Free Christmas Angel by Amanda McIntyre

them and sat upright, confused as to where she was.
    “Doc suggested I wake you every few hours. I don’t think he took into consideration you might have a nightmare.”
    She blinked, and his face came into focus. A man with eyes the color of a desert summer sky knelt in front of her.
    “It’s Detective Jackson. I brought you here after you were attacked and hit on the head.”
    She drew the blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill and realized her feet were bare. “Where are my boots?”
    “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of removing them. I thought you’d be more comfortable.”
    “And my coat?” She looked around, her brain still in a fog from sleep.
    “By the door.” His deliberate demeanor calmed her uncertain emotions. “You came home with me after your stay at the hospital. Do you remember?” He searched her face.
    Slowly, a few memories emerged, though her head ached with a dull throbbing. She touched her forehead, discovering the bandage at her temple. The flash of a memory—a man’s arm clamped around her neck—sparked in her brain, followed by the image of the detective on the floor, his gun poised at her, just before everything went black. “I hit my head?”
    “In a manner of speaking. You were clocked pretty good. Any of that sound familiar?”
    “I was being held against someone—a man. He wouldn’t let me go, and then
    you were there.” She paused and searched her rescuer’s patient face. “I felt a blow to my head and then woke up in the infirmary.” She looked at him. “And you were there. Detective Jackson, is it?”
    He nodded. “Yes, but please, call me Shado. Are you feeling better?
    She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck. “I think so.”
    “Good. Give yourself some time.” He held her hand, gently brushing his thumb across her knuckles and setting her mind at ease. Reality emerged quietly in her brain. She recalled a ride in a strange mode of transportation.
    “You brought me here to protect me.” Instinct prompted her to touch his cheek. He eyed her briefly then took her hand and placed it back in her lap.
    “Just until your memory returns and we find the guy who did this to you.” His fingers lightly skimmed her forehead.
    She couldn’t count solely on her emotions, but there was a keen awareness between them she could not deny. The fact he seemed a little uncertain of her being there somehow made her feel as though she had nothing to fear. He made her feel safe.
    “How about a cup of tea?” He stood. “My mother used to give me hot tea when
    I was sick.”
    “Sounds nice. You wouldn’t happen to have a shot of whiskey you could toss in?”
    He stopped in his tracks and gave her a startled look.
    “What?” she asked, unsure why the request should sound odd.
    His brow rose. “You don’t impress me as the whiskey type.” He shrugged. “At any rate, I don’t keep liquor in the house. Sorry.”
    She shrugged, curious why the request had popped from her mouth. “I don’t know why it sounds soothing to me, but I’m fine with a cup of tea. Do you by chance have chamomile with rose hips?”
    He eyed her. “Uh, I was thinking more along the lines of Lipton?
    She’d never heard of Lipton before, but then again, there were bound to be a number of new things she might need to adjust to until her memory returned. “That sounds lovely, thank you.” Hoping to alleviate the tension a bit, she sought to offer assistance instead of having him wait on her. She rose on wobbly legs. “May I be of some help?” The floor swam before her, and a small sound escaped her throat as her knees buckled. In an instant, he was there, catching her before she fell and drawing her upright against him.
    “Maybe you should sit down.” He searched her face. “With a head injury, you’re liable to feel a bit woozy.”
    His strength, the nearness of another person to lean on, caused her to fall against him, desperate to make a connection with something