He looked as if he were truly worried about her, not himself. He might be slim and near six feet, but he wasn’t young. Twenty years out of high school the nurse had said. Twenty years of hard living, she’d guess.

“Are you hurt, Mr. Norton?” she asked. The man had to be Harrison Norton, the preacher’s wild son.

“No. I’m fine. I just had to check on you. You look like you were run over by the devil himself.” He smiled and the pain she’d seen in his eyes eased. “You know my name. I’m the one who was riding the Harley that plowed into you.”

“Are you the devil himself?” She fought not to smile.

“Some say I am, but I swear I never wanted to hurt you, pretty lady.”

Amelia almost laughed at his joke. No one had ever called her “pretty.” She was born plain and never wasted time mourning beauty.

To her surprise, he touched her hand lying atop the covers and held it gently. “I didn’t see you. You were no more than a blink in the rainy sunset.”

“I was running, worried about being late and not wanting to get my hair wet. It tends to curl out of control when it gets wet. I look a mess.” She was rattling. She never rattled. Maybe the doc forgot to mention brain damage?

Amelia lightly moved her fingers along his hand, feeling calluses and the bandage. “You are hurt, Harrison,” she whispered again.

“It’s nothing and call me Hank. No one but my father calls me Harrison.” He smiled. “Looks like you got the worst of our first encounter, Millie.”

She couldn’t look away. No one had ever called her Millie, but she didn’t correct him. She was far too interested in the lines of character in his face. She saw intelligence, worry, and caring. He reminded her of a young Hemingway double, come to life.

His free hand reached up and brushed a lock of her curly, mousy-brown hair behind her ear so he could see her face.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Chestnut,” he added with a one-sided smile. “You have chestnut-colored hair, Millie, with a few strands of red and a touch of sunshine blended in.”

His words didn’t seem to fit the man. “You know about hair colors, Harrison?” She never would have taken him for a hair stylist.

“Sure, but mostly on horses’ manes. I had a chestnut horse once. Beautiful animal.”

“Will you do me a favor, Harrison? I have no one to ask.”

“Name it.”

“Would you go over to my house and let my dog out? He’ll do his business and come right back in.”

“Sure.”

“Thirty-fourth and Elm. One block north of the campus. The house with sunflowers. Tell Rambo I’ll be home as soon as I can. He’ll understand.”