury of knowing her in this way. He was in the moment. He was part of it. John Doe and Jenna Byrd, he thought.
He danced with her as if his amnesia depended on it, the heat between them surging through his veins.
This was a memory he would never forget.
What theâ?
As Jenna Byrd steered her truck toward the Flying B, she noticed a man walking along the private road that led to the ranch. Or stumbling was more like it. He didnât look familiar, but he didnât seem out of place, either. His dusty jeans, plain T-shirt and battered boots were typical small-town Texas attire. He was missing a hat, though. Had he lost it somewhere? His short dark hair was decidedly messy.
Jenna frowned. Clearly, he was snockered in the middle of the day. Cowboys could be a hell-raisinâ breed. Of course she didnât dally with that kind. Although she was hoping to find a cowboy to call her own, she was attracted to well-behaved men, not rabble-rousers who could barely put one foot in front of the other. He was ambling toward her pickup instead of away from it.
Good grief. She couldnât just leave him out here. The Flying B was about five miles down the road, and in his condition, he would never make it. And why he was heading toward the ranch was beyond her.
She stopped her truck and sighed. She knew he wasnât a Flying B employee. Sheâd made a point of meeting everyone on the payroll. Jenna owned a portion of the ranch. She and her sister and their cousin had inherited equal shares of the Flying B, and they were going to turn it into a B and B.
She rolled down her window and said, âWhat are you doing out here?â
He looked at her as if he wasnât really seeing her. His deep brown eyes were glazed. He didnât respond.
She repeated the question.
He blinked at her. He was probably around her age, thirty or so, with tanned skin and striking featuresâhandsome, even in his wasted state.
Curious, she tried to figure him out. Maybe he was a whiskey-toting hitchhiker. Or maybe he was affiliated with another ranch in the area and after heâd tied one on, heâd mistakenly taken the wrong road. There had to an explanation for his disorderly presence.
Hoping to solve the dilemma, she asked, âWho are you?â
âWho are you?â he parroted.
This was going nowhere. âYouâve had too much to drink.â
He squinted. âI have?â
âYes.â
âI donât think so.â
Easy for him to say. He was too drunk to know the difference. While she debated how to handle the situation, he staggered a little more.
âI feel funny,â he said.
No kidding, she thought.
âIâve got a headache.â He rubbed the back of his head. When he brought his fingers forward, the tips were red.
Her pulse jumped. He was bleeding.
She parked and leaped out of her truck. Had he gotten into a brawl? Overly intoxicated men were prone to that sort of behavior. But whatever heâd done, it didnât matter. All that mattered was getting his wound treated.
âMy cousinâs fiancé is a doctor. He lives at the ranch where I live, and I think heâs home today. If he isnât, Iâll take you to his office.â
âNo. Thatâs okay.â He wiped his hands on his pants. âIâm better now.â
Obviously, he wasnât. She slipped her arm around him and realized that he didnât smell of alcohol. Most likely, he hadnât been drinking, which made his condition a bigger cause for concern. He was probably dazed because of the injury.
âCome on. Letâs get you into the truck.â
Shouldering his weight wasnât easy. He was about six feet, packed with lean muscle mass. At five-five, with a slight build, she was no match for him.