The hospital room was small, with only the bed, a TV mounted on the wall, and a vinyl chair placed near the heat register that was tucked beneath a single window. The view wasn’t that great; it overlooked a parking lot a story or two below. A few cars were scattered throughout the lot, all collecting snow that was continuing to fall, the asphalt covered with a white blanket showing few tire tracks.

Had he been in a car wreck? A bar fight? Fallen? What? He moved on the bed, winced, trying to remember. But it was a no go. Whatever information had been imparted had floated away on a wave of pain and/or medication, which, right now, wasn’t working.

Didn’t really matter.

He needed to get out of here. Get back home. He had a ranch and a hotel on the property, along with a Christmas-tree farm and a tiny-house construction business, all on acres outside of town.

He rubbed his eyes.

Felt as if he were clear-headed since . . . since . . . God, why couldn’t he remember? Pushing a button on the bed frame, he raised his bed high enough that he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror mounted over the sink. “Jesus,” he whispered, barely recognizing himself in the reflection. His usual tan had faded, and he appeared gaunt beneath at least a three days’ growth of beard shadow. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, his brown hair unruly where it was visible, the bandage wrapped over his crown. Down the left side of his face, deep gouges—like claw marks—were visible. As if he’d been on the losing side of a takedown with a cougar.

The old punch line You should see the other guy swept through his mind, but he didn’t so much as crack a smile. Because he knew there was no other guy. In James’s experience, those who usually scratched and clawed were female. That didn’t bode well. Well, hell, none of this did.

“Not good, Cahill,” he said and fell back against the pillows.

He was in a fight with a woman?

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to recall.

A memory, hot and dark, started to surface: a woman’s distorted, furious face bloomed, then withered away again.

This was so wrong.

He started to rise again, threw off the scant covers just as the door swept open and a bald man on the north side of forty stepped into the room. His name tag read: GRANT P. MONROE, MD. A trimmed goatee that had started to gray covered his chin, and behind rimless glasses, his gaze met James’s. He introduced himself and added, “We met earlier.”

Did we?

“You may not remember.”

“I don’t.”

“Hmm.” Noncommittal. But his eyes narrowed a fraction.

“In fact, I don’t even remember how I got here.”