Cowboy Incognito. Alice SharpeЧитать онлайн книгу.
pocketing something and came up blank, but he’d had his back to her and that bright vest flapping around him. “Did the taxi driver see anything?” she asked.
“He claims just about everyone on the ground was out of his line of sight. I had someone check that out and he’s telling the truth, they were too close to the front of the cab for the driver to see what was going on.”
“Wait a second,” Kinsey said as she finally made sense of what the detective had said a couple of sentences earlier. “You said the cowboy is conscious. Can’t he just tell you his name?”
The detective shook his head. “He doesn’t remember who he is. In fact, he doesn’t remember anything. And we have no way of knowing if this condition is recent or ongoing because no one has come forward to ask for a missing man, let alone one fitting his description.”
Kinsey sat back on the chair a second. “If this amnesia just started because of the incident today, is there a chance it could go away by morning?”
“The doctors say it’s anyone’s guess. He could start remembering his identity in five minutes, five days or five years. Apparently lots of people with head injuries forget segments of their lives, usually just the few minutes preceding their accident. Anyway, chances are good someone who does know him will show up sooner rather than later. For now, we only have one lead.”
“And what’s that?” Kinsey asked.
“You.”
Kinsey perked up immediately. “Me? What are you talking about?”
“Your name was written on a piece of paper we found in his pocket. Can you think of a reason for that?”
“None,” she said.
“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“Pretty sure,” Kinsey said. “I guess it’s possible I ran into him sometime in the past. I’ve lived in a fair number of cities all across the country.” Even as she spoke, she found herself doubting it could be true. John Doe, for lack of a real name, was an arresting-looking man. Would she have forgotten someone who appealed to her on such a gut level?
Woods sighed as he got to his feet. “Would you come with me to meet the guy? Maybe it will jar a memory if you hear his voice.”
“Of course,” Kinsey said, ignoring the pounding of her heart. She had no idea why she felt so nervous. Sweaty palms defied the hospital’s efficient air-conditioning system.
Suppressing a shiver, she followed Woods into the room.
Despite his throbbing head, he fell into a black-and-white world of disjointed collages. It was a relief when a noise shook him out of the nothingness of his dreamworld. Even as he gingerly rubbed his eyes, he recognized the sound the door made when it opened and closed.
He looked up, expecting to see the cop who had asked him questions earlier or one of the doctors or nurses who were taking care of him. He did not expect to find himself staring into the velvety-brown eyes of a small woman wearing a formfitting black dress that revealed creamy smooth shoulders and a modest hint of cleavage.
He lifted his gaze back to the oval perfection of her face and hoped that he and she were longtime lovers, that she would run to him, throw her arms around him and whisper his name in his ear before planting her succulent red lips right on his. He wanted a name. He wanted an identity. He wanted his past, and maybe she was the key. If so, she made a heck of a sexy key and he was prepared to earn his memory back one succulent kiss at a time.
Her response to his gaze was a nervous twitch of her lips. He tried a reassuring smile, but that stretched the three stitches in his left cheek and he grimaced.
The woman did not look as though she loved him. Hell, she didn’t even look as though she knew him.
“You must be Kinsey Frost,” he said.
Now she just looked spooked. Her eyes grew wide. “Do you know me?”
“I don’t even know me,” he admitted. He nodded toward the cop standing behind her. “Detective Woods told me they found the name Kinsey Frost on a piece of paper. I just assumed you’re her.”
Some of the uneasiness fled from her face. “Oh, I see.”
“I’m hoping you have answers for me,” he added.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Today is the first time I ever saw you. I’m sure of it.” She narrowed her eyes as she looked him over and nodded. “You were walking ahead of me down the sidewalk and you caught my attention because of your hat. But I don’t know you.”
His hand flew to his head. “I was wearing a hat?” He directed his gaze to Woods. “Where is it?”
“It fell off when you tumbled into the street. A car going the other way nailed it.”
“What kind of hat?” he asked.
Kinsey supplied the answer. “A tan Stetson. It looked kind of new and very nice.”
He glanced down at his hands. He’d already noticed calluses and deeply tanned skin, along with old scars, on his knuckles. “Workingman hands,” he said softly. Not the hands of a teacher or a doctor. The hands of a man who got down and dirty on occasion, and instinctively, he knew at least that much about himself. He looked up at Woods. “And I was wearing cowboy boots. That’s what the nurse said.”
“That’s right,” Detective Woods concurred. “Plus, you don’t sound like you’re from around here. In fact, you don’t have much of an accent at all. We’re checking hotels to see if any of their customers are unaccounted for, but it’s questionable anything will come of it. There are thousands of rooms in this city. It’s unlikely anyone has missed you yet, unless you didn’t show up for an appointment or something. The big question is why you were carrying Ms. Frost’s name. What’s the link between you two?”
“I hope that’s a rhetorical question and you aren’t expecting an answer from me,” he said. He looked at Kinsey again. “It’s up to you.”
Her hand brushed his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you were carrying my name.”
“In addition to working at the gallery, you’re also an artist yourself, aren’t you?” Woods asked.
She turned to look at him. “Yes.”
“Could he have gotten your name from a third party in relation to your work?”
“I guess so. I’ve done several portraits for people in New Orleans since I moved here a couple of years ago.” She glanced back at him with a question in her eyes. “Maybe one of them gave you my name and you were trying to find the gallery to talk to me.”
“He was walking away from, not headed to, the gallery,” the detective pointed out with a frown.
“People sometimes have a hard time finding the place. It’s very narrow. Maybe he walked right past it.”
“We’ll question people on that street as time and manpower allow,” the detective said. “Including Marc Costello. But as you know, it’s a long one with several businesses and homes farther along...it’s going to take a while. I’d appreciate it if you would also make a list of the people you did work for so we can ask them if they might have given your name to the...victim.” The detective shook his head as he looked at the bed. “Sorry, I’m not sure what to call you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
The detective scanned his notebook briefly before directing a comment to Kinsey. “When I questioned you right after the incident, you said he was walking with determination, that he appeared preoccupied.”
Kinsey nodded thoughtfully.
“That